Author's Note: This is a sequel to "Hope Springs Eternal", and takes up where that fic ended. However, the understanding of that story is not essential to the understanding of this one. Anne is pregnant with her third child, Prince Arthur is now one year old and Princess Elizabeth is about to turn three. The year is 1536, (not 1537 as erroneously stated in the epilogue of Hope Springs), and the Pilgrimage of Grace has just broken out. Before I start, I just want to state that I own none of the characters, the TV show, or the history. Please read and review, thank you!
Chapter One: The Summer Of Discontent.
July, 1536.
Queen Anne eases her body down on the bed, stretching herself out on the plump feather mattress, which conforms itself to the swollen contours of her body like fluid. A groan of relief escapes her parted lips as her head rests against the firm pillows. The tension drains from her muscles like the ebbing tides of the sea. There she lies, in the warm, languid darkness of her Privy Chamber. No more maids fussing over her. No more ambassadors to greet. No more children snapping at her swollen ankles. Blissful, she thinks to herself as the lets the silence wash over her.
The North still plays on her mind. But, she tells herself, they're in York, and that's the opposite end of the country. Even by the time Henry and his men get there, the assemblies will be dispersed, in all probability. But even she could not deny that ten thousand men is a lot, and the Royal Army has nothing like that number of men. Anne, drifting into a comfortable doze, consciously lets it all slide from her mind, glad that Henry has delayed his departure.
Its' too warm to have the blankets over her, and so the top window is open. A soft, cool breeze sweeps into the room, and Anne can feel it whispering against her exposed thighs, and face. Such a relief from the heat of another long, hot, summer's day. It tempts and teases her into sleep, before the sound of the door groaning on it's old hinges makes her stir. She doesn't open her eyes. She lies there, listening to him enter the room, and undress. She smiles as his footsteps, muffled by the dust on the creaking floorboards, pad closer to the bed. Gently, he kneels beside her before lowering himself down next to her. She waits, eyes still closed, for him to wrap those arms around her middle, and nestle her body close to his like a limpet, while she breathes his scent. That rich, musky scent that follows him everywhere.
"Henry," She softly sighs his name. Finally, she opens her bleary, blue eyes and turns to look at King Henry. Semi naked, now, as he wraps himself around the curve of her back, nuzzling the soft flesh of her throat.
"Did I wake you?" He whispers, apologetically. "I was talking to my generals."
"No," With effort, she turns over to face him so they can lie in each other's arms. "Henry, how serious is this? Please, be honest with me."
He raises that vacuous smile, the one he shows in the hope that it will diffuse the fear that his next words may bring.
"Cromwell has been getting more reports in, just this evening. The assembly is getting bigger, with men from all over the north joining the rebel standards," He explains, injecting lightness into his tone. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. His expression suddenly solemn. "Its' imperative that I ride out at dawn. No more delays-"
"But Henry," Anne cuts him off as she struggles to sit up. "My uncle, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and sundry others would be able to go. Why don't you stay, just until you hear back from them?"
"Anne, I can't," He replies as he brushes a few loose strands of hair from her brow. "This is more than an illegal assembly. We could be looking at open rebellion."
Anne lies back, again, and looks up at the roof beams. Almost all of the men will be going, and Henry, like a true King, will be expected to lead them. Especially now that he has a son to succeed him, and his life has lost a little of it's value. But, all the sons in the world could not replace the love of her husband. She could no more think of her life without him in it, than imagine what it must be like to live under water, starved of air and light.
"Are you taking George with you?" Anne asks, her voice distant. She is thinking of all the men who're riding out. Henry, her brother George, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Norfolk was an old war horse, though. He loved a good fight, so she was not concerned about him. George, on the other hand, was an altogether different matter. The wars and fighting of the previous generations were just old stories to them. Never, did they imagine, that they would be living through yet more fighting in their own lifetimes.
"Yes, but he won't joining us until after his child is born," Henry replies. "Your father is staying here, with you. So don't be too afraid. Cromwell will be here, so he can legislate you out of trouble, if needs be. But Anne, if something does happen to me, and I die, Cromwell has drawn up a new act of succession. Arthur will be King, but during his minority, you and your brother will act as regents. If anything happens to you," Henry can't bring himself to mention child bed fever. "Then your father will step in. Or if anything happens to George, of course. Cromwell, too, will be on the regency council. The man's an administrative genius. He'll do anything for you."
"Henry, this is pitchforks at ten paces. Is all this really necessary?"
"Yes!" He replies, barely concealing his impatience. "Also, I'm despatching men to deal with Lady Mary. Her cousin, Reginald Pole, has incited this rebellion and I want her to submit to me, at all costs. In the meantime, Elizabeth is being brought from Hatfield, and she, as well as Arthur are to stay with you at all times. If the rebels reach as far south as Kent, you are to go to the Tower, and seek refuge. If the rebels reach the gates of London, you and the children are to seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. You do not come out of that sanctuary until I, or Cromwell, come to you in person."
Anne's flesh crawls with a chill that has nothing to do with the breeze from the open window. "I didn't mean to sound flippant, Henry," She replies, her brow creased into a frown. "But, the way you're talking makes me think that if anything does happen to you, and the rebels reach the city gates, then we won't be needing a regency council."
"It won't come to that," He states with firmness. "Its' all just a precaution. To be safe. But, also to be safe, I'm bringing my cousin, the Marquis of Exeter, with me. If the Tudors are going down, then he's coming down with us."
"What about Gertrude, his dragon of a wife?" Anne asks, laughing drily. "She would great against the rebels!"
Gertrude Courtenay lies awake, and restless in her private apartments. Her husband, Henry, Marquis of Exeter, sits polishing his breastplate for the tenth time that evening. The silence between them is a companionable one, but he knows that her mind is racing on ahead of itself. Slowly, she paces the length of the chamber, her cream nightgown sweeping the floor behind her as she goes. Her brow creases in concentration as she nibbles the tip of her index finger.
"So, you say the King is sending you north to fight the rebels?" She asks, again. She has asked several times, and the casual observer would think her a simpleton for repeating the same question. But, Courtenay knows his wife. She is asking for clarification, so she can formulate her plans more concisely. So she can massage the circumstances to suit her grand schemes. From the maid of Kent, to Jane Seymour, she'd tried various methods to dispose of the Queen. But all had thwarted her. Nonetheless, she kept her spirits up.
"Thats' right, my love," He replies with a sigh. Dropping the breastplate to the floor, it clangs off the flagstones as he gets to his feet and claps his hand on her shoulder. "Whatever it is your planning, stop. After all you did a few years ago, I am still on thin ice with the King. I may be his cousin, but thats' all the more reason to fear him."
Gertrude's eyes widen in innocence as she turns her face to his. "I am planning nothing, my lord," her voice chimes and she stands up on tip toes to plant a kiss on his stubbly cheek. "Come to bed, my love," She implores him. "God alone knows when I shall see you again."
His sudden anger abates as swiftly as it washed over him, and he strips to his waist before they fall into bed together. From out of the mullioned windows, he watches the full moon sitting high in the indigo sky. Beside him, Gertrude gently trails her nail down his bare chest, but it elicits little response from him.
"Don't tell me you've never thought about it," She whispers, seductively in his ear, her breath hot against his bare skin. "Don't tell me you have never dreamt about it."
Slowly, he turns his face away from the moon, and looks at her. Her eyes narrowed, her lips in a succulent pout like a biblical temptress. "Have you ever though about my head adorning London Bridge?" He asks, matching the allure of her voice. "Have you ever dreamt of the four quarters of my body nailed to posts at the four corners of the Realm?"
The delay in his response gives him away. It exposes a weak spot, and she knows that he has thought of it, several times before.
"You don't fool me," She mouths the words so that he has to strain his ears to hear it. His silence is mutinous.
"He has a son," He states with finality after the moment passes. "God knows, there could be another in the Queen's belly as we speak."
"Who will back the one year old son of a whore, over the grown son of Catherine of York? Your claim is as good as any Tudor's, and you could be King-"
"And you could be Queen, which is what this is really all about, isn't it?" The anger in him flares as he throws the covers over his head, blocking her from his view, and trying to smother out the sound of her voice. But thoughts are irreversible. Once that seed is planted, no matter how much you push it down, it will still flourish.
Gertrude gives up the fight with a sigh of resignation. She looks down at him, nothing more than a tuft of black curls sticking out from the coverlet now, and knows he could be great. He is King Henry's first cousin, and no one can take that away from him. She has the Pole family on side, and so she knows she can secure Papal backing with her unfailing adherence to the Catholic faith. She listens to his gentle snores as she lays back in the dark, looking out at the moon, and waits for the dawn to come.
In the forecourt below the window, Queen Anne can hear the restive stamps of the horses as they jitter under the weight of the men at arms. Slowly, she crosses the room, ignoring the aches in her lower back caused by the quickening babe, and looks down at the hastily assembled Royal Army. Their standards flutter in the breeze, and the armour of the men glitters in the sunshine, like a sea of silver gilt washing over the Palace grounds. She loosens the latch on the window, and swings it open to the clatter of horses hooves as an unseen rider enters the forecourt. She knows it's him. Her heart jumps at the sight of King Henry, mounted now on a huge war horse, caparisoned in the Tudor colours, and a great royal standard.
His voice carries, loud and clear, over the whinnies of the horses, up to where she listens. He rallies the troops with style. But then, Henry does everything with style, and war is his forte. The start of the speech is her cue. She closes the windows, and turns away. As she walks to the door, her ladies form a queue behind her. Mary Boleyn, Nan Saville, and Anne Basset taking up chief positions behind her, as she leads them out into the forecourt, to inspect the troops.
With one hand resting on her swollen belly, Anne wends her way down the cool stone stairwell, and emerges outside to rapturous applause from the troops. Henry smiles down at her from the top of his war horse, before concluding his address.
"In the name of St George. For England, and for Queen Anne!" He bawls out over the din, and gestures to Anne, holding her head high to keep the balance of her coronet as she moves to the side of Henry's horse. She waves, and smiles widely, soaking up the love of her people.
Henry dismounts with a graceful jump down from the saddle, landing deftly at her side. Together, they walk up and down the lines of men. Shaking hands, exchanging platitudes, until they finally can extricate themselves for one final, private moment before he leaves her.
"Remember what I told you?" He asks, his face half hidden by the shadow of the arches they're secreted beneath.
"I remember," She assures him. Now that the moment of separation is at hand, Anne begins to feel the anxiety of a war wife. It's now that she realises she may never see him again. "Just, come back to me safe. Your children need you. I need you."
He makes no reply. Instead, he leans over her bulge to cup her face with his hands, his gauntlets scratching at her skin, and kisses her full on the lips. He lets it linger, before drawing back to look deeply into her eyes.
"Do not be afraid," He whispers at length. "Just give me one more smile, and I'll be on my way with your love."
Anne manages a laugh. But, seizing the moment for intimacy, she reaches up and strokes his cheek. She can never grow tired of the feel of his skin on hers, and the thought of separation hurts all the more for it. Love is a tricky thing. Finally, Henry kneels at her feet for her blessings, which she freely gives.
"God speed, my lord," She rests her hand on his head. "And God speed you home, again."
She watches from the window as the Royal Army rides west, into the eye of the setting sun. She stands as still, and as silent, as the dawn as she watches the mounted figures shrink from her view, until they're just blackened specks against the dying sun. She breathes in, trying to catch his rich, musky scent, to make it feel like he is nearby.
When all she can see is the bleak horizon and the darkening London skylines, she moves silently from the window. Her ladies watch her, hawk-eyed and as taut as bow strings. They need to keep her calm for the sake of the baby. But, Anne swallows her bitter anxiety. She smiles, and claps her hands, and calls for music.