A/N: I have used in my work two persons by the name of Francis. One is the Duke mentioned in this chapter. The other is also a Duke, but of Lorraine. Both existed in reality, and if you wish to have more information on them you may consult Wikipedia. Other than that I hope you have a great time reading on and that you'll bear with me when I start updating slower and slower (that'll come soon enough, I can promise you as much).

Enjoy the chapter. :)

Lady Isabella turned a heavy ring on her finger, in two minds on the matter at hand. Her mistress had yet to remove herself from the child's side; she hadn't risen for anything, not even to eat. It was well past midday. Lena and Beatrice had gone to fetch her spiced wine to keep her stomach from becoming ill, but the cup sat untouched on the small table straight before Lady Anne. She had barely take a bite out of the small pastries to her right, stating that she could not think to have more than one swallow when the child suffered under the cruelty of fever. Persuading her to reconsider proved an impossible task, and the only result it yielded was a mild scolding from their mistress. "You are more than welcome to have your food, Lady Isabella, but when I say I intend to take not one more bite, then by God, I mean to take not even one more." And that had been the last she was willing to say on the subject.

Sliding closer to her, Isabella, leaned in, close to her ear. "My Lady, at the very least, drink some of the wine." Isabella took the cup and held it before Anne. The other woman remained silent, for a few seconds, not even looking at the offering. "My lady," Isabella insisted.

As if woken from a dream, Anne shook her head. She blinked a few times, and stared at Isabella in inquiry. Her eyes fell to her companion's hand, and she raised her own to take the burden away. "Thank you, Lady Isabella. I am sure you must be tired. You may refresh yourself with a walk through the gardens."

"My lady, perhaps you would join me?" the woman asked, taking the cup as it was offered to her. "A walk would vastly improve your disposition."

Turning dark eyes towards her, Anne observed her coolly. "You may leave, Lady Isabella. Send Lady Meredith up to me." Embroidery in her lap, Anne reassumed her vigil over the Prince. Her hand touched the forehead in hopes of finding it cooled, but the boy burned still, fever gripping him in its clutches. "Have mercy, heavenly Father and deliver the child from his trial." She crossed herself and looked out the window. There had been no change despite the best efforts of the physician who attended the boy.

Had her thoughts shown on her face, or was it simply that they all thought along the same lines? Anne was somewhat surprised to see the wizened physician shake his head almost sadly. "He shows no sign of improvement, my lady. Perhaps a walk would be beneficial."

"Nay, good master. I will not be moved from this chair unless the situation calls for it," she laughed somewhat bitterly. Obstinacy was one of those faults she was born with, inherited from her own mother some said. "Is there nothing else you can do for the Prince?"

"There is bloodletting, of course." Yet taking a knife to the Prince was not permitted. His body was the King's body. They would need Henry's approval. "Perhaps if my lady would write to His Majesty."

And lose her head for something out of her control? Anne rather thought not. "It is my Lord Hertford's duty to write to His Majesty. Yet I would speak to my lord on the matter." It did not take more than a single nod to understand she was to hurry in her endeavour.

Anne rose from her seat. Just then Lady Meredith stepped in. Seeing her mistress upon her feet she gave a bow. "My lady, you have called for me?"

Meredith was still a little unaccustomed to the English society and its rules. Like Anne she had come from the German court of Cleves. Meredith's mother had been an Englishwoman, of no notable family but of some fortune. She had married a lord of the German court back in the days when her father had been young in rule. Meredith was the last of eight children, only a couple of years Anne's junior. Her father had died before Anne became Henry's Queen and her mother had tried to marry her to some lord or another, yet was met with failure. So, Wilhelm had sent Lady Meredith to his sister, not long after the annulment of her marriage and her settling permanently into Hever Castle.

Anne had been glad for her. Meredith's father had been a true Lutheran, her mother a Catholic. But Meredith had followed her father's faith. She had received a good education in areas still strange to Anne. For the past months, Anne had found herself taking an interest in the information Meredith would share with her. She was a sweet young woman with a sharp wit. And she was a true friend.

The more docile, sentimental Anne counted on Meredith to keep a clear head when there was need for it. For such reasons she had kept the young woman away from the sick child, least the image make her knees waver too. In their wish for children the two of them were much the same.

"I have need of you, Lady Meredith. I shall be in my private parlour. See Lord Hertford makes his way there. I wish to have words with him." Her words had been firm enough to please the physician, and Anne saw herself obliged to make her way to said rooms.

Lord Hertford, Edward Seymour, did not keep her waiting long. He bowed upon entering and sat when she beckoned him to. "Lady Anne," he said emotionlessly, though the haggard appearance spoke of his state better than any words might have. He was impatient.

So Anne would not keep him waiting either. "The physician thinks the Prince needs the remedy of bloodletting."

Cool eyes glimmered in the light and it chilled the blood in Anne's veins. "That is not possible. As weak as the boy is now, it would kill him." And he could not write such to the King. "For the sake of us all, he must find another way."

Lowering her gaze to the ruby ring on the man's finger, Anne sat in contemplation. Both seemed content to sit by one another for the moment. The companionable silence could almost be compared to the bond soldiers formed on the field of battle. Both aware of the dangers that lay ahead, both trying to have one last moment of peace. Anne stole a look at him, the brother of a dead queen. She wondered how he felt about Kathryn Howard. Hadn't he been one of those who encouraged the King's pursuit of the young woman?

Meanwhile, Edward was conducting his own little experiment. Lady Anne was the picture of decorum, and a motherly figure despite her lack of experience. He did not rightly understand the distaste His Majesty held for her. She was not a beauty that bowed one over, but her features were pleased enough, English fashion actually helping. Indeed, she had been young and fertile when she'd married the King. It was a wonder he hadn't taken her maidenhead, only to visit with her after he had remarried. Eyes and ears, Edward Seymour knew how to make use of them.

"Will you have some wine, my lord?" she asked politely, seeming to remember she was hostess. Anne held the pitcher over an empty cup, waiting for his approval, which was freely given. She poured the drink.

Her cordial manner came as something of a surprise. He had been the one to tell her the King was putting her aside. He had walked away with a bow, heard the commotion behind him, yet ignored it all like any dutiful servant should. Edward remembered the muffled sobs. He had witnessed firsthand the meekness of the woman. In his experience rarely were the noble ladies gentle. She had given up her crown without a fight.

Perhaps there was some intelligence to her. Both Catherine and Anne before her fought tooth and nail for what they thought to be their right. This woman chose to save her dainty neck. It had helped her immensely. That and her natural, good-mannered behaviour made of her a creature to be admired, whereas at first people had held but pity. She was probably the only woman whose goodness he thought close to that of his dead sister. To her core she was a decent human being. It had been noted by emissaries and dignitaries alike.

The popularity she boasted was not of a political nature though. They admired her gentle wit and sweet smiles. They thought her a poor flower whose petals had been ravaged by a harsh wind. Yet they did not see the resolve in her eyes, nor the true power of her mannerism. She may yet outlive them all if she continued on her path. There was more to be said of the German Lady from the Duchy of Cleves.

"To our Prince's swift recovery." He lifted the glass to his lips, noting she had not poured herself one. "My lady, if by the morrow he is not awake, I shall write to the King." He had meant it as means of placating the woman, yet her eyes shone with barely restrained tears. On instinct he tensed, knowing fully well women were given to long shows of distress. He began saying something but she held up her hand.

"My lord, you must excuse me. I do not mean to seem impolite, but I would like a few moment alone." Brown eyes closed briefly.

Edward climbed to his feet rather awkwardly. "My lady." He bowed to her and made his way out, again leaving behind a sobbing lady. It seemed he had a talent for it.

Meredith must have been close, for before Anne could think to do anything other than reach for her handkerchief, the other entered the room holding a letter. She did not comment of her mistresses' looks, but held out the missive. "This arrived a couple of days after we had already left, my lady. They sent it to us by the fastest means possible, thinking it might be of aught import."

The letter bore her brother's own seal, yet Anne found within not the words of Wilhelm, but of someone else. A man she had not thought of in some time. Making her way to the window, Anne nodded Meredith away. "You may go, Lady Meredith."

To say the contents of the letter surprised her would have been an understatement. She would have laughed had it been any less absurd. Anne turned the sheet of paper around in her hands. "So many words," she murmured.

Francis of Saxe-Lauenburg was writing to her after many years of silence. He was no particular friend of hers, yet for a time he had been a good friend to her brother, despite their age difference. Anne had at one point been considered as a potential bride, but it had not reached any further than words. She had walked with him in her mother's gardens, followed by every eye in the castle upon them. Francis had been charming enough, yet he hadn't held much interest for the child she had been then. And Anne herself had never fancied herself in love with him, she hadn't even developed a true affection for the man. Yet here they were; he wrote to her, and she accepting the letter.

Stranger occurrences had been heard of. Anne glossed over the pleasantries that occupied the first half of the page. He wrote to her in hopes of finding a friend within this long lost acquaintance. It seemed that her brother had disclosed to him that Anne was still unwed, despite her break from the King and the freedom and riches at her disposal. He was wondering, as his own wife had died not long before, if she were willing to consider him as a possible candidate once she returned to her own home, so dear to her heart. Laughable indeed.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Anne found that her brother too had written a short message, strongly advising her to give the matter some thought. Anne could not possibly understand why he was so bent on foisting her on all these men who did not want her. What gain could he possibly have? He no longer had any power over her. She would not bow to any of his edicts anymore. So, Anne did the only thing that came to mind, she shoved the letters in a drawer. Perhaps Meredith would be interested in the venture.

Of course, Meredith was not of a mind to return to any German Duchy if she could help it. "My lady, my only wish is to please and serve you," she replied to Anne's inquiry if she would like her to write to the Duke.

"You could have a comfortable life as a duchess." They both knew it would not be so. Francis was known for his extravagance. He would likely take every coin in his wife's possession and squander it away. "Do you have anymore letters for me?"

"The Duke of Palatinate-Neuberg writes, as well. It seems you are much in demand, my lady." Yet it was a comfort to have one of the more congenial relations writing to her mistress. "Shall I read it to you?"

"Do so, my dear, do so. I fear I have been left temporarily blind by the gracious offer my brother saw fit to concoct." A roll of eyes, and a show of sharper wit. Anne felt well enough by the time Meredith began to read.

"He writes that he misses your scintillating conversation and good humour, and that in times when troubles are upon him, he thinks of you and your courage. It helps him much, or so he says. And, of course, he hopes he will be permitted to visit, now that you are well settled." At this Meredith looked up. "Do you think you should have Lady Mary over for supper?"

"It is not a rare thing for me," Anne replied, already thought coming to her mind. "Yet nothing will come of it. The King does not favour the match."

"The King need not favour any match, my lady," was the answer she got. "We are not planning a wedding. Just a few courses of food and good conversation." But Meredith's eyes sparkled.

"Look at us, my friend. We cannot find loves of our own, yet we may do so for others." They shared a laugh. "Does it not seem strange to you?"

"I say we are doing admirably well, my lady, all facts considered." Wrapping the letter neatly she passed it to Anne. "Shall I bring out something to embroider or else should we have a game of cards?"

Anne shook her head. "I shall go back to the boy now. We may play our games after he is better." Or not at all if he should not. Anne brushed the folds of her dress with firm fingers and left the room as quietly as she had gone in.

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Charles Brandon thought himself a strong man. Yet even so he knew he had his own weak points to contend with. One such flaw was that he cared. Not in the sense of bleeding for every injustice he saw, yet he cared for his friends, for his family. If he could not show it as well as he should, it did not make it any less true. So, being a foolish man who cared, he also noticed. He saw what others brushed aside as mere coincidence. He saw, and it pained him to no end.

Now he looked at the Queen who was giving amorous looks away as if they were coins. What bothered Charles was that the receiver ought not to have been looking at her in the first place. Yet how could he have expected any different? Charles knew women. Or at least he knew women of Kathryn's nature. Easily won, wilful and wanton, desirous of one moment's glory. They wished to be queens without the effort of ruling. They likely wanted to dance and sing all day long. The head on their shoulders was only there to look good. What they did not understand they despised or thought beyond their notice. And as they understood most nothing, their whole world was made up of dresses and ribbons and a good tumble from their provider now and again.

Kathryn Howard had a certain charm. She was a skilled actress, an even seductress and a foolish child all in one. Charles hadn't been sure at first. But now he understood it well enough. He could see how a woman that not a few weeks past looked at the King like he was the rising sun, now glanced to a servant with affection and hidden-meaning behind the glass of her eyes. It would not end well. That much was clear.

The fact that she had not conceived yet made the King even more likely to tear her to pieces should he catch wind of the affair. And, unfortunately, the girl did not seem anything less than careless, nor was she the sort to remain at words only.

Turning his eyes away from the grotesque scene, his King came in the line of sight. It was not a good day, this day. King James was late. Either he meant to snub them by keeping them waiting, or he would not be coming at all. Charles wondered which would be worse. Henry would be angry anyway. Did it really matter which was worse when bad luck seemed to have attached itself to England's tail?

With a soft sigh, he fixed his eyes on the entrance. Something was going to happen. And it would happen soon.

True to form, disaster struck. It came in the form of a messenger. He had ridden hard by the looks of him; dust still clung to his cape, and his flushed face spoke of ill news.

Impatient as ever, Henry barely waited for the man to finish his bow. "Well, what do you have to say? Speak!" His voice had been low enough for the command not to resonate through the entire premises.

If Charles had imagined something bad, nothing could compare to the truth. The Scottish King had spit on their offer of peace, or he might as well have. His actions spoke of disregard for any rules of civility. He dared lift arms against the Englishmen. He dared burn and pillage. Henry would not stand for it. An order to retaliate was given. Tension was now rising higher and higher. Thomas Seymour was made responsible for the particular business and he left in a hurry.

Yet then the thought of revenge did not quell the King's fury. With savage rage he destroyed the peace offering that had been prepared for the Scots, sending a spray of white pears each and every way. The beads rolled on the floor, scattering beneath dress hems, heeled boots and capes. Pieces of solid gold littered the ground. And no one moved.

Even the senseless Kathryn had the decency to tear her gaze away from Master Culpepper and stare in horrified amazement at the mess. No doubt she thought it a waste of good pearls. Charles would have found it amusing under any other circumstances. As it was, he could do naught but lower his gaze and hope for something to stay his king's fury.

Such something came. It took the form of a wretched soul, trembling in his boots. Another messenger. Charles felt sorry for the man. Yet Henry showed no such care. He almost ripped him to shreds before he could deliver his message. And what a message it was.

The Prince was ill. Those words were all Henry needed to hear before he had his horse readied. Some courtiers wanted to follow; others thought it wiser to stay. If the Prince would not survive, they would do well to stay out of the King's sight. Charles climbed atop his horse nonetheless and followed the man who was a friend of sorts. If one could call any king a friend.

Riding was a habit. It came easy, and for the most part it was a pleasant activity. Yet now, more than ever, Henry wished his horse had wings. It seemed he could not get to his son fast enough. Charles followed his lead, pushing his heels into his horse's flanks. The beasts galloped away, and in their wake others followed. Daring a look behind, he saw a reluctant Queen riding before her supposed lover. The might have shared a look, they might have not. Charles turned away. It was no problem of his what the Queen chose to do or whose company she chose to keep when the King looked away. Be it on her own head, if she allowed her foolishness to kill her as others had done before her. An ugly bit of business to be sure, yet they'd come this far; God might yet preserve his fools.

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Henry stormed into his son's room in such a manner as to startle the other occupants. But he paid them little to no mind. The only important person in the room could not see him. Edward slept in his bed, blond hair matted to his sweaty forehead, eyes closed and breath laboured. His perfect, beloved son. He was in danger, gravelly ill? How could it have happened? Why hadn't they been careful with his son?

The rage to which parents thought themselves entitled when it came to their children's wellbeing did not pass kings over. Henry would have bellowed and cursed had he but the strength to. Yet he had killed much of his energy riding. His leg ached. His heart more so. Yet, even in such a state, he knelt by little Edward's bedside, blind to every other person.

It took some time and effort for him to be able to concentrate enough to hear what the physician said, and even more to look about the room and observe himself not alone in his grief. His daughter Elizabeth and the child's uncle were both there; she wiping her tears away, he glaring at the physician. Most unexpected was Anne. He did not think upon his permission to have her visit his son. The only thing that came to mind was a vague sense of gratitude for her presence. He noticed her concerned looks and tentative steps, but he was just as helpless as she, and would not allow himself any comfort.

Only well into the day did he speak for the first time. Having knelt by the bedside too, only facing him, Anne bowed her head in prayer. She hadn't placed herself in his line of sight, but Henry had felt her presence, or rather the scent that marked her presence. "How long?"

"Your Majesty," she acknowledged him, yet offered no answer. It became clear to him that she was not willing to answer when she lowered her head once more, ready to sink back into prayer.

"I am his father," he chided, voice hoarse. Henry held Edward's hand in his own. His blue eyes stared at the kneeling woman. He willed her to speak. And he would not be met with refusal.

Perhaps sensing it was her turn to produce speech, Anne gave up her prayer. "Yes, Your Majesty, you are his father." She stopped there, waiting for a signal. She could not offer him the answers he sought, nor would she.

Henry would have caught her arm, had the bed not been so wide as to place a larger breach than the span oh his arms. He might have even told her a few choice words had she not lifted her eyes to him and given him a shaky smile. "I do not think God has kept him this long to take him from you now, Heinrich. He is strong," she whispered, and in her words he recognized the truth he had longed to hear. "He is his father's son, Your Majesty."

Outside the sun shone.