Author's Note: First of all, thank you again for the reviews and encouragement. It means a lot. Secondly, I'd like to state that I don't own the show, the history, or the characters. I hope people enjoy the story, and thank you, again!


Chapter Three: The Sceptre And The Orb.

The gifts are stacked almost to the ceiling. "Aren't we popular, all of a sudden," Anne mumbles under her breath as she reaches out, selecting a box at random. She places it on the table, and lifts the lid to reveal a gold rattle, ornately engraved with an intricate, interlocking pattern. It's handle is shaped like the Coronation sceptre, and the bulbous, rattle part is shaped like the orb, complete with cross. Admiring the craftsmanship of the toy, she gives it a shake and giggles at the sound of the dried beans clattering around inside it. She nods in approval and walks back into her small, chapel ante chamber, and places the toy in Prince Arthur's cradle. She pauses to listen to the voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, performing the Christening ceremony on the other side of the rood screen. Behind her, the door opens, and and intrudes on her musings, as a familiar, welcome voice calls out.

"Sister."

"George!" Anne almost runs into his arms, raising him from the bow he was half folded into. "Oh George. I missed you. But, why are you not at the Christening?"

"I wanted to see you," He replies, smiling apologetically. "How are you, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm fine. The Prince is thriving," She replies, leading him over to her favourite window seat.

"I know the baby is fine, I asked how you were."

As they settle down by the window, Anne regards him closely. Even after the tumultuous few years they've had, he still only thinks of her. While everyone else around her changed, deferring to her first as a future Queen, then several years later as the Queen herself, George and she were only ever siblings. Brother, and sister. Joined at the hip, and the harbourers of all their secrets. He was her rock, her port in a storm, and at moments like this, she remembers and appreciates him for it, all over again.

"I have never been happier in my life," She smiles. "The birth was agony, but worth every moment for Arthur's sake. The King now looks at me like I'm some sort of Goddess, and he just dotes on our boy!"

"So, everything is all right between you two, now?" He asks, trying to keep his tone casual. The memories of Anne's rages against Henry's mistresses were all too fresh in his mind.

"He's sent that Seymour girl away weeks ago," Anne replies, disguising her triumphant smile. George lets out a bark of laughter.

"You won't have heard," He replies, still guffawing. "Thats' not the half of it. Sir John Seymour was carrying on with Catherine Filiol, the wife of his eldest son, Sir Edward. That's the real reason why the pasty-faced little sheep has gone from Court."

Anne, reminded suddenly of how much she missed the court gossip, looks duly scandalised. "No wonder she's gone, then. You know how Henry is about other people's indiscretions. Anyway, forget her, and tell me this. Is Lady Mary in at the Christening? Arthur is her step-brother, and her future King. For her sake, she better show some loyalty."

"God no," George snorts, as though surprised that she even bothered to ask. "Let the girl stew in her own foul juices in Hunsden, until her mother dies, which I hear will be soon. Maybe then, free from malign influence, she'll be more responsive?"

"Perhaps," Anne sighs, her expression is indifferent. Her son has secured her, and she need fear no one, now. "Tell me, who is there?"

George knows she isn't talking about their friends. "Well, the Poles are all here. The Exeter's are here, carrying rich gifts to over-compensate for their earlier recalcitrance. Margaret More was here, for some reason. But I doubt she was here for the Christening. Oh, and Henry Percy was here. Probably to show there's no hard feelings for casting him off in favour of the King."

"That wasn't my choice!" Anne retorts. At the time, the pain of their separation had grieved her sore. She had wept herself to sleep, night after night. Looking back now, it almost made her smile. "Is Sir Thomas Wyatt present?"

"Oh, yes! His love for you is sprung, and spent a long time ago," George pulls a mock-love lorn face, making her laugh into her sleeves.

"Enough of this," Anne cries out exaggeratedly as she climbs to her feet. "Come and inspect the Prince's presents with me, and be done with this talk of our enemies, and embarrassing past."

Together, they rifle through the boxes, like restless children before the new year's celebrations. They run their hands down great lengths of fine fabrics. Taffetas, silks, and rich velvets of every colour. Great, standing cups of silver and gold, glitter in the early afternoon light that spills through the chamber windows. Every so often, servants in Tudor livery, bear in yet more gifts from the Prince's well wishers. Every time she sees something small, and that she likes, she carries it over to the Prince's cradle, so he can play with his new toys when his father brings him back. Little ribbons, toys, and even the new gowns are laid out for him, with his Uncle George's help.


By two in the afternoon, the Christening had been concluded. Arthur, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Earl of Chester, has been welcomed into the Christian flock by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, himself. Within minutes, Henry bounds into Queen Anne's chambers. Elizabeth toddling after him, now steady on her feet, and exhausting her Governesses on a daily basis. The Prince is carried in the arms of the Duke of Suffolk, his Godfather, who deposits him carefully into his great cradle, before making a discreet exit.

"Anne!" Henry calls out to where Anne sits with George at her side. "You'll come to the jousts, won't you?"

"You know I'd love to," She replies sadly as she bobs a small curtsey. "But, I'm tired. And I missed my boy!" She leans into the cradle, rocking him gently and making sure he was settling, before turning back to Henry. "Perhaps, tomorrow?"

Henry's face crumples, making her soften considerably. "George, you'll be there won't you? Tell your Sister what she'll be missing!"

"Just come for a few hours," George coaxes her, placing his arm around her shoulders. "The wet nurse, and the rockers are all here for Arthur. He can spare his mother for a few hours."

Anne's resolve weakens. George tries to challenge her into it, like a game of dare. But, Henry looks at her with the expression of a kicked puppy, and her heart melts.

"I'll be watching you from the balcony," She feebly counters. "Look, I have new favours stitched for you!"

She waves the limp silk ribbon of blue before his face, and has no effect at all. He arches his brow even further, silently imploring her to relent, and come and watch him. At times like this, he is like an overgrown boy, and she adores him all the more for it.

"But, I want you to watch me from the stands," Henry whines, he squeezes her hands, and pulls her down onto the bed beside him, kissing her passionately, oblivious to the presence of George. "You're my prisoner now, Lady Perseverance. And I say you must come."

A flustered George, blushing to the roots of his hair, flaps about before clearing his throat and beating a hasty retreat. Henry, meanwhile, wraps himself close around Anne. She lets herself fall against his broad chest, laughing, and laughing for love, happiness, life and joy. "Yes!" She manages to choke the word out between laughs. "I surrender!"


Anne winced as the Duke of Suffolk's lance crashed into her brother's breast plate. Both riders lurched violently in the saddle, but somehow managed to cling on. A draw. The pages clear the tilt yard, and she leans forwards to the edge of her seat as Henry takes up his position. She could just make out the little blue ribbon fluttering in the breeze from the end of Henry's lance. Unconsciously, she crosses fingers, and toes. She will burst with pride if he wins, but die from fright if he falls. But that was all part of the sport.

Opposite King Henry, is his favourite jousting partner. A man who could be relied upon to give as good as he gets; Henry's Groom of the Privy Chamber, Henry Norris. King Henry may have been the best jouster in the realm, in his youth, but he isn't getting any younger; something Anne well knows, even if Henry himself doesn't. With her heart in her mouth, Anne fixes her eye on her husband. His huge, Destrier horse stamps restively at the sand beneath it's hooves, and jitters from side to side. Finally, the starter's flag falls.

Moments later, and the two men are charging down the lists. Anne's eyes fix on the blue ribbon, her knuckles whitening as she grips her arm rests, with her heart hammering in her throat. Norris's lance pole smashes into Henry's chest, knocking him clean out of his saddle. Anne's scream is lost among the roar of the crowds that explodes from the stands as Henry's horse comes crashing down, too, and rolls right over him, crushing his plate armour at the leg.

She is transfixed. Rooted to the spot in pure terror as all about her people surge forwards, and leap-frog across the safety rails. Henry's limp, motionless body is soon surrounded by a swarm of physicians and horrified on-lookers. She watches helplessly as his body is conveyed to the pavilion tent.

Numb, nauseated, Anne moves forward, clinging to the handrails of the stands for support. Her legs are like jelly. Like Elizabeth's when she took her firsts steps.

"Anne!" George's voice calls out, and she sees him running towards her.

"No," She heaves a dry sob as she sinks to her knees in the churned up mud. "No, no, say its' not so!"

"He's breathing," George blurts out as he falls to his knees before her, wrapping his arms tight around her shoulders. "His pulse is weak, but the physicians are with him now. I'm to take you back inside."

But, as George tries to haul Anne back to her feet, she puts up a fight. "I'm not leaving him," She hisses, digging her heels into the mud. "Not like this."

"Anne, please, there is nothing you can do," He pleads, but already he can see that resistance is futile. Instead, he tries a compromise. "Look, come to the Chapel, and we can pray. Please, anything but stay out here, fearing the worst."

Reluctantly, Anne lets herself be led away to the small Chapel that was still decked out for Arthur's Christening. All the way there, she cast furtive glances over her shoulder at the tent where he lay, out cold, and in the hands of God. Her husband. Her romantic lover, who pursued her across lands, and seas for one moment in her arms. She could no more imagine life without him, than she could imagine what it must be like to fly without wings.

The Chapel is silent. Tall, beeswax candles burn, making a row of little, dagger point lights at the foot of the high altar. The statue of the crucified Christ is lit ominously from below, casting his gaunt features into shadow. Anne doesn't know how long she knelt before that statue, her knees pressed hard against the cold flagstones. George knelt beside her, his head bowed in silent prayer. At one point, even Cromwell entered the Chapel to offer a prayer. A small, but welcome gesture of solidarity. His frantic schedule only afforded him a few minutes of meditation, and the haste of his departure only made her fear all the more.

She tried to wipe her mind blank, and focus every ounce of her concentration on her prayers. She lay flat before the Virgin Mary in a manner of complete supplication to her God. She closed her eyes, and wept. Silent tears dripped from her eyes, pooling on the ground beneath her face. Minutes ticked into hours. The sky darkened. Time passed slowly by.

The door crashed open, and frantic footsteps ran wildly down the aisle. Both Anne, and George, leapt to their feet in alarm, and found themselves looking into the frantic face of Lady Madge Shelton.

"Your Majesty, thank God I've found you," She blurts out as she clasps Anne's hands. Her eyes are wide with terror, and her hands tremble violently, even as they grip Anne's.

"Madge, what is it?" Anne glares at the girl as her mouth drops open, but them falls mute, struggling for the right words to say.

"Madge, what's happened!" Anne demands, and she is ready to slap the girl senseless by the time she finally finds her tongue again.

"He's gone!" She screams, falling to her knees as her voice reverberates around the fan vaulted ceiling.

Anne feels her whole world caving in on itself. A slow, creeping terror wraps it's icy tendrils around her heart. "You mean, he's dead?" She asks, disbelieving. Refusing to believe it.

"I don't know!" Madge sobs, verging on hysteria.

"What do you mean you don't know? For crying out loud, girl!" George bellows at the hapless lady, and shakes her violently. Anne is struck dumb, as though her brain has shut down and simply refusing to process any more information. She knows it doesn't make any sense, but thats' as far as she can get.

"We checked his cradle, and he is gone!" Madge blurts out as she throws George's arms away from her. "We checked, and we searched the whole of the Privy Chamber. Prince Arthur is gone, and we don't know where!"

Anne's body sways. She sees her world tip to the side, like the swaying of a ship on a stormy sea. She sees the floor moving rapidly towards her face. Not even George catches her fall, as she collapses into a dead faint.