Premise: What if Margaret Beaufort hadn't died in 1509 but instead lived into Henry VIII's reign? Was she really an old dragon or was there a reason for her severity?

Characters: Margaret Beaufort, King Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Thomas More


THE OLD LADY


Pembroke Castle, January 1457.

Her body had reached a point of exhaustion that was beyond words. Her eyes were weary, her abdomen felt sore, and there was no strength left in any of her limbs. These were tough times, but what she had just gone through only few would have survived. She was only thirteen, still a child at heart, but she had given birth to a child of her own already. Her small, fragile body had almost been ripped apart. She wanted to sleep, preferably forever, now that it was all over. Except it wasn't. It had only just begun.

For the girl was Margaret Beaufort, the only legitimate child of the late Duke of Somerset, himself a descendant of King Edward III. Lancastrian blood was flowing through her veins and through those of her new-born son Henry. In fact, they were two of the remaining few people who had a claim to the throne. The War of the Roses had devastated England and demanded the lives of many nobles, including Margaret's husband Edmund, the King's half-brother.

Margaret was a child, but she was no fool. She knew why the King had married her to Edmund, and that it was highly possible her son would one day be the only Lancastrian claimant left. She knew what it meant: that both their lives were in danger. They would never be at peace so long as the civil war lasted. She looked at the rosy red bundle in her arms. Her son was born to be king, she simply knew it. She would do whatever it took to secure the throne for him. And from that moment on, Margaret Beaufort would never be a child again.


Richmond Palace, April 1509.

Margaret had been holding his hand for hours refusing any request to let him go. There was no one with more right to be by his side but her, the woman who had given everything to bring him into this world, who had fought like a lioness in his course, and had forever been his advisor.

He seemed so peaceful now despite the fact that his angular face was ash-grey and gaunt. She could only hope he was with God now, and surely he would be received well, for he had been a good son, a good husband, a good king all his life.

"Henry," she whispered.

King Henry VII was dead. All she had ever hoped for was to secure his future, to make sure he would succeed in life and be the great king she had seen in him the day he was born. Had she succeeded? Margaret knew her son had been respected, but not loved. He had been cold-hearted and very sober, a miser and a pedant. But he had given England peace and stability, had he not? He would not be forgotten.

"My Lady."

Margaret's wrinkled face smiled. It was the only voice she wanted to hear now, the only person able to warm her heart. She turned around and looked into Harry's face. Of all her grandchildren, he had always been her favourite. He had been a sunny child and bright of mind, and he reminded her so much of the fascinating charisma her second husband Edmund Tudor had had.

"Majesty."

He was no longer Harry, she remembered. Now that her son had died, her grandson would be king – King Henry VIII. She had high hopes for him.

"Would you join me for dinner, my Lady?" He asked gently.

Margaret could see through it. He wasn't the first to try and encourage her to eat, but unlike the servants, he didn't treat her as a feeble old hag. He was a kind and charming boy. Margaret looked into his eyes. He wasn't her Henry, the child she had raised to be king, but he was the future. She could find it in herself to love him just like his father if she tried.

"With pleasure, Your Majesty."


Westminster, January 1510.

"He ought never to have married her," Margaret Beaufort told her granddaughter Mary. She was speaking in her usual, severe tone that made it abundantly clear just how much life experience she had amassed. Mary, on the other hand, was a flimsy girl of fourteen. How much wiser Margaret had been at fourteen! But these were other days, they weren't as dark as the ones she had grown up into, and it was all thanks to her son, Henry VII.

"My son had the dispensation made, he even considered marrying the Spaniard himself, but he chose not to, and for a reason. She is but the daughter of the King of Aragon now, a stubborn foreigner, and moreover, the widow of your brother," Margaret insisted. "The dispensation was made on false grounds. The Spaniard was Arthur's wife in name and deed. I was in Ludlow with them, I must know. It is a sin against God."

"Is that why He called away their little daughter?"

Margaret Beaufort nodded slowly. Harry had married the Spanish princess against her counsel and had now been rewarded with a stillborn daughter. Usually, Margaret enjoyed being proved right, but this time it felt very bitter. She loved Harry after all.

"But they can still have more children."

Margaret grinned sadly. "And God knows they will try, but they shan't succeed. Harry won't get an heir off the Spaniard, God forbids it. Before time, we will be back to the old days of civil war and larceny of thrones. Oh, only I thank the Lord that he has called my son away so he does not have to see his legacy falling apart."

Mary remained silent. She was too young to understand what civil war truly meant, although she had been taught about the past. She didn't know how it felt like to send her own child into exile because it was the only way of keeping him alive. She did not know what it was like to see multitudes of good young men dying for nothing. Margaret had seen all of it and had prayed that she would never have to go back to it again.

But with her only grandson's marriage being a falsehood, all her hopes were crushed. The Tudor dynasty was doomed. England was doomed.


Flodden Field, September 1513.

He had won. Henry VIII, so young and thirsty for war, had won his first major battle. He had beaten his own brother-in-law, the presumptuous King of Scots, and had thus ended the Scottish involvement in his war with France. He was the hero of the day, a young valiant knight who had defended his country bravely, and it was all thanks to her.

Henry had been in France fighting to take the city of Thérouanne when the Scots had dared to invade, mistaking his absence for weakness. If it had not been for her, the English would have been thrown off their guard with no real army to defend them. She had saved him, and Henry didn't even know how to thank her for it. Her. Margaret.

Only due to his grandmother's close bond with her namesake, the Scottish Queen Margaret, had he been able to know about the attack beforehand and return to England promptly. He didn't even dare to imagine what would have happened if he hadn't been there. Yes, he had left his wife as regent because he loved and trusted Catherine, but she was only a woman. Yes, she had told him that she meant to take up arms and defend his country, but he could only smile at the idea. A woman leading an army?

Now he was the smiling victor, the king triumphant, and even though he would not speak of it publicly, he owed it all to his grandmother.


Greenwich, November 1518.

"God have mercy on my soul, for I despair in these dark hours. It has pleased you to fill my empty womb anew, to bathe me in the hope for a son, a SON, to be the living image of his father. You have given me another daughter instead, a beautiful little girl who would claim only six days of life," Catherine of Aragon prayed silently. "Why, Father, why?"

"Your Majesty?" Maria de Salinas, her most trusted lady, interrupted her.

"What is it, Maria? Is it His Majesty? Is he here?"

"No, Majesty. The King has not come to your rooms."

Catherine sighed. "He will not come again, will he, Maria? He has abandoned any hope of getting a son from me," she said rising to her feet. "And it is all her fault."

"Whose fault, my Lady?"

"Hers," Catherine insisted, her eyes twitching darkly. "Margaret, the King's grandmother. I know it, she has poisoned Henry's mind against me, she always has! There was never a day when she didn't speak against our marriage, do you remember? And now that his love for me is fading, I see him conversing with her more and more each day! Why would he ask for her counsel when he could have mine? I am a princess of noble blood, both my parents were king and queen in their own right! She is but an obscure noble."

"But she is a powerful lady… and the wealthiest woman in all of England. Her marriages have made her very rich," Maria objected.

"Why is she not dead yet? She is what, seventy-five, now? I swear to you, Maria, it is her spitefulness that keeps her alive. She will not rest until she has destroyed our love, until she has separated Henry and me. Why? Only to have a son, an heir to carry the Tudor name?" Catherine shook her head. "My daughter Mary can be queen, I know she can. My mother was a queen, so why shouldn't Mary?"

Maria de Salinas helplessly sought for an answer. "The English customs are different, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps, Maria, but it is only their stubbornness. I know Henry would see how great a queen Mary could be if only that old hag would no longer pour poison in his ears!"


Hever Castle, June 1523.

Thomas Boleyn anxiously awaited the arrival of his guest. He still couldn't believe she had actually agreed to his proposal, but now that she had he would make sure everything went smoothly. If he could get her support, then the aims he could reach were endless.

"My Lady, the King's grandmother," a groom announced her as she was being helped out a carriage.

She was old now, almost as frail as she had been on the day she had given birth to her only son, but her eyes were still fierce. She saw less than she once used to, but she could still hear everything. She was the last remnant of an age long past, but she prevailed. Margaret Beaufort's life-task of securing the Tudor dynasty wasn't over, at least not yet.

"Ah, Boleyn. Now, let us not waste time, for I am old and tired. Tell me, where is this daughter of yours?"

He showed her into his house and seated her at his table as his special guest of honour. The servants were running around like madmen.

"Mary, come forward," he asked his daughter.

Mary Boleyn had been the King of France's mistress as well as King Henry's, and she remained in the latter's favours despite being married to Henry Carey now. She was a pretty woman of twenty-three, still childless but certainly fertile. He had every hope that England's old lady would be pleased with her.

"Come closer, child, for my eyesight abandons me more and more each day," Margaret Beaufort insisted. "Hm. Hm. Yes, pleasingly plump. And your other children, Boleyn?"

Thomas Boleyn had not expected her to show an interest in all of them, but of course he had prepared them for her visit. Within the beat of a heart, his only son George and his younger daughter Anne were kneeling in front of the King's grandmother.

"Charming," the old lady said without any hint of being impressed. "Let all of them join us for dinner."

It was an exhausting night for Thomas Boleyn, but one that he was sure would pay off. He would prove to his brother-in-law and to the world just what he could do. It all depended on her now, on her judgement with regard to Mary. Before the old lady left the next morning, Boleyn asked her to speak with him privately.

"So, what do you make of her, my Lady?"

"She is a pleasing little creature, your daughter, and it wouldn't surprise me if she made the King happy," Margaret said as soberly as usual. "But she is not fit to be queen."

Her eyes were no longer good enough to decipher his face, but she could imagine his reaction. Sixty years of politics had given her an enormous insight into the human mind. She knew that this was not the answer he had expected, and frankly she would have preferred giving him another one. His proposal had been so very tempting, after all: His daughter, who was already the King's mistress, could wed him if his unlawful marriage to Catherine of Aragon was recognised as such. Margaret would have been happy to agree to this – an English bride was less troublesome, and if she was fitted her grandson's tastes, it was all the better.

"What, why… I don't understand…" Boleyn murmured.

"She is a kind-hearted thing, no doubt, but this is not the time for kind-hearted queens. I had thought you would understand that."

If things had been differently, Margaret would have loved to have a queen like Mary Boleyn. She was very much like her own daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, had been, and even though Margaret had never liked her son's wife she had to admit that Elizabeth had been a wonderful queen. But as she said, this wasn't the time for tranquil queens. Her own life would not last forever, and when she would join her son in heaven, England would need another strong lady. Harry would need another strong lady.

"Your other daughter, however…" Margaret said carefully.

"Anne?"

"Yes, Anne. She is a cunning girl, even though she's no beauty. If, by some sort of coincidence, His Majesty would take a liking in her and would consider making HER queen… I would not object."

Thomas Boleyn's eyes widened. It was more than he had hoped for – it was Margaret Beaufort's blessing. He watched with awe as the old lady entered her carriage again and drove away.


Pembroke Castle, August 1525.

It was strange, Margaret thought, that in her old years she often felt the urge to return to this god-forsaken place that had almost cost her life. Today, it was the only place she truly felt at ease. Her life had been long and full of hardships, but it was not over yet. There was something she had to do before she could leave with a clear conscience.

"And do you promise, Sir Thomas, to write down every word exactly as I speak it and to act upon my will by the time God calls me away?"

"I swear, my Lady," Thomas More affirmed her. It was a great honour, he found, that England's old lady had chosen him to be the executor of her will. "I am ready if my Lady is."

The old woman cleared her throat. "My name is Margaret Beaufort, daughter of John Beaufort and Margaret Beauchamp, mother and grandmother of kings of England. I have seen much darkness in my years, of which it has pleased God to give me plenty, and I have laboured ceaselessly to fight these terrors wherever I found them. I have lived through eight decades, but only in my later years did I meet the one enemy who would seal my fate."

Astonished, More put down his quill. "Of whom do you speak, if I may ask?"

"Please continue writing, Sir Thomas," the old woman insisted in a voice that allowed no protest. "…who would seal my fate: Catalina of Aragon, the Spaniard who calls herself Queen."

More stopped once more. "My Lady! Surely you cannot mean that!"

"I can and I do, Sir Thomas. Now do as you promised and write what I say: She is my sworn enemy, for she knows I have spoken against her marriage to my grandson, King Henry VIII, from the very beginning, and will continue to do so as long as I have breath to speak. It is a false marriage based on the assumption that the Spaniard was never my grandson Arthur's wife, when in truth everyone knows that she was. I was with Their Highnesses in Ludlow after their marriage, I heard what I heard and I have seen the blood-stained sheets," Margaret insisted. "I am too old to be frightened by her demonstrations of power, and I know what I know. Catalina of Aragon is the widow of Arthur Tudor and can thus never be the true and lawful wife of King Henry, which is why God has not granted them a living son, but many stillbirths and just one sickly daughter. It is a sign from our Lord and it strengthens me in my faith. Still, I know of the power the Spaniard has, and though I do not fear for myself I worry greatly about my grandson the King and the future of the Tudor house."

Thomas could barely keep up with the speed at which those words were pouring out of her. It seemed as if they had been building up inside of her for a very long time.

"It is for this reason that I cannot leave my bequest to my grandson, as much as I love him, for fear that it would fall into the hands of his false Queen and the bastard daughter she calls a princess. Instead, I appoint Sir Thomas More as executioner of my will and command him to divest all my lands, my estates, and my other riches and give them as alms to the poor of England."

The quill dropped out of Thomas More's hand. Had he really just written those words? It was unthinkable! Margaret Beaufort was the single richest woman, let alone one of the richest people in all of England, and she was considering giving it ALL to the poor! He stared at her in disbelief, but Margaret simply continued.

"However, Sir More shall do so only after the year 1530 has come and passed without the claim of a true heir to my properties. As a true heir, I shall recognise my grandson, King Henry, given that he is properly and lawfully married, and any legitimate children born from this marriage. If neither of this applies by the last day of 1530, I command Sir Thomas to act as my will dictates and only take a sum of 2000 pounds for himself to pay for his troubles," Margaret said sternly. "Dictated in the year of our Lord 1525 by Margaret Beaufort, sound of mind and disposing of memory. Do you have that, Sir Thomas?"

"Yes, my Lady," he replied in a trembling voice.

"Good. Give it to me so that I can sign it," Margaret ordered him. She could barely read what he had written, but she knew he was the most upright man in the kingdom and would never dare to write anything but her true words. As her quill was scratching along the paper, Margaret knew she had done all she could. She was playing the only card she had left – her vast fortune – and could only hope that it would open Henry's eyes and cause him to save the Tudor line. "Thank you, Sir Thomas."


Greenwich, November 1525.

King Henry VIII still could believe any of it. First, his servants had informed him of his grandmother's death, and he hadn't been able to buy into it. Margaret Beaufort, England's great old lady, dead? She had always been there, every day of his life. She had seemed immortal. Now she was gone. Henry had been grief-struck, and moreover, also desperate, since his grandmother had been a pillar for him to rest on, hard as a rock. Now he suddenly felt very weak and vulnerable.

Then, Thomas More had come and presented him with his grandmother's last will and testament, the words of which he couldn't believe either. Catherine, his Catherine, should be his grandmother's deadly enemy? His grandmother would actually disinherit him as long as he was married to her? He didn't know whether to be furious or speechless.

"And these were her words exactly?" He asked his old friend More.

"Every single one of it, I'm afraid. The Lady was very keen and would have never allowed me to betray any of her words. This is Margaret Beaufort's last will."

Her presumptuousness infuriated him. Even in death she thought to dictate his choices! But some days later, a piece of intelligence was brought to him that would change his mind about Margaret, her will, and Catherine. His doctors had determined the cause of Lady Beaufort's death, and it wasn't old age. She had been poisoned, and even though it had taken them a long time to determine all the ingredients, they now knew the recipe.

It was a Castillian poison.


Dover, February 1527.

Eventually, everything had happened so fast. King Henry VIII had long been disappointed with his wife's lack of sons, but after the mysterious death of his grandmother, he had made up his mind very quickly. The evidence against his marriage given by the old woman may not have been enough to change the minds of his two fiercest adversaries, Emperor Charles and the Pope, but together with the suspicion of poisoning, they had suddenly gained momentum. Even Catherine's nephew had to admit that Catherine's involvement in the murder seemed likely.

The marriage of Catherine of Aragon and Henry Tudor had been annulled in July 1526 citing inappropriate proximity, and the Dowager Princess of Wales had joined a nunnery. She would always dispute Henry's accusations of poisoning, but he no longer listened to her. At least he didn't publicly announce any of it to avoid a scandal, but the word spread amongst the commons anyhow. Some believed it to be true while others rallied for Catherine, but all of them praised the King for his kindness in keeping the affair low. The also loved him for another reason: The daughter Catherine had given him, Mary, retained her title of Princess by courtesy, but she was now considered illegitimate and would be placed behind any children the King would beget from his future wife. And by God, Henry had already set his eyes on the perfect candidate.

Her name was Anne, Anne Boleyn, sister of his previous mistress Mary, but this affinity was no problem since the Pope granted him a dispensation without much ado. Even His Holiness acknowledged that, after the many ills that had befallen his marriage to Catherine, a son and heir was what England needed.

Henry had introduced her formally to King Francis here at Dover. He had seen how everyone was besotted with his wife, who, despite her lack of beauty, possessed a mesmerizing charisma. He had never been so infatuated with anyone, and within a few weeks, Anne would be his anointed queen. He smiled at her beautiful naked body lounging on the bed.

"Come, my love, let me conceive, and we shall have a son," Anne's dark voice whispered.


Whitehall, January 1547.

Henry knew he was dying. He had been dying for weeks, but now that the moment was so close at hand he simply felt it. His time had run up and all that was left for him to do was pray that the people would keep him in good memory. The old man smiled thinking of his late grandmother, the infamous Margaret Beaufort, who with her actions had somehow forced him down this path. Would she receive him warmly when he entered heaven, would she be satisfied and proud? At least, he knew, he could die in peace, for the future of his dynasty was safe.

His wife had not given him a son after their wedding as she had promised but a healthy daughter whom they had named Margaret. Her birth and his marriage to Anne had granted him his grandmother's vast inheritance, making him the richest king in English history.

It hadn't been all roses with him and Anne, he saw it clearly now, for both of them were hot-headed and passionate. Still, their marriage had produced another three children besides Margaret: The princes Henry and Edward and his golden princess Elizabeth. Henry had sincerely mourned Anne's death by sickness three years prior, and even though he had remarried to Catherine Parr, his heart had always remained with her.

Now he was dying, leaving his country to his son Edward, for Henry, the elder, had tragically died at the age of twelve. Still, Henry felt no bitterness about it. He himself had been a second son, and he knew that Edward would make for a very fine king. He was charming and shrewd and beloved by the people. England could not wish for a better monarch and neither could he.

King Henry closed his eyes with a smile on his lips.


Westminster Abbey, January 1559.

Every Englishman present watched with awe as St. Edward's crown was placed upon the golden cascade that was the hair of Elizabeth Tudor, now Queen Elizabeth I of England. She was twenty-five now and just like her mother she was no beauty, but there was something about her that forced everyone to obey. At the time of her birth, no one had imagined she would one day rule over England, but fate sometimes took strange paths.

Upon her father's death in 1547, her brother Edward had succeeded as Edward VI, and he had ruled well. Sadly though, he had become seriously ill by the summer of 1558, a dark sickness that he succumbed to only a few months later. His heir had been his only child, a daughter born two days before his demise by the name of Mary. She succeeded him as Queen Mary I, but her reign was even more unfortunate seeing that the poor baby only lived for one week and a half. She would go down in history as the Nine Days' Queen. Since the King's elder sister Margaret had abdicated all claims to the throne when she married the dauphin of France, only one claimant had been left.

And now the crown rested with Elizabeth. It wasn't the end Margaret Beaufort had laboured for when she began working in her son's interest. Elizabeth would never marry, thus ending the line of Tudor kings, but she would still fulfil one of Margaret Beaufort's greatest dreams: She would immortalise the Tudor name and see to it that her reign would be known as a Golden Age.

In a way, Margaret Beaufort had won.


Please review and let me know which story you want next week- "The Golden Boy" or "Piercing Blue Eyes". Cheers, Rahja