Disclaimer: I don't own the Tudors.
Summary: Je t'aime. C'est tout.
C'est tout
Henry is the third son of his father who was named after the King.
The first Henry died young, just like the second.
Young. Childless. Alone.
It makes him wonder whether his name is cursed and whether he will succumb to the same fate.
As a child Henry was treated like any other noble child.
He was learning arithmetic, languages and politics from the best and most expensive teachers in England.
He was spending more time with his mother than is father who left more and more time on court instead of home.
And sometimes, just sometimes he had some free time to play with his younger brother Charles.
Henry was a little adult and as a little adult he saw quickly that his parents weren't happy with each other anymore.
Whenever father came home, mother would greet him politely but distantly and at nights they would be arguing, their harsh whispers reaching his young ears.
He doesn't understand the meaning behind their hurtful words, doesn't understand the emotions that they are trying to convey.
All he understands is that his parents are rowing more and more often and he doesn't understand why.
The distance he felt between his parents grew into a deep abyss that seemingly nothing could mend, that no one could mend.
His mother is coldcoldcold, shows almost no emotions anymore and is burying herself in the new interpretations of the Holy Bible.
Her faith protects her now, her faith gives her all the love she needs and her faith is the new meaning of her life.
It seems like she doesn't need a husband anymore.
His father doesn't visit them anymore.
Last year he came once, the year before three times and the year before five times.
This year he didn't come once and it was already autumn; only some precious months left until another year begins.
Though he wants to deny it and to fiercely protect his father he knows that Charles Brandon will not leave court anymore for his wife and children.
The golden days had passed.
Anne was a young maid with golden locks and bright blue eyes. She would send coy looks and coquettish smiles his way whenever he came home from the university.
She was the first woman who taught him the pleasures of the female flesh.
He remembers the young girl fondly, who let him take her in the stable among hay and horses, who let him sink clumsily in her warm, wet cavern; over and over until he reached his climax.
The two of them had many trysts all around the house until his mother found out.
A day later she was dismissed, adequately paid to not spill anything about her and Henry's relationship to others.
His mother looked at him disappointedly and coldly and said, "You will not become your father. I will prevent it with every means that I deem necessary!"
Henry misses Anne and the simplicity and wonder she had brought in his life.
After five years of almost no contact, he received a letter from his father.
The missive was short and brought to the point:
Dearest Henry,
I wish for you to visit me in Suffolk Manor in order to meet my mistress Brigitte Rousselot.
Your father,
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk
His heart ached at the thought that his father only contacted him to meet his mistress, but still he ordered his valet to prepare the journey.
His father is in a good mood, he seems happier than ever before.
The instant after he realized this, a dark-haired woman in one of his mother's dresses enters the room.
Henry suppresses a gasp at the sight of her.
Dark hair bound in a strict bun with long loose tresses escaping it and framing her angelic face.
Her eyes were dark and mysterious and her form was wonderfully formed, as if made for sin.
She was the epitome of a French maiden.
She is uneasy around him, uncomfortable to meet her lover's son who cannot take his eyes off of her.
The words that leave his lips leave a bitter taste on his tongue.
"As long as you are happy father, than so am I."
The moment he gets back home, a servant tells him that his mother wishes to meet him in the drawing-room.
He had anticipated this because his mother may not live with his father anymore and it practically separated from him, she could never stand competition for his affection.
Catherine Willoughby prides herself of being the only woman who can treat Charles Brandon like he treats the countless women in his life- like an inconsequential whipping-boy.
As soon as he enters, she asks, " Have you met your father's newest whore then?"
Henry holds his tongue, growing weary at the stormy expression on his mother's face and the fathomless look in her eyes, "I bet she is beautiful. A really beautiful French whore, am I right?"
When he still didn't speak, she screamed angrily, "Answer me!"
He sighs soundly, closes his eyes for a short moment to bring forth an image of Brigitte.
"Yes she is beautiful, mother, but like you said she is just a whore. Father will grow bored with her soon enough and she will leave again. Except for father she has no one in this country."
Catherine nodded- pleased at hearing her son's prediction.
But what she didn't know was that Henry intended to taste Brigitte just once before his father got bored of her.
A man didn't meet a woman like her easily and he couldn't let her escape without even knowing the taste of her lips.
Pale firm thighs hold his hips in place as he thrusts strongly and quickly into her wetness
Swollen, red lips formed an enchanting 'o', moaning her sighing simultaneously with his manhood entering her.
The smell of sweet sweat and the taste of her heat made him-
Henry awoke with a jolt; sweating and panting loudly at the images that assaulted his tired mind.
He dreamed of Brigitte; he dreamed of bedding Brigitte.
An electric current run through his body, making him shudder and the sight of his proudly standing manhood didn't help him to calm down.
He fisted the hard organ, closed his eyes imagining the French beauty and moved his fist up and down and up and down until he reached ecstasy, sighing softly Brigitte before he fell in a deep, undisturbed sleep.
His father is ill, very ill.
The physicians believe that he will not survive.
His mother turns even colder and more devout in her seclusion while he is drinking brandy in his father's study.
Brigitte tends to his father-day in and out- she never leaves his side and cares for him as lovingly and compassionately like a mother would for her child.
A bitter smile graces his lips.
His father, the charmer, the lothario who had women flocking at his side no matter his age, possesses this beauty who he is losing his heart to, possesses his mother who turns even colder than marble.
Henry cannot describe the feeling that consumes him- it is dark and hateful and yet it is accompanied by a deep hurt which reminds him of the time his mother took him and Charles away from home to live without his father.
He wonders if this feeling is the disappointment of love.
His father's death was expected and he had prepared for it as well as he could.
It still feels like a strong strike to his face when he sees the cold, stiff corpse.
His mother is dresses in black, a shawl obscuring her expression but he has no eyes for her, this vindicated angel, anyway.
He has only eyes for a woman who is crying like a new born babe that lost her precious parents and is all alone on the world.
She looks as lovely as usual but the added tragedy makes her look so vulnerable that he wishes to take her in his arms and never let her leave.
He cannot understand the look in her eyes when she stares at his mother and cries even stronger if that is possible.
He finds her outside the small chapel and follows his desire to hold her.
He hugs her tightly and starts to stroke her back and shoulders. He shouldn't be comforting her, shouldn't put her above his mother and his duties but her strong grip keeps him ensnared and if he is honest he wishes to dwell just with her.
His strong hands tilt her face tenderly up and suddenly he is kissing her with all the passion and longing he had felt for theses last months.
Before he can be any more forward he is pushed away and she is fleeing to God knows where.
He cannot regret his actions.
On the day she is leaving England, Henry watches the sun rising and thinks only about her.
In another time, in another world maybe the two of them could have been happy together.
Without charming fathers, stone cold mothers and beautiful mistresses.
Maybe.
He feels cold and breathing is uncomfortable.
He dies young just like his other brothers who shared his name, just like almost every one of his siblings.
The End
Finished! I hope you like it
And don't forget to review ;)