"I am afraid," Mary said quietly. "There are so many things to be afraid of, but I feel weak for it all the same. I ought to have more faith in You, and Your goodness."

The crucifix above her was old, mahogany and brass, a gift to her lady mother from her sister, Isabella of Portugal, upon her wedding to Mary's uncle, long-dead Prince Arthur. Mary had had it since she was a child, one of the first heirlooms her mother had given to her, and it was one of her most prized possessions.

She could still remember the day her mother had entrusted it to her, still tied about the base with ribbons in the Trastamara colours, before Mary had changed them for Tudor.

It did not react to her prayers. It never had, not even while she had prayed and prayed for her father to abide by Cardinal Wolsey's guidance, or later, Cardinal Campeggio and Bishop Fisher.

The babe in her belly did, though, kicking hard against her already sore ribs, and she almost laughed in the midst of her devotions. The babe rarely stopped kicking and moving, a good sign - Mary knew that even without her midwife telling her so, and it gave her so much hope that this would all go well. If her babe was strong enough to keep her awake all night, strong enough to kick so hard that Cathy insisted she could see little feet through the stretched-thin skin of Mary's belly, then her baby was strong enough to be born alive, and to live.

That was all she wanted. For God to give let her keep her child, when He had taken so much else away from her.

"You are the Almighty," she said, gripping so hard to her rosary that her fingers ached, that she knew she would have the delicate patterns engraved on the beads pressed into her palms, "and I should have faith in You, but I am still afraid."

"That is only human, sister."

She turned, almost overbalancing thanks to the weight of her belly, and truly did begin to laugh.

"Welcome once more to Westhorpe, little brother," she said, gladly accepting Hal's outstretched hands. He guided her carefully to her feet, and waited patiently while she recovered her balance. It always took a long moment, with the weight of the baby bowing her back and leaving her unsettled, but Hal was patient - he always seemed to be patient, waiting quietly for her to find words, waiting for their father's attention, waiting for the respect that was his due as Duke of Richmond and Somerset but which was so often denied him for his being Fitzroy, rather than Tudor. "I was not sure that you would wish to come-"

"But of course I would," Hal rushed to promise her, offering her his arm with a smile. "I told you, Mary, you can always count on my support in all things. I meant my promises."

Hal, Mary suspected, would champion her claim to the throne over that of their little sister - but she could never ask that of him. To make him choose between her and their father would be unspeakably cruel, and Hal had been nothing but perfectly lovely to her.

"I know, Hal," she assured him. "But all the same, asking you to dance attendance on me while I am in my confinement - it is hardly what you envisioned when you promised to aid me in any way you could."

She had not known to who else she was to turn - Charles was at court, and would be there until she was delivered, on her father's insistence. She saw the Queen's hand in that, in depriving Mary of her greatest support during this time which was so difficult, and it made her regret any pity or sympathy she had felt for the Boleyn woman after her misfortune in January.

It was July, now, almost August, and what little good will she had gathered up towards the Queen had faded all in a rush when Charles had written to her, a long letter full of frustration and a longing to be home, letters scratched deep into the paper and blotted all over - a letter written in anger, clearly. He had been unusually wordy, unusually open in a letter that they both knew would be read by others, others who were not their friends, but Mary could not blame him.

Her father was keeping Charles at court just as she was due to bear their first child. Of course Charles was angry. Mary was angry, angry with her father as was forbidden by God's holy word, angry with the harlot, and sometimes, in her darkest heart, angry with God himself for giving her this life, when she ought to have had another.

"It is a long walk from your rooms to this chapel," Hal said, looking concerned now. "Are you sure that you ought to take your devotions here? Surely it would be simpler to place a crucifix and perhaps a statue of the Blessed Virgin in your own chambers - I would be happy to bring anything you might require-"

She could not help but laugh, if only because Hal was so desperate to please her. Edward and Cathy were the same, fidgeting and fussing at her every move, and it was driving her half to distraction.

Charles, if he were here, would not be so desperate to please. Charles, if he were here, would tease her, and would encourage her to follow the midwife's every word of advice.

Mary missed him more than she liked - it was refreshing to have someone shoulder her burdens, who wished to see her happy simply for happiness' sake. It was nice.

And for all his awful reputation, Charles was remarkably discreet in his philandering - she knew that he had bedded half the maids of their staff, but he remained clear of her personal household, restraining himself from dealing her insult by taking the women who helped her dress in the mornings for lovers. He never flaunted his women, never spoke of them, never came to her bed smelling of them...

She could not but compare him favourably to her father, who had flaunted the harlot as a consort before her mother, who had gone so far as to father a child on one of her mother's ladies.

Not that Mary minded that, not now - had her father not been a poor husband, she would not have Hal. Had she not had Hal, she would have been forced to bear Edward and Cathy's overbearing attentions without an ally.

And she would have been less a friend.


Court was tense, or perhaps that was Charles himself - he could not be certain. What last information he had received from Westhorpe had come in the form of a letter from Edward informing him of the Duke of Richmond's arrival, and since then, nothing.

The King had been remarkably quiet on the subject of Mary these past days, since the arrival of that letter. The Queen, too, had hardly even looked at Charles, but Lord Wiltshire had made up for that. He had taken every opportunity to make sure Charles' fears that the silence from Westhorpe meant that Mary had inherited her mother's luck in childbed - or worse, her grandmother the Queen's. The idea of losing another wife, this one so young, so new, so unknown, sickened him, and Wiltshire and all the others knew it.

Privy council meetings were even more a test than before, now that Wiltshire was in such foul humour with him - Ormonde and Norfolk, at least, left him more or less alone. Wiltshire was still so angry at the Queen's miscarriage, so afraid of all that Mary's child represented, that he had set himself as wholly against Charles as was possible.

If this child of Mary's, Charles' child, was a boy, after all, it would be a relatively simple matter for the King to set aside the Boleyn woman, claim his marriage to Mary's mother as legitimate once more, and name the boy as his heir. A small thing, after breaking from Rome as he had.

Charles would not deny that the idea of being father to a King was enticing - he would never voice such a desire, particularly not within Henry's hearing, but the prospect was intoxicating. Charles appreciated power, had developed a taste for it over the course of his life in proximity to the House of Tudor, and knew that if he were ever to find himself in such a position, he would cling to what power he had as his son's regent as fiercely as Margaret Beaufort had as My Lady the King's Mother.

But he would never say such a thing aloud, even if he did desire another son, and not solely for any claim such a boy might have to the throne - Edward was as healthy a lad as existed in England, but Margaret had been the strongest woman in all of Christendom, and she had died such a horrible, painful death, so young.

Was it greedy of Charles, to want two legitimate sons when Henry had none? He had young Richmond, of course, but Richmond was a bastard, and only boy, besides, Edward's age or so, and as like as any other youth to die - in war, in a brawl, of a fever, it mattered not. Sons died, and men were left without heirs.

It was not greed to wish for security, surely?

"You're a lucky man," Tony said, taking Charles' bishop. "I can't imagine anyone else surviving the enmity of the Queen's family for this long, especially not a man aligned with the old Queen."

"I'm not aligned with the old Queen," Charles said firmly, feeling even guiltier now for pondering the possibility of his son as King of England - that was treason, and he was not so stupid as to believe that he would survive charges thereof a second time. "My wife and I are both in support of the King's marriage to Queen Anne, as you well know."

"I'm sure," was all Tony had for a reply, which was worrying - if Tony, who had been Charles' staunchest ally in all this mess, felt that he was turning traitor, then surely it would be no great thing for the King to believe the same?


Hal and Edward were out riding when the first pangs hit Mary.

The King had forbidden her even Lady Salisbury's company for this, so it was just her and Cathy, and the midwives who were waiting with her lady's maid in the next room. Cathy is so dear to Mary, and the midwives are capable women, with serious eyes and kind smiles, but Mary wishes for the comfort of Lady Salisbury's chiding and clucking almost as fiercely as she wishes for her mother.

She had thought - foolishly, she knew, because she ought to have known better, she truly ought to - that her father might relent in his cruelty, in the face of her fears. And such fears! Difficulty in childbed, even unto death, was present in both sides of Mary's lineage, and surely, surely her father knew of the child Charles lost with Aunt Margaret, that Charles was not without ill luck in such matters as these!

But no. Still she was forbidden so much as a letter to her mother, still she was forbidden even the slightest hope of a visit, and it hurt so deeply that he had so little regard for her that she could hardly stand to even think of it.

And so, only Cathy was present when Mary's womb moved the first time, when Mary gasped for the discomfort of it - not yet pain, but the echo of pain yet to come - and her hands flew to her belly.

Cathy ran for the midwives without being asked, and needed their reassurance more than Mary herself did, it seemed.

"I am well enough," Mary said firmly, fidgeting at her shift - even the softest materials seemed to itch at her breasts. "You need not fuss quite so much, Cathy, the midwives are certain-"

The second round of pangs hurt a great deal more than the first, and worried Mary a little. She did not show it, though, because she didn't think she could stand much more of Cathy's fussing.

"Send for Edward and Hal," she said as a third round of pains curled around her belly. "Hal will- he'll- my brother will ride to London and fetch Charles home, oh!"

The third round of pains lasted much longer than the first two, leaving Mary clutching at the bedclothes in pain and Cathy fluttering at the bedside. The midwives clucked approvingly, counting and chattering in a way that set Mary's already gritted teeth on edge.

"You ought to have something for the pain," Cathy fretted, "oh, oh Mary, does it hurt terribly much?"

"Fetch Hal and Edward home," Mary said, more sharply than she had ever spoken to Cathy. "Send Hal for London."

"Mary, Lord Richmond is a guest-"

"And my brother," Mary snapped. "Send for him, Catherine! I am the lady of this house, and you will honour me!"


Edward offered to ride to London in Hal's place - desperate to see his father, Mary knew, to scrape even just the ride from Whitehall home to Westhorpe alone with Charles, and terrified of being present while she screamed her way to bringing his new sibling into the world - and insisted that Hal would be better company for Cathy, better comfort for Mary.

The only comfort Mary presently knew was the hot stones the midwives wrapped in linens and pressed into her lower back to ease the cramping muscles, and Hal would be of no use whatsoever, since the closest he was allowed was the door to her reception chamber, out in the hallway.

"No," Mary said, fearing that once more she would have to throw her rank about as her father so often did. "No, Hal must go, Edward. He is the stronger rider, his horse the quicker-"

The midwives took charge as soon as Mary's voice cut away to nothing. She was glad of it, because the pain was so severe that she was sure she would die, and by the time it was finished, even Cathy was gone.

"Now then," said the elder of the two women, a stout woman with a tight bun of steely-grey hair and startlingly blue eyes. "Can't be delivering a babe with young Lady Catherine wittering about like the fool she isn't, yer Grace, can we? And you're near enough that we'll be delivering soon, I dare say."

"But- but it's hardly been any time at all!" Mary cried, horrified - she was sure that she had only had her first pains an hour or two ago, and surely such a quick progression was a bad thing?

"Milady," the other woman said, her dark eyes kindly and her hands soft and worn, "you've been abed for a full day - your pains started around the tenth hour this morning, and it's near the same again after noon, now."

"But..."

When Mary looked out the window, over the women's shoulders, the sky was the same deep blue as the first gown she had worn as Lady Brandon, and as Charles' eyes had been when he bid her farewell with his hands resting on the swell of her belly.

Then another pain took her, and she had no more time for such concerns.