A/N: Wow, a fairly quick update from me! A bit short, but hopefully to your liking. Thank you for all your encouragement, and look for an update of "The Shape of Things to Come" in the near future.
3 January
The Queen had desired to keep as silent as possible, as strong as possible. She did not want to show weakness, even now, even as she brought forth her savior into the world, in front of these women, so many of whom would have happily served the next woman Henry took to his bed and called his wife if they had had the opportunity. As her labor progressed, however, so did the pain. She remembered this pain, but the memory of it was nothing compared to the agony itself. Her love for Elizabeth and desperation for another child had dulled the memory still further until it had been but a whisper of this. She felt as though she was being torn open, and finally, she cried out.
Her screams could not possibly be heard beyond the chambers in which the Queen and her ladies had been confined for nearly a month now. They could not possibly be heard by the King, anxiously awaiting news: did the child live? Was it a boy, the long-awaited son? He waited now with his brother- and father-in-law and his friend Brandon, all of them nervous.
The Boleyns knew their fortunes rested on the birth of this child. They knew it must be a son. If it was another daughter, all hope would perhaps be lost for them. The Seymours might be welcomed back to court, and they banished, Anne set aside, Elizabeth and the new girl-child delegitimized.
Brandon knew he had been brought back to court only to witness the birth of Anne's child, Anne's son, to prove him wrong once and for all. Henry had not yet forgiven him. He had barely spoken to him, and now played a game of chess with George Boleyn, who looked paler than the King himself, if it was possible.
A man who did not know or believe that the charges against Anne had been false might wonder if he was concerned about the birth of his own child.
Brandon, who knew how close George was to his sister, was sure that he was simply concerned that she might die even in her triumph, if indeed the child was a boy. He might hate their father, but seeing George thus, Brandon could not hate him.
It would have been a shame to see his head on the block instead of Boleyn's.
Anne certainly felt as though she could die, and perhaps wanted to, from the effort of bringing this child forth into the world. The midwife told her to breathe for the thousandth time. Madge and Nan were on either side, one of them clutching her hand, the other dabbing her forehead with water. Between the shooting pains that ripped through her body and the shrieks they tore from her throat, Anne could hear them murmuring sweet, soothing things close to her ear.
Of course, it was entirely possible that many women had a worse time of childbirth than this. Anne's labor had begun early that morning, and it was only mid-afternoon now at the latest. Still, she felt trapped and feared the pain would never end. She had prayed incessantly earlier, before the pain of her labor had overwhelmed her, that the child to whom she was giving birth was, indeed, the longed-for Prince, her true savior, and yet now she found she did not care. She wanted it to end. She longed to be free of the physical exertion, of the pain…
"I can see the head – you must push, Your Majesty!" the midwife said suddenly. "It shall not be long now."
Oh, God. The promise of deliverance was enough to make Anne grip Madge's – or was it Nan's? – hand all the harder, close her eyes, and do her best to push the child from her womb at last. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and gritted her teeth. The first thing my child shall hear in the world will not be his mother's screams, she thought, determined, once more, to keep herself silent.
She was strong. She had to be, for the sake of her child, the child who had delivered her from the Tower and a wrongful death.
Even if she died now, and she was suddenly certain that she would not, she had not died then. She would have died giving Henry a son at last – a healthy son, a son as remarkable as his sister Elizabeth was already. Yes. Even if she died, the name of Anne Boleyn would never be forgotten. She would be a beloved and triumphant Queen in death rather than a disgraced, so-called traitor.
"Push, Your Majesty!" the midwife encouraged, her hands between Anne's legs, waiting to take hold of the newborn child.
Our son, Henry had said. She took one long, deep breath. It must be a boy. Her son. Henry's son. A child for England. All of them at once. She ignored the pain and her exhaustion and thought only of holding the Prince of Wales in her arms at last –
"Checkmate, Your Majesty," George Boleyn said as he moved his queen for a final time.
Henry looked a bit dismayed, but clearly his mind was not on the game. "Well-played, my lord Rochford," he said absently.
He was distracted by movement in the corner of the room, however, and looked away from the hand extended in goodwill from his brother-in-law. The door had opened and there stood one of the Queen's ladies. His breath caught. Surely everyone's did. What news did she bring? Did she come to tell him of the birth of a son – of the death of his wife – to tell him he must be patient, that Anne labored yet…?
The King rose and went to her. The Boleyns and Brandon lingered, though it was clear from George's expression that he would have liked to run to his sister's side. His father put a hand on his sleeve as though to remind him that it was the King whose child had just been born, the King's wife who had borne him as much as George's sister.
"Your Majesty," the girl said breathlessly, "the Queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy."
A healthy baby boy.
Henry felt as though he could weep. He only smiled, a smile that brought his youth back into his eyes, if it could not restore it to his face.
"And the Queen, how does she fare?" he asked, though he could not imagine that Anne could be laid low even by childbirth. She had survived the sweat; she must surely survive this.
"She is well, Your Majesty, and asks for you," was the reply.
If Anne asked for him, Henry could not deny her. Their love was not what it had once been, and perhaps never would be, but she had given him a son, and he felt like a true and rotten cad for ever having doubted her. As he wove through the corridors, his head held higher than ever, at last the father of a trueborn, healthy son, he thought of his daughter Elizabeth. He would have robbed her of her mother simply to give her a brother, but she had a brother now, a brother who would match her in wits and charm. Elizabeth was a perfect princess, and her newborn brother would surely make a perfect King.
Half the court seemed to know by now that the Queen had borne a boy. As he went, Henry heard, "Congratulations, Your Majesty!" and "God bless the little prince!" His smile turned into a grin. Though the boy had just been born, he could already imagine him at five, sitting atop his proud father's shoulders, paraded through the whole court, the darling of all his future subjects…
At last, he reached the doors to the Queen's apartments. They were now open wide. All her ladies waited in her presence chamber, just as they had when he had arrived after her child had quickened. They were all smiles, though they looked weary, and curtsied prettily to him as he moved past them towards the bedchamber.
Anne was propped up on pillows. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her skin was the color of alabaster, almost matched by her nightgown. The ghostly effect was offset, however, by her smile. It was somehow the smile of a lover and a mother at once, for though she was looking at Henry, standing wide-eyed in the doorway, she held a child wrapped in delicately embroidered blankets in her arms.
"Come and meet your son, Your Majesty," Anne said then.
Your son. My son! Henry's heart pounded in his ears as he approached the bed. My son, my son!
He came to stand beside Anne and gazed down at the infant she held. Unlike his sister's, his hair was dark, a thin layer of black down on his little head. His skin was rosy and smooth and perfect.
"Would you like to hold him?" she asked quietly.
Henry found he could not speak, but Anne simply lifted her arms and let him take the precious burden into his, cradling him as though he were made of glass. This transfer, from his mother's arms to this stranger's, made the newborn prince stir. His eyes opened, slowly, blearily, and he blinked curiously up at the King. In that moment, Henry could have been looking into a mirror. His son's eyes were precisely the shape and color of his own. If he had been tempted to weep before, the desire was all but overwhelming now.
He lowered his head and gingerly presses his lips against the silky skin of the infant's brow. The newborn responded with a mewling noise which made both of his parents laugh.
Enchantment lingered in Anne's eyes as she watched them. She had, at last, succeeded. The King had a son, her son, as she had always promised. When we are married, I shall deliver you a son. It had taken three and a half years, but at last, here he was, Henry's own, trueborn son, the future King of England!
"He shall be a miniature of his father," Anne said. "Henry the Ninth."
"Sweetheart, my own sweetheart, he is perfect. Thank you," Henry breathed in reply, turning away from the boy who slumbered once more in his arms – Henry, yes; he would be called Henry after his proud and relieved father – to look at his wife.
He had loved her desperately, longed for her, fought for her, for seven years; and then he had all but hated her once he had had her. Now, however, he was not fighting or wishing for a promise, nor resenting failure. She was truly his beloved now, for she had given him the gift that Katherine had never been able to give: a big, hearty baby boy who would one day grow into a tall, strong young man. A son. A true heir.
He heard her words from months ago, when he had pressed his face close to her body, the womb in which the sleeping Prince Henry had then moved: I will not fail you again, Henry, I promise you.
Yes, she had failed him once, but all was forgiven now. With Katherine dead and a boy in the royal nursery, Henry would dare any King to turn down an offer of Elizabeth's hand again. In the glow of her brother's birth, Elizabeth seemed like a promise herself, a promise of things to come…
When she had been born, her mother had apologized. I am so sorry. How different this day was.
He perched himself on the bed beside Anne and together, they admired their boy. Anne did not reach for him or try to take him from his father's arms. She simply observed, smiling affectionately at both of them, her Henrys. Soon enough, the young prince would be sent away to Richmond or to some other establishment, perhaps even to live at Hatfield with his sister, as Elizabeth had been. For now, it was enough to have Henry by her side, to know that she had pleased him at last.
It was enough to know that, whatever else happened to them, she would at last be accepted as the true Queen of England and, someday, she would be the mother of the King himself.
11 January
Hunsdon House
"Who does that awful woman think she is to order me about?" Mary Tudor asked, trembling with anger as she looked, again, at the letter.
It had been brought to her by Ambassador Chapuys, along with the new of Anne Boleyn's safe delivery of a son. That had been enough to break Mary. She had nearly fallen to the floor, and had swooned even when Chapuys had helped move her safely to a chair by the hearth. When she had returned to her senses, not even Mary had been too proud to weep. She trusted Chapuys, her mother's old friend, and had been willing to shed tears in front of him. He would understand. Why had God allowed the Great Whore to do what Mary's mother had been unable?
But my mother did have a son, she thought. The boy had not lived, of course, but he, too, had been born at New Year's. If only. If only her brother had thrived, flourished, been a strong and handsome young man now!
Why had God not let him live? Why had God not seen Anne Boleyn executed, as would have been right, considering what she had done to Mary and especially to Mary's mother, and to the Church? Why had God given her a son? She continued to have the dreadful thought that perhaps God had sent Anne to her father because He had wanted to see these things happen, but what kind of just, loving God would do such a thing?
She could not believe it. It was the devil's work, surely!
"She is the Queen of England, my lady," Chapuys murmured, his eyes downcast.
Mary whirled around to face him. Her light blue eyes blurred with tears that threatened to spill onto her pale, thin cheeks, but she looked as though she could not decide whether she was angry or heartbroken.
After a moment, her expression became one of accusation. You, too, old friend? it asked.
"How can you say that?" she asked, and even her voice trembled. "How can you acknowledge that creature that sits in my mother's place and calls her children heirs to the throne? Pretenders, that is what they are!"
She threw down the letter, barely keeping her words from breaking, barely keeping herself calm.
"My lady, I know how difficult this is for you," Chapuys began, and hurried on before Mary could interrupt him. "But the King calls her his wife, his Queen, and forgive me, my lady, but your mother has gone to be with the Lord now, and she left your father the King as a widower, one free to take another wife, even one for whom you feel no love."
Mary bit her lower lip for a moment before she spoke again. The silence was too long; it was poignant. She felt betrayed, no doubt, but Chapuys must speak the truth with her. She was no longer a child to whom they could tell tales. She was a young, intelligent woman, one who must surely come to terms with her status as a bastard – a royal bastard, true, but a bastard nonetheless. Though Chapuys thought it was a cruel fate for so good a girl as Mary, he had no say in the King's decisions. The Queen was no longer alive to be protected by his master in Spain, and Anne Boleyn was now indisputably Henry's wife.
"The letter, it is not from her, but it might as well be. The King orders me to come to court to accept the Oath and to acknowledge his son as the true Prince of Wales," she said slowly, frowning. "But if I do not…"
"My lady," Chapuys said, sounding alarmed now, "you must. The King has ordered it."
"I cannot take the Oath, Your Eminence!" she cried, her eyes going wide. "Do you not understand? I cannot betray my mother's memory in such a way! I could never forgive myself – God would never forgive me!"
"The King orders it," Chapuys repeated.
Mary flung her hands in the air, as though they were meaningless words. She started to pace then, turning each time with a ferocity that Chapuys had never truly seen in her before. Her reaction to the news of her brother's birth was, in fact, somewhat alarming to him. He knew Mary was proud and with good reason, but he had never considered her particularly foolish or self-destructive. Now, he was less sure.
"The King has ordered it in the past," she reminded him. "The King put me under house arrest for months because I expressed happiness that Jane Seymour had caught his eye. I am his daughter, Your Eminence. He cannot –"
"I beg you, my lady," Chapuys interrupted, his tone rather desperate now, "do not be so sure of what the King will and will not do. He has a son now, a son he considers legitimate. You cannot think he will ignore your refusal to sign the Oath again. You cannot still think, my lady, that he will be rid of the new Queen."
His words made Mary flinch. The new Queen. Yet she appeared somehow unmoved, even by a friend's plea, his words of wisdom. If she knew he spoke only out of affection and concern for her and that he wanted to see no harm come to her, she showed no sign of it.
"This boy is no better than Henry Fitzroy," she said savagely. "He will never be the King of England."
Her heartache and stubbornness broke Chapuys' heart. He did not know what to say to get through to her. By now, surely even Queen Katherine would have understood that Anne Boleyn's hold on the King was unshakeable. She had won. The King was already speaking of her as though she was a goddess. Henry Fitzroy, the little Prince Harry was not. His eldest sister would do best to realize and acknowledge that fact lest she find herself in the Tower, or perhaps worse. While it turned Chapuys stomach to think that Henry would even think of executing his own child, he may. He had seriously considered sending Anne Boleyn to her death when once he had prized her above all things, had he not?
"The King of France is your brother's godfather now, my lady," he told her, watching her face. She had no love of the French, of course, but a Catholic monarch had acknowledged what she would not: that her brother was legitimate, that he would someday rule England. "Even the people celebrate the Prince's birth…" She frowned.
"Your mother, she would not want to see any harm come to you," he added rather feebly. Did she not realize the danger she was capable of putting herself in?
For a moment, he thought he had gotten through to her. She looked pensive and had stopped pacing. Rather than on him, her eyes were fixed upon the low-burning fire in the hearth. He took the opportunity to examine her more thoroughly. Mary's gown was clearly old and all but hung off of her; she was so very thin and pale. She looked almost sickly. The gown had been patched, but still seemed threadbare.
This poverty was the price she had thus far paid for her insolence. She had clearly learned to live with it, accept it, bear it like a badge of honor…but if she was thrown into the Tower, put on trial for treason, how would Mary cope?
He feared for her and wished to help her, but he could not force her hand.
"If His Majesty wishes me to come to court to hear me slander my mother and to sign my name to lies, he will have to drag me there," she said at last.
Chapuys wanted to argue with her. He had half a mind to beg her to sign the Oath. Though he was not fond of Anne Boleyn, he thought that she had better intentions towards Mary than she perhaps once had had. If only Mary could see it. If only Mary could think of Anne as something other than the woman who had bewitched her father, ruined her own childhood…if only…
"You may tell him that, Your Eminence. I am the King's trueborn daughter by his late wife, Queen Katherine of Aragon. I am the Princess of Wales. I am his only true and legitimate heir."
She held out one delicate hand for Chapuys to kiss.
He took it, of course, and kissed it once—twice—then turned his eyes up to see her face set in a determined expression. She drew her hand away and turned her back to him, as though to say he was dismissed. He felt the sting of the gesture. He was a friend. He was trying only to help her. Yet she now saw him as…as what? A traitor? She must certainly feel betrayed. Chapuys had no choice but to acknowledge Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England, however, and Mary as a bastard. He may have some small amount of immunity as an ambassador, but paternal affection did not separate him from the King's wrath as it had thus far with Mary.
Chapuys feared that she may grow angry the longer he stood gazing upon her. He bowed, then, muttering, "My lady," and leaving her to her sorrow and her bitterness.
13 January
Whitehall
Elizabeth had been brought to court in honor of her brother's birth. She had been told for the entirety of her three years on earth to pray to God every night to send Mama and Papa a little brother, though Elizabeth rather thought she ought to have been enough. She knew that sons were traditionally given power, knew that her father wanted one badly, but she knew, too, that she was his sweetheart and his Elizabeth, and she did not think that he could really love and spoil a little boy as much as he did her. She never said such things, of course, and certainly not to Lady Bryan. Perhaps if she had seen her mother more often she would say them to her, or even to her sister Mary.
But Mama was at court, and never came to see her at Whitehall after she had come back in the springtime after being away. She was told her mother could not visit because of her condition, but she did not exactly understand why Mary had never returned to Hatfield. Though her elder sister was not her mother's daughter, nor was she particularly happy, Elizabeth had been quite fond of her, perhaps simply because she was her sister.
Now, however, she had a brother, and despite his tiny size and inability to speak or walk or read or do any of the things she herself could do, he was the center of attention at court.
If she had been a different sort of girl, Elizabeth might have resented the gifts and affections showered upon the new Prince, but instead, she had taken her mother's word to heart. As soon as she had arrived at court, she had been taken to see the Queen, still confined to her chambers as she had not yet been churched. Mama had presented her brother to her and even let her climb up on the bed with her and kiss him.
"His name is Harry," she explained as Elizabeth reached out to stroke his downy head. "You must promise that you will look after him, my love, when he comes to live with you at Hatfield. He is your little brother, but he will also be the King someday; you must take the best care of him."
So he was coming to live at Hatfield. The people there would no doubt dote upon him just as the courtiers were already doing. Mama and Papa might forget about her entirely! But Elizabeth told herself to stop acting like a baby herself, for if this was what Mama wanted from her, she must agree. There was no one she loved and respected more in the world than her mother. Looking up into her beautiful and expectant face, she nodded and agreed and then kissed her brother. It was a rather wet, messy kiss that left his face scrunched and him mewling.
She had then attended her brother's christening, for which she had gotten a lovely new gown. So far, however, it was the only festivity in which she had been allowed to participate. The jousting was deemed too violent for such a young child; the feasts were begun too late, were too crowded, and sometimes even too "vulgar," they said. Elizabeth had at first been disappointed, since she would have liked to see Papa win the day on the tilting field, but she was told that her father no longer participated in tournaments. He had sat and watched at her mother's side, content, at least, that her uncle George had acted as her champion and won the day.
She was enjoying a true treat now. It was not a masque or feast or tournament, but more precious still to the little girl. Her papa had come to take her with him to the gardens, and had walked patiently with her as they reached them followed at a distance by a couple of guards. Once they had gotten outside, he had scooped her up and had even let her ride on his shoulders for a few minutes.
"I hear they are already teaching you French and Latin," he was saying, reaching up and swinging her down from her perch on his shoulders.
She wrapped one arm around his neck and leaned her head against him.
"Yes, Papa."
"You will have much to teach your brother when he grows up."
That was all anyone had to talk about, even to her. A little baby! But Elizabeth did not mind too much. Her papa was not with her baby brother, but there with her, and besides, little Harry had been sweet enough to win her love already. If Mama and Papa loved him, she must as well. And she had made a promise to Mama besides. "Yes, Papa," she repeated.
He rubbed her back. "That's my girl," he murmured, and she snuggled a bit closer. She coveted her father's affection, for she saw him less-often than she did her mother. He sent her gifts, but it was not the same thing as being hoisted into his arms and treated as though she was the most precious thing in the world to him, more precious than England itself! Perhaps Elizabeth was spoiled, but she was so charming, so beloved, that no one seemed to mind, certainly not Mama and Papa.
While they wandered in the gardens, however, a man Elizabeth had never seen before appeared, looking rather nervous. He bowed low to the King, saying, "Your Majesty," and then glanced at her, and muttered, "My lady Princess," as though he did not want to be heard.
"Well, Your Eminence, what is it?" her father asked. He suddenly sounded rather short.
"I have come from Hunsdon and have delivered your command to the Lady Mary," the stranger said. He had a strange accent, one Elizabeth could not quite place. She brightened when he said the Lady Mary, and if she had not known better, might have interrupted him and asked where she was; where was Hunsdon? Why was she no longer at Hatfield? What had Papa commanded Mary to do? The man did not look particularly happy, however, and she wondered whether Mary was ill.
"She…she has refused to come to court, Your Majesty," he added, "to acknowledge your son Prince Henry, or to sign the Oath."
Elizabeth did not exactly know what the Oath was, but she was dismayed to hear that Mary had refused to come to court, for then she could have seen her again. She did not like the part about Mary refusing to acknowledge her brother, their brother, however. Neither, apparently, did Papa. His grip around Elizabeth's legs had tightened so as to be almost uncomfortable. She squirmed.
When he spoke, she knew Mary had done something dreadfully wrong. "Damn that girl!" he said first. "Goddamn her."
Mary was Papa's daughter as well, and Elizabeth did not want to think that someday she, too, could displease him thus. She hated to think that she could disappoint him so badly, and she would have been tempted to kiss his cheek and tell him she would always be his good girl, or else to hide her face in his doublet…but she was a Princess, and would perhaps someday be a Queen. She could not afford to seem cowardly, even at the tender age of three. She would listen to her father's anger at her sister and learn from it. She would not cower!
"Thank you, Your Eminence. You are dismissed," he said at last. His voice was cool and controlled now, and if anything, it was more unsettling than his exclamation before. The man bowed again and hurried away.
The King and his younger daughter stood and remained silent for several minutes afterwards. He remained stiff and angry, staring at the place where the man who had delivered news of Mary had recently stood. Part of her wanted to inquire about why Mary would not come to court – what the Oath was – why she did not want to acknowledge their baby brother as the Prince of Wales. She did not think Papa would be the right person to ask at that moment, however, and she did not want to make him angrier. She certainly did not want him angry with her.
"Papa," she whispered. He turned his head and Elizabeth put one small hand on his cheek. She tried to think of the proper words, "Papa, je t'aime,"
He actually smiled then, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead, holding her closer. His fingers combed gently through her hair. She knew she had said the right thing, and put her other arm around his neck, hugging him tightly in return.
"My Elizabeth," Henry said softly, and in that moment, he could forget that he had a second, older, far more willful daughter who used to speak pretty French to please him as well.
20 January
Wulfhall, Wiltshire
Jane Seymour was in tears. The news which had come from Whitehall a fortnight ago had been bad enough – the birth of a prince, the King's joy, the Queen's triumph. That had quashed any hope that Jane had had of ever returning to court and the King's affections. She had steeled herself for months for that news, however. The days when she had prepared to become the next Queen of England had long since passed; they felt almost like a dream now. This news, however, was truly awful. It was too awful. Jane could hardly bear it. Even her brother had seemed shaken when he delivered it to them.
"Edward," she stammered, "tell me…tell me it is not true. The King would never…"
A year ago, the King had taken her onto his knee and asked so gallantly if he could kiss her that she had been unable to refuse. He had treated her as a gentleman would. He had been chivalrous and kind. Surely it was not true. They must wonder, John and Edward Seymour, why she was so shaken. After all, she had no more business with the King. But would not any woman who had thought themselves half in love with a man, only to find…
"Come now, Jane," Edward said, sounding both dismissive and impatient, "the King was perfectly willing to rid himself of the Queen when he tired of her."
Did he speak of Katherine or Anne, who was now indisputably the Queen of England? Aside from the news of her safe delivery, they had heard, too, that the public had greeted the news of Prince Henry's birth with great excitement. Anne had never been popular, not even liked, much less loved, amongst them, but Katherine was now dead, and none of them would rather see a woman take the throne than a man.
Besides, it was public knowledge, by now, that the Queen had once stood accused of treason and in fear of her life, but that she had been innocent.
It had been public knowledge that the mother of the already-beloved Princess Elizabeth had nearly been executed because of lies and rumors spread by men who wished to see her dead, and so that the King could marry one of her ladies. Popularity she had never had, but now that she was the mother of not only Elizabeth but also a prince, the people would no doubt come to love her. She was charming and lovely and regal, at least when she was not throwing tantrums, and even Jane knew it.
Yet even his willingness to cast Katherine away, to execute Anne for treason, this was something Jane could not believe he would do – something she did not want to believe. It could not be true.
"But she is his daughter. It does not matter if she calls her a bastard or not, she is his daughter," she protested.
"Janie, shh, it will be alright. She is simply in the Tower. There is no indication that the King will let true harm come to her," John Seymour said softly, going to her and patting her on the back.
She stared at him, her own father, and wondered: was it possible that he would do the same to her, given the opportunity? If he were the King of England and she was the so-called bastard, if she stood up for her rights, would he consider her a traitor? Would he put her in the Tower? Her father was perhaps not the most loving, but he was hardly cruel. He may have encouraged her to seek the King's attention and to encourage his interest and affection, but he was her father nonetheless. He loved her! He loved her enough, at least, to treat her with some dignity.
Edward was less sympathetic, less tolerant of his sister's horror. "Mary has brought this upon her own head. She has defied the King for years, but to deny his son was her fatal mistake. To defy his wishes even after her mother's death – to refuse to sign the Oath…she is a fool, sister. She is a proud fool. You might once have helped her, but now the King wishes to forget us. We are merely reminders that he would once have killed the mother of his son."
Jane feared she would weep openly. His words stung as though he had struck her. The King wished to forget the Seymours. She could do nothing for poor Princess Mary. Edward did not care that she had been taken to the Tower, that she faced possible execution, and he did not care that his sister might once have felt something for the man who had put her there!
"Forget the King, sister. Forget the Lady Mary."
Their eyes met for moment, hers tear-filled, his hard. He stalked past her then, still unsympathetic. His coldness chilled her. He would stand by and see Mary, a girl of royal blood, a girl of nineteen, beheaded for a crime that was no crime at all! Mary had more right to inherit her father's throne than ten of Anne Boleyn's sons!
"Father," she said, knowing her voice trembled, hating it, "I cannot bear it. I must write to the King."
Sir John seized his daughter's shoulders then, painfully hard. She started, and was surprised to see his eyes wide and, if not hard, certainly desperate. "Jane, listen to me. If you write to the King, congratulate him on the birth of his son. Ask him to find you a suitor willing to overlook the past. Wish the Queen well. But whatever you write to the King of, you must not mention the Lady Mary. You cannot, Jane. For your sake. For the sake of your family!"
He gave her a shake, as though to wake her from a daydream. She felt startled that even a man as good and righteous like her father would not stand for a cause that was right. Queen Katherine was dead, and thank goodness, for she surely would not be able to live knowing her only daughter was in the Tower, put there by her father!
Yet at least Katherine would be there to defend Mary. At least the people might rise in anger, in protest.
With the free wine and the extra alms, with the holiday mood in the dead of winter, with their New Year's boy, did they even concern themselves with their poor princess, locked away now, motherless and defenseless?
"Father – "
"Jane, you must not. You must not associate yourself with the Lady Mary. She has lost; she must accept the reality in which we all now live. She must accept Queen Anne and recognize Prince Henry as the rightful heir to the throne. She must, to save her own life, admit that she is a bastard, in the eyes of the King at least, if not in the eyes of God. You are nothing to Mary, nor to the King, anymore. Your brother is right. Forget them."
There was an urgency in his voice that shook her more badly still. She lowered her head. Nothing. She was nothing. She had never been anything, in truth. The King had treated her as though she were one of God's angels for a few months. He had courted her in earnest in those days after the Queen had left court. He had showered her with gifts and praise and sweet words.
But the Queen was still Queen. She had borne the King a son, and it was her opinions and her desires that would no doubt rule the King once more, not Jane's.
Never Jane's.
"Do you understand, Janie?" her father asked, touching her chin. He tilted her head up gently now and gazed down at her until she looked in his eyes.
"Yes, Father," she whispered.
Yes, I will let the King execute his daughter. Yes, I will accept whichever old widower to whom you wish to marry me. Yes, I will someday send my daughters to serve the Princess Elizabeth or whichever princess comes to marry Anne Boleyn's son.
Yes, Father, I understand.
Sir John leaned forward and pecked Jane's forehead. He was smiling, a terse but satisfied smile. "Good. That is settled then. Take heart, Janie. Take heart."
But Jane, the woman who would have been Queen, could find nothing in which to take heart at all.
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