"Poor Katherine Howard. She lies in the cold ground next to me. Poor child. It was not her fault either. But we were like two moths drawn to the flame… and burned." Anne Boleyn, The Tudors, Final Episode

Enjoy!


Chapter 5 : One more chance


As soon as the group had reached the inner courtyard of Greenwich Palace, Anne dismounted her horse and hurried into the building, shielded by several royal guards.

Inside, she was greeted by a seemingly never-ending onslaught of prying courtiers, trying to get through to her and begging for information about the king. She ignored them all.

Walking through the great hall she thought quickly. She searched the room impatiently and was disappointed when she did not spot her brother and father among the crowds. Where were they, now of all times? She needed to talk to them, needed to hear George's soothing voice and find strength in her father's blank, confident eyes. She noticed Richard Rich among the people in the hall and addressed him, waving him near.

"Sir Richard! Have you seen the Earl of Wiltshire? Or Lord Rochford?"

"I'm afraid I have not, your Majesty" he said, an unreadable expression on his face. What was he thinking? And, did he still regard her as an ally and friend, despite his connection to Cromwell? She hoped so. He was a clever and cautious man who had her appreciation.

Seeing her disappointment, he spoke again. "Madam, I am going to find them and tell them of your desire to speak with them. I guess they are busy arranging things for the arrival of the King."

She relaxed visibly at his words. He was right. Of course they were busy preparing everything for Henry's arrival.

"Thank you, Sir Richard." She managed to say. "But excuse me now, I'm on progress. Secretary Cromwell is in attendance, I hope?"

"Of course, my Lady. He is in his offices. Good day to you, Madam. We all pray for the King." He added quietly.

Anne smiled warily and walked in the direction of Cromwell's rooms. Her initial plan of talking to her family first was useless, so she had to face Cromwell herself, without preparation. She would have liked to hear George's advice, he was always so strong, so composed. She silently cursed them both. Where were they, now of all times? Probably dreaming of their future as kind and prince of all England, Ireland and France. What fools.

It was not that she was helpless without them – never. But she was tense. Her fear for Henry's safety and well-being and the pressure of putting everything in order stressed her.

There was no way around the Secretary though. He was too powerful, too omnipresent at court. Too close to the Crown. She had to find him. He must never think she would leave this matter to him and stand idly by as he managed everything.

"Your Majesty" the men bowed to her as she neared Cromwell's chambers. They were gathering like hawks, knowing full well that, in case the king should die, his ambitious secretary would play an important role in the future.

Anne snorted involuntarily. Cromwell. A tremor of rage still ran through her whenever she thought of their quarrel about the dissolution of the monasteries, a highly political matter of great importance. She had had claimed that the money made out of it should be converted to better uses, such as educational programs, instead of being transferred to the king's treasury alone. She had always supported Cromwell's plan of investigating the religious houses, so that laxity and corruption could be revealed and stopped. Yet some monasteries had received good reports from the church comissioners, and she feared that the people of England would not accept the close-down of these houses.

She had the feeling that Cromwell was only interested in the immense proft he could draw from the dissolutions, and that his policies and ideas were slowly pushing the king's own viewpoint into the background.

"I am questioning the policy, Mister Secretary," she had hissed, "because I'm not sure that it is the king's."

"Madam, I - "

She couldn't believe his gall. How dare he question her words?

"You are far too high-handed, Mr. Cromwell!" She shouted, staring at him. She sensed that he was nervous - he knew her power. But he was angry, too, hating to be upbraided by her.

Her lips pursed; she wanted to claw him. She could not stand his vain glory and presumptuous power. Who did he think he was?

"You ought to be careful," she said smoothly, "or I will have you cropped at the neck..."

She saw his mouth twitch and a tiny fame blaze in his eyes. With a violent jerk of her head, she ordered him out, unable to look at him any longer. When she heard the door close behind him, she let out a sharp breath, realizing that she had just antagonized the king's most influential and powerful minister.

She knew she should never have battled with him like that. It would have been wiser to stand by and watch, or at least to address the man calmly, instead of threatening him with the prospect of the axe cutting his head off. But the Reformation of the Church of England and everything that had to do with it was too important to her to hold back and let Cromwell besmirch it. Also, her nerves had played tricks on her. She had been overwrought, disappointed in Henry and everyone around her, horrified at what had become of her and her life. She was not pregnant, her position as Queen of England was in danger, and her husband did not love her anymore. And so, nervous and enraged, she had attacked the Secretary, knowing full well that if he turned against her, she would be in grave danger. He was a powerful enemy, and the king loved him.

But the past was the past and could not be undone, and this was the present.

In less than half an hour, the King would arrive, and he had lost his memory. No one knew whether it would be only temporarily or for a long time, but it did not matter. She, Anne, was now in charge of things and had to make the best of it. She remembered her promise to God.

"I shall abjure conceit, hatred and vengeance…"

It was a nearly impossible task, but she would try. And to approach Cromwell would be her first step.

He was a rational man, and she knew how to deal with people like him. It was far easier than dealing with the likes of Henry, who were overly passionate. She had to be her most confident self: cool, gracious, exposing no weakness.

It was nearly impossible to influence him, but there was always a chance to win him as one's ally. She would not apologize for what she had said the other day – she was the Queen. And she would definitely not back down. But she would have to find a way to win his assistance, if only for the time being. With the King in his predicament, she would need all the help she could get. If by some miracle she would find a way back into Henry's good graces, then, well then she would deal with Cromwell. But now, she needed his support.

"Your Majesty" he welcomed her stiffly as she entered his bureau. She saw the dislike in his eyes, and frowned at it. They had been friends once. Good friends, united in their desire for a reformation, a new beginning. What had happened to them?

"I shall lead a different life…"

She closed her eyes briefly, then faced him. "Mr. Cromwell, the King is on his way, as you well know. Have you seen my father and brother?"

He regarded her calmly, and she stared back. Something changed in the room as they regarded each other. They had much in common. Both shrewd, wilful and intelligent. They knew what they wanted and went after it with determination and powerful ambition. Both ascenders, raised by the love and trust of a King they knew so well. Both in grave danger if Henry's mood should ever turn against them.

Rivals. Fighters. Believers.

"I have." Cromwell replied. "They are now on their way to arrange everything for his Majesty's arrival."

Anne nodded. "I sent for Princess Elizabeth. Have you drafted the necessary letters concerning her future, if, God forbid, ought should happen to the king's highness?" She lowered her voice. To predict the King's death was treason.

"Yes, indeed." He said in an equally calm voice, "if the King should die, Elizabeth would be crowned Queen of England as soon as possible, with your father as Lord Protector and yourself as Queen Dowager." He did not seem to be too pleased with the last bit.

"I see. I pray God it will never come to that. The king… he's out of immediate danger." She remembered something, something very important that Cromwell did not know yet. For a moment she wondered whether or not she should let him in on this delicate piece of information, but she had no choice. She would never be able to keep it from him once he spoke to Henry in person.

She began hesitantly. "Mister Cromwell… I must tell you, in strict confidence, that he … that it is very likely that the King has lost his memory."

There was a silence as Cromwell drew a sharp breath.

"I… what?" he replied, horror-stricken. "Completely?"

Anne shrugged. "We do not know. The doctor could not tell me much about it. We will have to fetch specialists. Anyway, he did not even recognize me, only the Duke of Suffolk." She added sulkily.

"I did not know. God help him" Cromwell said. "Another problem to solve…" he muttered more to himself than to her.

Anne cleared her throat. "It is too be kept secret, do you understand me? We'll have to keep it secret, at all costs. Do you understand? I don't want people to get the impression that their King is restricted in any way, or even unfit to rule."

"It will be kept secret." He said, knowing what her words implied. "Is there anything else you want me to arrange, your Majesty?" His voice was kinder now.

"Yes. I want you to make sure that, later, when the King is in his chambers, no one will be permitted to enter them without my permission. No one, except for my family, the doctors and the Duke of Suffolk. And yourself, of course."

He inclined his head, almost demurely. Maybe he, too, remembered that they had once been allies. Maybe. "Your Majesty."

She stepped forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

"Mr. Cromwell… Thomas. Let me tell you this: for old time's sake, let us forget the disagreements which have occurred between us as of late. For the King. For this realm. I am England's Queen," she said imperiously, "and you are the man the King trusts most in this world in matters of state. Everyone will look to us now. And we must never be subdued."

Clever girl, he thought, looking at her. She knew how to play people. But he also saw the sincerity in her eyes. She was probably right. Everyone would look to them for answers and guidance, all the while hoping they would make a mistake, so that they could be replaced. Well, it mustn't be. He was unwilling to lose his power, and so was she. If he helped her, maybe she would let go of the idea of having him "cropped at the neck", as she had put it. The thought of destroying her had crossed his mind, too, after their quarrel… maybe it was better to side with her, and, thus, they'd both keep their power and position. She would have no need to scheme against him, and he would not try to harm her or her status as Queen in any way. He had loved her once, for the love he knew she bore God and His Gospel.

"No, your Majesty. We will never be subdued. God help the one who should ever try to destroy us."

Anne understood. It was a silent agreement, a small measure of peace.

"Yes. God help those who should try and turn against us. My lord Cromwell" she said, and, after giving him a short nod, left the room.

He looked after her, smiling cynically. No, he wouldn't work against her. For now.


After what seemed like an eternity to Anne, who had just emerged from her chambers where she had quickly freshened up, trumpets sounded outside, signalling the arrival of the king's royal guard before the palace.

Brandon, the doctors, and John Seymour, who had been riding ahead, dismounted from their horses and turned around to oversee Henry's save transportation into the building.

Anne's heart cringed as she saw him, lying motionlessly on a wooden litter, his eyes closed. He was still in his armour, and she longed to free him of that prison. He must be feeling terrible.

She was standing at the entrance to Greenwich's grand foyer, and greeted the three men as they neared her, the guards carrying Henry following closely behind.

"Your Grace", she addressed Brandon formerly, then led the way to the King's chambers. The great hall as well as her and Henry's private chambers had been cleared of almost all people who were normally present there. Anne had demanded absolute privacy for his Majesty, allowing only the most important servants and officials to remain in the rooms.

Her father and brother, to whom she had shortly spoken in her rooms but minutes ago, awaited them in front of the door to the King's bed chamber.

"Your Majesty. Your Grace." The earl greeted his daughter and the duke. They waited until the whole group had entered the room and went inside last, purposefully locking out John Seymour, who remained outside, startled.

"Who does he think he is?" George muttered. "Just because his bloody bitch of a daughter has caught the King's eye he shouldn't be acting as if he were Moses himself. Oh, pardon me, perhaps I should say St. Michael. Isn't that one of the fellows those damned catholics believe in?" He smiled mockingly. "Well, Sir John, we certainly don't need you here."

Thomas Boleyn gave him an icy stare. "Stop talking nonsense. We have more important things to think about!"


The next hours passed quickly. Anne watched anxiously as the group of court physicians examined Henry again and again, analysing his wounds and the effects.

All the while, the King never opened his eyes. He was asleep, and Anne was glad, for the accident and the commotion must have exhausted him.

His left leg had been injured when he had fallen into the banister on the tiltyard and the horse on top of him, and now a serious and deep wound blemished the smooth skin of his thigh. The spot where the lance hit his skull did not bleed anymore, but a large bump was clearly visible. Luckily though, he did not have any broken limbs or other bad injuries, only a few minor bruises.

"Your Majesty", Doctor Linacre, the most renowned of the physicians, addressed the Queen when they had finished their examinations.

"The King has a severe leg wound, some bruises and scratches and probably an extreme headache. It is a miracle the thrust of the lance against his skull did not smash his brain, but it seems as if the contact did not harm him. When he's awake, I will examine him once more and try to find out more about his pains."

"What about his … his memory?" Anne whispered. Linacre was the only one they had informed about Henry's probable loss of remembrance. He was the only one of the doctors who could be trusted.

"Madame, I am no specialist in the field of occurrences such as the loss of memory. But I may find someone who has a better knowledge of the subject. For now, we must wait until his Majesty wakes up, so that we can see what he remembers and what not."

Anne nodded, then ordered the physicians out of the room. They were received by Cromwell who demanded a complete report of the examination, so that a medical record could be written down.

Thomas and George Boleyn retreated to the privy chamber, where upset courtiers were trying to break into the king's private rooms, so desperate were they for information.

Hence, Anne was left in the room with only her sleeping husband and Charles Brandon. She watched the duke quietly, unsure how to act around him, and not knowing how he would behave in her presence.

He seemed to be on his guard, too, eyeing her curiously with a look of absolute suspicion. It drove her crazy, but she kept her cool. She pondered with the idea of ordering him out, but maybe it was the wrong thing to do.

"Please, be seated." She said instead, pointing at a nearby chair. He obeyed.

She tried to initiate a conversation, but nothing suitable came to mind, and so she merely smiled a little and went over to Henry's giant four-poster bed. Gingerly, she took a seat on the mattress and reached out to touch his face.

Her heart constricted as she felt the heat radiating from his skin. How she loved him. If only he awake from his slumber so she could talk to him, soothe him. She would shoulder all his burdens now, be there for him. He was her all.

She felt Brandon's eyes boring into her back, but she did not care. She took Henry's left hand and kissed it tenderly. "My love," she whispered, "come back to me."

She got up to kiss his brow, still holding his hand. Suddenly, it was to her as if her squeezed it and she heard him murmur.

"Anne" she heard him say, clearly now.

She sank down next to him, relieved. "Yes, my love. I'm here. I'm with you." She replied, a bright smile on her face.

Brandon appeared next to them, smiling down at Henry.

"Charles" Henry said, visibly delighted. "You're here, too."

"Yes, I am, your Ma – Henry." He corrected himself, partly because Anne gave him a dark look and a voice inside him told him not to frighten his friend. After all, Henry hardly remembered being the King. King of England and France. Oh God.

"Where am I?" Henry asked, struggling to sit up. He moaned out loud as a sharp pain surged through his leg. "God, what is that?" He stared at the wound, then remembered the accident. That explained the excruciating headache, too.

"Oh God" he muttered, running a hand over the bandaged wound and then through his head.

"It's alright" he heard a soft voice. "Everything is going to be alright." He looked into those sparkling eyes, finding comfort in their blue depths.

She was here. The beauty. Anne Boleyn.

"Anne" he said again, as if in trance. "Where am I? What is this all about? All I know is…all I remember is the accident and then waking up in the pavilion. God, I…"

"Shh", she interrupted him, as if he were a child. He was not himself. He needed all the comfort he could get. "You are in your chambers at Greenwich palace."

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. Something was very familiar about it, but he could not say without a doubt that he remembered this room. He was lying in a giant bed, supporting by fine pillows and covered by expensive blankets. The room was endowed with tasteful mahogany furniture and other beautiful items, grand mirrors, carpets and arrases, gigantic candle holders and several sitting accommodations. Long velvet curtains had been drawn before the windows, blocking most of the sunlight. All in all, it was an impressive room, well-provided with everything, furnished with only the best things available. A room fit for a monarch, he thought. And this was his room?

He noticed the pitiful look in Anne and Charles' eyes, and suddenly he remembered something. Something special.

"You are Henry VIII, son of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, by the Grace of God, king of England and France, Defender of the Faith, supreme head of the Church of England…."

Charles had told him so, in the pavilion. Charles, yes. He did not know why, but he knew Charles, he knew he was the Duke of Suffolk, and old and trusted friend.

But this… this was too much to be borne. He looked around again, not knowing if he should cry or laugh. He was a King? King of England? It was a thought no one who just had such an accident would be able to fathom. It was a monstrous thought.

A king. A lord among men. A monarch of royal blood. Henry VIII. A king who had no remembrance of his own life. Who did not know who he was.

"My God," he whispered more to himself than to the others,"king of England and France."

He buried his hands in his face, a gesture so unusual for the Henry they knew that Anne and Charles shared a worried look. Then, thinking that maybe actions would speak more clearly than words, Anne got up and curtsied. Brandon, seeing what she was up to, bowed low.

"Long live your Majesty" Charles intoned.

Henry looked at them, totally startled. This was a bad, bad dream. A nightmare. Surely he would wake up any minute and find out it was all just a dream.

He looked so pitiful, so unlike himself that Anne sat down next to him again and took his hand, kissing it. "It's alright. We will help you. The Duke of Suffolk and I." Her voice was calm. She had to be strong now. For him.

She watched him as he adjusted to this knew knowledge, the knowledge that he was a king. She pitied him. He had lost his memory, all those precious memories of past triumphs, defeats, losses, achievements.

She rose to get him something to drink from the nightstand.

"Don't leave me" she heard him say.

"I'm not leaving…" She said, gently. She got the drink and gave it to him, watching as he drank. When she took it from him, he leaned back, grimacing slightly as a wave of pain rushed through his leg and head.

After a few minutes of silence, Anne decided that perhaps it would be better if someone informed Cromwell and her family that the King was awake.

She turned to Brandon. "Your Grace. My lord Secretary Cromwell, my father and my brother must be informed. The King is awake and must be examined by the doctors once more. And do inquire after the specialists, I pray you."

There was a calm authority in her voice, but no malice, and for once in his life he easily complied with her request. She was queenly indeed, he realized.

He bowed and walked out.

"But let only the doctors come inside!" she called after him. "The King needs rest."

"Yes, your Majesty."

When Charles had left and Anne sat down on a nearby chair, Henry contemplated the events of the day. He still could not think clearly, but now, in the quiet of this room, he was able to comprehend at least a small amount of the things happening to him.

He was the King of England, to begin with. Thinking about it, he found that it did not sound unfamiliar, either. It was as if, in another life, he had been addressed like this a thousand times. But his brain found no collection to his old life, there was nothing to hold on to. There was only this room and this horrible confusion and total irony of the situation.

The only real thing right now was her. He watched her intently as she sat there, so elegant in her dark dress. She was not wearing a veil anymore, but the tiara still sparkled on her dark head. Her jewels glistened in the faint sunlight that made it into the room through a slit between the curtains. She was so very beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of her.

And then it hit him. Since his awakening in this chamber, he had been too confused and then too shocked to think of who she was, but now he did. Who was she? Anne Boleyn. The name was sensuous and elegant and struck a chord of familiarity, as so many things he was confronted with, but no matter how much he tried, he did not remember her.

But he had dreamed of her and recognized her immediately when he woke up in the pavilion earlier this day, so surely she played an important role in his life.

Maybe she was his sister. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes. But no, that was not possible. She had called him her "love". His mistress, maybe? She had introduced herself to him with her maiden name, so surely she was not married. Yes, maybe she was his mistress. But why would Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, bow to a mere mistress, and why did she order him as if she were a monarch herself? It was confusing.

All he knew was that she was enchanting.

She noticed his penetrating gaze now, saw the questions in his eyes, and frowned.

"Anne - " Henry started, but was interrupted by Doctor Linnegar who entered the room with another man by his side. Anne quickly went over to them.

Henry noticed that they bowed to her and said her name, but it was not possible to understand everything. Then, Anne retreated to the other end of the room, next to the stove, where she stood still. The doctors went over to Henry.

"Your Majesty", the doctor began, taking a bow. "I am Doctor Linacre, one of your court physicians. And this" he glanced at the man beside him, "is Doctor Bowles, a specialist in the field of the loss of memory. Do we have your permission to examine you?"

"You have my permission" Henry stated with a nod, and Anne smiled at his imperious reply. He certainly had not lost his regal charisma.

Dr. Linacre looked carefully at Henry's wounds and asked where the pain was the most dreadful, before recommending some concoctions that might help.

Then, it was Doctor Bowles' turn.

"Your Majesty, what is the last thing you remember from before the accident?"

"Nothing … there's nothing. Only riding across the tilt yard and then falling off of the horse."

Bowles frowned slightly. "I see. So you have no recollection whatsoever of the life you led before the accident?"

"None." He stated flatly. What good was this questioning for?

He answered all the questions that followed, his impatience growing. No, he did not remember his reign as King of England, no he did not remember anyone except Charles…

"Not even Queen Anne?" Bowles asked.

Henry's head shot up. He met Anne's eyes over the doctor's head. They shared a long, curious look, watching each another carefully.

Henry swallowed. So this was it.

Queen Anne.

He stared at her, transfixed. This beauty, this living rapture was his wife? Why had she not told him?

"Henry… Henry… my love."

Everything was clear now. He understood. That's why she was in this room with him, the closest to a king anyone could get. That's why Brandon did what she asked of him.

The doctor kept asking things, and he answered automatically, without listening.

He was shocked, but then, looking at Anne's beautiful face, Henry smiled. A surge of happiness momentarily overwhelmed him. He was married. It must be a happy marriage for she had called him "love" and he had seen her in his dreams as his lover. All of sudden, at the sight of her, the prospect of living without a memory did not seem altogether bleak any longer.

Seeing his smile, she smiled back. Finally, Bowles bowed to the King.

"Your Majesty, you have indeed lost your memory."

"Oh really" Henry murmured, unnerved. He wanted to be alone with Anne.

Anne laughed.

"Yes," the doctor rallied on, "but I'm afraid I cannot say whether it will be only temporary or not. We will see. I pray God for your Majesty's swift convalescence… in every aspect." Henry thanked him and waved him out.

When the door fell shut, Anne approached the bed. "So now you know" she said calmly, a little unsure of herself. What was he thinking?

He smiled that crooked smile of his that used to make her heart beat faster in their early years. And indeed, her heart sped up a little at the sight of it.

"Yes, now I know. Now I know I'm married to England's greatest beauty."

She bathed in the flattery, like one thirsting. Sitting down next to him, she took his hand without hesitation and kissed it.

"I'm sorry for not telling you. But I wanted to – "

"I understand." He interrupted her. "And I'm sorry. Sorry for having that stupid accident."

Anne leaned closer. "I was so worried, so afraid. So worried you might… you might die."

On impulse, he kissed her hand, revelling in the softness of her skin. "I'm a fool, I guess. Whose lance sent me off the horse's back, anyway?"

He felt her squirm, as if the question made her uncomfortable. "Sir Henry Norris. He is one of your courtiers. But let us not talk of Norris now."

He nodded, eager to make her feel at ease. He did not know why, but for some reason he wanted to befriend her by all means possible. It felt good to be with her, to have her near. It was like coming home. And he could not be alone now. There were too many questions.

"Have we been married long?"

"Oh, no. Three years. But our courtship began a long, long time ago." She said, a far-away smile on her lips. Nostalgia overwhelmed her. If only Henry knew what they had been through.

She had no desire to tell him the whole story now, though. It was too painful. Indeed, she had no desire to speak of any private things now, things that cut too deep. She had to drag him away from this topic.

"There will be a lot of commotion in the following days. I'll explain everything to you at a later date. I promise. I know this is difficult but you are the King of England. A very beloved King. Everyone is worried about you."

"I'm beloved of the people?" he asked.

"You are indeed. The most cherished King there ever was. And that's why it is so important that you recover soon. As long as you remain in your chambers to rest, Secretary Cromwell and I will take care of everything. That is, if you please, your Majesty." She finished, remembering who he was, no matter the state he was in.

"Of course. You are my wife, aren't you? I leave it all to your care. But I don't remember Secretary Cromwell."

Anne smiled. "He is your most faithful servant. You'll get to know him soon. And my father, the Earl of Wiltshire, and my brother George, Lord Rochford. Ah, and another special guest, who will arrive soon" she said with a wink.

"A special guest? Who is that? Tell me" he said, leaning forward, wondering who that person might be.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll see." The thought of Elizabeth warmed her. Hopefully Henry would accept her, but she did not really worry about that. Theirs was such a sweet and clever child, he would love her for sure.

"Rest now, I beg you" she continued. "I will send your servants in. I must arrange for some things."

"Where are you going? " he asked.

"Only to my rooms. And, please, just pretend that you remember your servants. They need not know that you've lost your memory. Not now. You see? I talked to Cromwell about it, and he agreed with me that it would be better to keep it secret as long as possible. We'll just pretend."

"I see. I'll be the best actor you've ever seen." He said with a smile. Then, on impulse, he added: "Would you send Secretary Cromwell in?" He wanted to talk to that man. He had to make some things clear.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I am. And, Anne?" he said when she already turned around to leave the room. "Come back soon."

She smiled. "I will."

"Open the curtains" Henry told one of the servants that had been sent in. He was surprised how easy the command came to his lips t, almost naturally. As if commanding was part of his very being.

The servant obeyed, and Henry enjoyed the faint sunlight streaming in through the large windows. He stretched, then quickly straightened himself as one of servants announced: "Your Majesty, Secretary Cromwell is here to see you."

Henry nodded.

The man who entered the room was rather tall, dark-haired and had a very serious expression on his face. He bowed elegantly and took a seat next to the bed when the King motioned him to do so.

"Your Majesty" Cromwell said in his deep, melodious voice. "You sent for me."

"Secretary Cromwell" Henry replied. "I did indeed. This is a peculiar situation, but, as King of England, I must take action, no matter how difficult it may be. My… Queen Anne told me of your loyalty to me and of your knowledge and ability in matters of state. I trust you will help me. Not only in regaining my memory, but also in ruling this country, since I do not remember much of my past life."

Cromwell inclined his head. "Your Majesty, you can rely on me in every possible way. I will do my best to assist you and rest assured that I am ever comfortable to your will and pleasure."

Henry watched him keenly. There was something mysterious about this man, something dark and sinister. He was obviously intelligent, chose his words carefully and spoke with accuracy. But all in all, he was somewhat inscrutable. But Henry was not appalled or disappointed in any way – he was eager to find out who this fellow really was. It remained to be seen.

"As my Secretary, I suppose you are well-informed about everything that happens not only in England, but also in my private life."

"Indeed, your Majesty, I dare say that I am."

"So, tell me then – who is King Henry? What is he like? The Queen told me I was beloved of my people..." It was awkward to inquire after oneself like that, but what could a man do?

Cromwell smiled. "You are. Ever since you came to the throne in 1509, the people of England have loved you and served you whole-heartedly. Surely, there has never been am English king of greater renown…"

The next hour went by swiftly as Cromwell unfolded the story of Henry's realm up until this day, from his ascension to his marriage with Anne Boleyn. He weighed his words carefully, and hid from the King the most important details: his break with Rome, the marriage with Katherine of Aragon and its end, the existence of Mary and Elizabeth Tudor, the non-existence of a male heir. Before he went to the King, he had talked to Anne again, and they both agreed it would be wiser not to mention these things to Henry now.

And so, he told the story of a famous, beloved King, never mentioning the fact that Henry was also known for executing men such as the Duke of Buckingham, whose guilt had never been established. That he was known for discarding his first wife and his true-born daughter. That he was a man who had many faces.

He knew that sooner or later, Henry would either remember these things or be informed of them, but now was not the time to open old wounds. He had to think of his own position, too. For his and Anne's interests, it was better to keep certain things hidden.

He mentioned Wolsey and his fall from grace, leaving out dirty details that were of no meaning now. He talked over England's situation in the past and present and was surprised when Henry remembered most of these things, things that had to do with the realm.

"King Francis…" he said. "I remember him. I wrestled with him – and I lost."

They talked about the development of England in the past years, about the King's many palaces and the court in general. And again, Henry remembered many names and events that were in no way connected to his own private life.

Things of general interest.

"Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace…. yes. I see all these things before my eyes. I know I've been there before…"

Cromwell silently thanked God that Henry never asked about any children he might have or former wives or any of these things. Maybe he assumed that he and Anne were happily married and that they did not have children because their marriage was still rather young.

Somehow, the conversation returned to private topics, and Thomas noticed that the King showed a great interest in anything having to do with Anne Boleyn.

"Yes", Cromwell replied to one of his question, "Queen Anne is the daughter of Thomas Boleyn, whom you made Earl of Wiltshire in 1529, and Elizabeth Howard. She has two siblings, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, and Mary Boleyn."

"I suppose the Earl and the Viscount are important figures at my court?" Henry asked, curious to learn everything there was to know about his wife's family.

"Yes. They are well-known by all as intelligent and clever courtiers. But, I dare say, so is Queen Anne."

The King's eyes lit up. "I thought as much. She is most impressive. Most beautiful."

Thomas gasped inwardly. So already now he's falling for her again?

"Indeed", he answered evasively, "Queen Anne excels them all in many ways."

Henry smiled – and decided that he liked this man.

He bade goodbye to Cromwell half an hour later, and was then greeted by Anne, her father and brother, and the Duke of Suffolk. Anne introduced her relatives, who bowed elegantly.

"My lords" Henry greeted them, noticing how refined and noble they looked.

George Boleyn offered his services and spoke of his loyalty. The Earl kissed the King's hand.

Finally, Charles talked to him in his calm voice, telling him that every subject in London was praying for the King, and that the people at court and in all of England were glad to learn that their ruler was alive.

"Thank you, your Grace" Henry said, and for a moment he seemed to be the old Henry, generous and jovial in his best moments.

"Also", Charles continued, "there will be masses held in every chapel in England, to thank God for your salvation."

"I'm glad. And trust me, tomorrow, after a good night's rest, I will present myself to the people at court, even if only for a minute."

When the men were gone and he was alone with Anne, he looked up at her.

"Will you help me tomorrow, my Lady?"

He did not know why, but he felt that he needed her. The thought of facing the next weeks without her somehow seemed unbearable to him.

She smiled that coquette smile that attracted him so much. "Of course I will, your Majesty. Not only tomorrow. Always."

They looked at each other, he with unhidden curiosity and many, many questions in the back of his mind. He needed to get to know her, find out who she really was. She was so beautiful, so fascinating. There was so much he did not understand, so much he wanted to learn about her, about them.

"Thank you" he whispered, and Anne felt as if she had travelled in time. This was a Henry of times gone by. A kind, tender man. All she had ever wanted.

She approached him and leaned down, somehow eager to kiss his lips, but she did not. It was too early. Too early to say where they stood. And so, she merely stroked his cheek once, gently.

"Sleep now" she cooed, "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, and Anne, fearing she might lose her senses, curtsied and hurried out of the room.

In the dimly lit corridor that led away from the King's chambers and to her own, she walked as if in trance, thinking of what had just transpired.

God… how he affected her. How one kiss from that lips drove her mad.

She was so lost in thought she did not notice the dark figure approaching her. She shrieked a little when she bumped into him, but was relieved to see it was only her father.

"The King is going to sleep?" he asked her.

"Yes. I bade him goodnight a few minutes ago."

"Very well. God, what a day!" He shook his head. "Can you believe it? And on top of it all, the memory issue. You realize what this means, don't you? Anne?"

She was not listening to him.

"Anne – do you hear me? "Wake up. This is a god-given opportunity, a divine intervention. He has lost his memory. He does not remember your estrangement, he does not even know who you really are. But he will fall for you again. I could see it in his eyes. And why would he not? You seduced him once, you held his heart in your hands… remember? Your loving servant … " he murmured, recalling in his mind all the letters Henry had written to Anne, letters of love and devotion.

He took her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"Sweetheart. You can do it again. Win his love once more, and the past will be forgotten. Don't falter now. This is your chance to win back his heart. Put yourself in his way, woe him with your charms, never leave him alone. Ensnare him. Seduce him. Do you understand me?"

He looked around with his sparkling blue eyes, and the old glimmer of ambition was back in their depths. It was almost too good to be true. The Boleyns would rise again, and this time, nothing would stop them.

Not the Seymours, not the Church, not anyone.

For if Anne managed to regain Henry's love, no one would dare question her status and the rank of her family ever again. And then, she would give the king a son… a son to be the living image of his father, and a living testament of the victory of the Boleyns.

He smiled inwardly, satisfied with himself.

But as his eyes returned to his daughter, his smiled faded. She was not listening. There was a faraway expression on her face, as if her mind was wandering. "Anne! Do you hear me? This is your chance. You mustn't spoil it."

Piercing her with his eyes, urging her on with his impetuous voice, Thomas tried to shake her out of her seeming reverie, but she was obviously too deep in thought. Staring into space, she paid no attention to any of his movements.

He had seen her like this before. Many times during all these years of struggle for the crown and the King's favour, she would close herself up in her own little world, thinking silently with an absent-minded countenance. Often, she had come out of such musings strengthened, jovial, reborn. Then she would smile and reassure them all of her well-being, and in the evening, she would dance and enjoy herself with more passion and spirit than ever. She would be so bright and happy it was almost frightening.

But there had been other times, too. After her miscarriage, Boleyn had watched his daughter spend her days torturing herself with her old fear of downfall and disgrace. Hours and hours she would spend on her own, speculating on the most obscure consequences of her failure, ever pondering the same dubious questions.

What will I do? What will Henry do? Don't you know the prophecy… 'A Queen of England will be burnt'?

Yes, many times her thinking had caused her nothing but misery, and he sincerely hoped it was not the case now. He looked at her with calm serenity, something rarely seen in his usually blank face, and felt something akin to understanding.

It had never been easy for her – all these years of fighting and manipulating. She had brought them so far with her strength and courage, and he noticed once more that she, in a way, was much like him. From him she had inherited a sharp wit, a great passion for life, and above all, an undying ambition.

He was not an angel, to be sure, but even in his cold heart there still was some human emotion. He was not as heartless and cruel as every one presumed – for he certainly felt for Anne, and she had always been his favourite.

For sure, she was a ball in his game, an actress in the play the Boleyns were performing at court every godforsaken day - and yet there was more. He could not identify his feelings for her as pure, fatherly love, for he had never felt such a thing in all his life, but deep inside he cared for her and desired for her only the best of lives, the greatest of futures. Yes indeed – he had always wanted her to be healthy, fortunate, content: the most happy.

Even now, in this hour, he felt compassion for her, but this was no time to muse. It was time for her to spread her wings and fly back into the arms of a most beloved king, and thusly, become once more the most powerful woman ever to have been queen consort of England. It was Anne's time to shine, and, as God was his witness, he would see to it that she used this opportunity. She owed it to him, to her brother, to her family. They had paved her way to the throne. Now, for the love she bore them all, she had to act immediately, and with powerful determination. This divine chance must not be lost, and he prayed God for His mercy and guidance.

He put all his trust in his own abilities and Anne's charms, and he silently swore that from now on, until his dying day, the Boleyns would never fall from grace.

Never… as long as life endures.

The thought of victory engulfed him, and he momentarily forgot whatever tender feelings he had for Anne. He was impatient, eager to push her back into the King's open arms. They had to act, now.

He grabbed her slender shoulders and shook her forcefully. "Anne! Are you not listening? For heaven's sake, don't be a fool. Destiny grants you one more chance."

He looked down into her pale face and saw there no recognition. And he could not, for Anne's soul was in turmoil.

"One more chance… one more chance", she whispered absently, more to herself than to her father.

Yes, indeed. This was her chance. A unique opportunity to rise again like a phoenix from the ashes, like a soul from the dead. A moment of destiny and fortune.

Years ago, she had taken a court and a king's love by storm, and she could do it again. Was she not known throughout the country as the great seductress, the passion of the King, the Boleyn whore? The greatest prince of Christendom had fallen for her and sworn to her his love and devotion, and she would make him do it again.

In her sharp mind, a plan was beginning to take shape, and she thought quickly. There was no man on earth who could stop her if she really set her mind upon this mission, if she planned it carefully and arranged everything with the intelligence and female instinct that represented her, as did the raven hair and the notorious gusto for French fashion.

Within a month or two, Henry would fall to his feet, begging her to return his affection. A rush of self-confidence came over her, a natural pride in her qualities she had almost forgotten over these last few months of strain and anxiety.

She was no little English rose with milky skin and a devout smile, no sweet naïve blonde, yielding to a man's every command – oh, never that! She was sensuous and exotic, fiery and passionate, different from all others. She could make him feel things no one else could make him feel.

Thinking about herself and Henry's lost love for her, she was reminded of something he had once written to her in a letter in the beginning of their acquaintance.

"Perhaps you don't understand… but I can't sleep. I can't breathe for thinking of you. Your image is before my eyes every waking second…"

Yes, it was possible. He would fall for her again, but she must not make mistakes. Not this time. She would have to play this game of love and seduction with accuracy and speed. All those years ago she had caught his eye in a masquerade, and it had not left her for a decade. She had managed to attract his attention within minutes, so why should she not be able to charm him now, and catch him like a spider catches a fly? If she acted with conviction and cleverness, he would be drawn to her like a moth to a flame…

But still, a nagging voice inside her head questioned, was there truly a chance? To turn the tides?

Henry was as unpredictable as a violent storm, never to be underestimated, not even when he was as vulnerable as he was now.

Suddenly her father cleared his throat and reminded her of his presence. She looked up and noticed the familiar look of pride and ambition in his eyes, those orbs she had so often searched in vain for true warmth and gentle kindness, the sort of pure love other fathers had for their daughters.

She knew him well, and although she had caught only half of his ramblings, she knew what he expected of her. With ease she managed to bestow on him her most charming smile, her eyes glimmering with a mirth she did not feel.

"Of course, Papa. I understand. I understand completely."

His face brightened a little and he nodded, letting her go. "Good. Remember…"

Her eyes narrowed and she spoke with finality. "I know. I'll find a way. But excuse me now, Father. I'm tired. And I need to think – alone." She raised her head proudly, daring him to defy her.

But, to her surprise, he merely took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "As you wish." He patted her cheek awkwardly, as if she were still his small daughter of five years, and not the queen of England. "I'll see you later."

And with this, he bowed low and made way for her. "Your Majesty."

Anne inclined her head stiffly and left him alone in the cold of the corridor.


In her rooms, she took a seat by the fireplace, a glass of wine in her hand. Behind her, Nan and Madge were busy preparing everything for the night, eyeing their Mistress curiously, but Anne did not notice. Enjoying the taste of the fine liquid running down her throat, she lost herself in her thoughts.

She remembered the long years of courtship, the way Henry had lusted after her. Their relationship had always been passionate, daring and controversial. She missed those days when they had been on good terms. She had been happy then, in the first two years of their marriage, grateful and delighted to be the wife of such a glorious man, a man who was her perfect match and partner in so many ways. They had spent so many cheerful moments in good company, lavishing each other with gifts and turning a blind eye to the disapproving glances of all the world.

Ah, those pleasant days when she was truly content, sure of Henry's unconditional love, save in his heart. Then, he loved none but her.

She knew with certainty that she had been the only one for him – but during their courtship she had also gotten to know the different layers of his character and his somewhat twisted logic. Henry was capable of love, indeed. When he loved, he loved with an all-consuming devotion, a true and heartfelt affection. He had a genuine interest in other people's minds and opinions, and his generosity was boundless. He could be a loving friend, a great romantic and tender lover.

But he was also a king, and a selfish one. A price was attached to his love, and it was never easy to be his companion, for he demanded ultimate loyalty and submission to his will. What he wanted he would get, this way or the other. And those who defied him played a dangerous game.

It was true, for many years he had succumbed to her will, respected her above all others and cared for her opinions and views of the world. He had given her everything and sacrificed even more. He put her on a pedestal and saw in her the embodiment of female perfection.

But, later, following her coronation, this ultimate love had changed. He had been reminded of her promise to give him a son, of everything he had sacrificed in order to make her his wife and queen. He had still felt deeply for her, but not with the same recklessness as before. And then, when she had failed to give him an heir and the passion between them cooled, he started to tire of her and her bossy ways, her stuck-up attitude, which he had tolerated before because he had been so caught in her web and regarded her as the future mother of his prince, the most splendid queen England had ever known.

In these past months, his demeanour towards her had changed even more. He had turned his back on her and yearned for another woman, the accursed Jane Seymour, and the carefree days were gone.

Anne had known this, seeing the dangerous position she had manoeuvred herself into – the extravagant wife who had failed to produce a son and was losing the favour of her husband. And while she had struggled to behave herself and pretend to be the dignified queen she knew Henry wanted her to be, the loss of his affection and the threat of Jane Seymour's omnipresence had strained her to no end.

But now – now she was back at the beginning.

It was an intriguing challenge, and not an easy one. For Henry was dangerous. He was powerful and headstrong, she was sure that was something unchangeable about him, no matter the accident. He might have forgotten details, but somehow, she found herself unable to belief that a loss of memory would change the very core of his being.

Never predictable, he could be as warm as the sun one moment, glowing and majestic, full of mercy and grace, and, in an instant, turn into a man as cold, brutal and ruthless that it could frighten even the bravest of courtiers. It was part of his character, this sudden change of emotion and attitude, these violent outbursts of rage following moments of goodwill and serenity; it was part of his lure.

She knew him and the struggle attached to loving him, the fear and the pressure, and yet, she could not let go. There was something thrilling about him, something sensual in those startlingly blue eyes of his that she had never seen before in any other man, something wild and unbridled that drew her in. He was passionate and shrewd, bold and vivacious, like herself.

The thought of him brought a rush of longing and love, as it always did. She saw clearly before her eyes, his slender body, the slightly tanned complexion, the dark hair, the fine clothing. She recalled the way he walked, confidently, head held high, his gaze complimenting her beauty as he strode towards her. She recalled, also, the tenderness and loyalty he was capable of, the gentle love he had bestowed on her that always made her forget his dark side lurking just beneath the surface.

Had there ever been another man of his kind? A man who could stir in a woman a wide range of emotions from the most tender love to the most jarring anger, from fierce loyalty to cold and bitter jealousy. He was magnificent... tender, jovial, kind - and yet so complex, so terribly dangerous. Surely, the most dangerous lover of all time.

The prospect of seducing this man once more, under these lucky circumstances, enchanted her.

One more chance.

She smiled almost eagerly, the corners of her mouth turning but slightly upwards.

As she sat there gazing at the dying embers of the fire, she whispered into the dimly lit room: "And so it begins."