1 November 1526
"I shall not go to war," Henry moped. "I have begged neutrality in the matter. All because the thought of war distressed my wife so much that she nearly miscarried my child."
"Perhaps you can go after the birth of the prince," Charles suggested. Mary scoffed.
"I'm rather glad you're not going," she sighed. "War is dangerous, we know that. I'd rather not lose anyone when the conflict will likely be resolved without us."
"We can only hope," Katherine agreed. "England does not need to go to war right now. We are a happy country with no direct threats at the moment; and we have a prince on the way. For the time being we will simply resolve minor conflicts with alliances."
"Let us talk no longer of war," Henry grumbled. "If I cannot fight in it, I do not want to hear of it."
25 December 1526
Compared to the last Christmas, this one was quiet and hopeful. Last Christmas, there was a new princess in the cradle. This year, a prince was in the Queen's stomach and everyone was internally praying for his safe delivery.
There were children running around, but there was something solemn in the atmosphere. Mary Carey nee Boleyn, Baroness Hunsdon, cradled her newborn son Henry Carey in her arms. When the children left after the New Year celebrations and the birth of the prince, Lord Henry Carey would be joining them.
Catherine Harding sat with her betrothed, a friendly knight of good status and connections but whom she found ceaselessly dull. He was an intelligent man but not very crafty or ambitious, and despite his warm heart he was shy, and had never had much success with women.
The absence of Queen Eleanor was a ring of hope for the courtiers. Every ear was open for the screams of a woman in labor, and every person kept a close eye on the King.
King Henry himself was jubilantly happy. He could not contain his joy and was laughing at the slightest of jokes. He paid no particular attention to any lady, the thought of the son that would soon enter the cradle too overwhelming for him to think of anything else.
"If it were me, I would enjoy the absence of my wife," George Boleyn muttered to Sir Francis Weston, a friend of the Boleyn families. "In fact, that is exactly what I am doing. It is a pity my father does not do the same."
Sir Francis laughed, well aware that the public opinion of the Duchess of Wiltshire was that she was naïve and child-like in a way that most children were not. He knew George had an even lower opinion of her than anyone else.
"You are not thrilled, then, with the impending prospect of fatherhood?"
"I will not treat my children as political tools, as my father has done," George vowed. "I will have one in May, be it a girl or a boy, and I will adore it. Perhaps it would be better if it were a girl."
"You are a strange man to think so," Sir Francis remarked.
"How could I not? It would infuriate my father; you must know that I love to infuriate him. He has decided that my son's name will be Thomas. I have no choice in that matter. But if it is a girl than I can decide on my own what to call her."
"And what will you call her?"
"Not Anne, if that is what you're asking," George had to laugh. "It would be amusing to watch the court in fifteen years, when she arrives and they announce 'Lady Anne Boleyn.' But I should like something more neutral."
"Will you name her Jane then, for her mother?"
"No!" George look horrified at the thought. "If another Anne Boleyn would be bad, another Jane Boleyn would be worse. I'll use something that is not in my family tree – Alice, perhaps, for my mother-in-law; or else something completely out of the blue. Anne would have liked for me to name my daughter Renee."
"I'm sure she would," Francis laughed, and was about to add something more when everything was interrupted.
Suddenly, there was a heart-wrenching scream.
Later
"My son, born on Christmas Day," King Henry announced proudly. "The Christmas Prince! All of Europe shall know of him as England's Christmas Baby."
"The date is fortunate indeed," Katherine admitted to her brother-in-law. "The Prince of Wales will share his date of birth with the Christ Child."
There were cheers that were calmed only by the arrival of Juana, Eleanor's favorite companion. All attention was turned toward the Spanish lady.
"Well?" the King demanded, "How is the prince?"
"The Prince is well, Sire," she smiled, bursting with laughter, "And so is the Princess."
Cheers rang out at the news before anyone could even comprehend what was said. "Princess?"
"Indeed, Majesty," Juana curtsied, delight coloring her features. "Her Majesty the Queen has given birth to twins, a prince and a princess."
"Well," Henry paused, before bursting into laughter. "This is good news indeed! Ring the bells! What name has the Queen given our children?"
"None, Sire," Juana admitted.
"Arthur and Katherine, then," he declared, "Arthur, Prince of Wales, and Princess Katherine."
More cheers followed the declaration and Dowager Queen Katherine blushed at the compliment. The cheers multiplied when the babies were brought to their father, and the other children were brought to meet the newest members of the nursery.
1 January 1527
Queen Eleanor's return to court was a triumph. People welcomed her and smiled at her, and she found herself even more popular than before. Nothing could wipe the smile off of her face.
Henry was more doting and attentive than ever; on New Year's Day he held a joust in her honor, during which he made a show of asking her for her favor. She gave it to him delightedly, internally hoping that this happiness would not be ruined by some other whore who would soon give him another son.
The children cheered on their father enthusiastically. Princess Elizabeth delightedly gave her favor to her uncle, the Earl of Ormond, who fought fiercely with it. He was only just defeated by Charles Brandon, who was then defeated by King Henry. Never before had the English court been a livelier place.
"You would think it was a different place," Queen Eleanor remarked to her aunt, Queen Katherine.
"You would," she agreed. "I haven't seen the courtiers this happy since Margaret Beaufort died."
Eleanor smiled; she'd heard horror stories about the formidable Lady Margaret Beaufort; to her, she was the example of what a Queen should not be.
"Catherine Harding is gone for good, then?" Eleanor whispered and Katherine nodded.
"She's still at court, but I doubt that she'll ever be the King's mistress again," the Dowager smiled, "she's married now. But don't get too comfortable with having him all to yourself. He's not the faithful sort."
"I've gotten the first mistress out of the way," Eleanor sighed and held her head up high. "I've heard that the first is always the worst, and now I've got my son. I know that I'm safe."
"You've always been safe," Katherine argued. "You're his wife and Queen, and no one can argue that point. And just look at him – joy over this son just might make him fall in love with you."
"I can only hope," Eleanor sighed.
14 January 1527
"Oh, God!" cried Queen Eleanor upon receiving the message. Her baby, her Prince Arthur, was ill.
"Is Arthur the only one ill?" King Henry snapped, unable to believe that of all the children, only the Prince of Wales had gotten sick.
"They are all somewhat ill," the messenger reported, "and Lady Bryan believes it is some mild form of the plague. But the Prince is worse than the rest."
"But he is not yet a month old!" cried the Queen. "How could he have gotten sick?"
"Exposure, Madam," the messenger explained. "The companions and attendants of the Prince likely had cases so mild they did not even know they were ill. They passed the illness to the Prince without realizing it, and for such a small child, only a few days old, such a thing in any form could be dangerous."
"Is the Princess Katherine not ill?" Henry demanded. "She is as young as her brother."
"It seems whoever passed the illness to the Princess had a far milder case than whoever passed the illness to the Prince," the messenger inferred, "for while she is ill it is not as severely. Forgive me for bearing bad news, Your Majesties."
"For Heaven's sake, send them doctors," cried the Queen. "Every doctor in England, for all I care, but save my son!"
15 January 1527
There had been nothing anyone could do.
Of all the children to die, it had to be Arthur, her Christmas Prince. It had to be the child who made her feel secure in her position as Queen of England. It had to be her son.
She was glad, thankful that Mary and Katherine and the others had all lived; but it was not the same. Elizabeth was once again heir to the throne; Eleanor was once again a mother with no son.
She knelt at the altar for hours at a time; no one but Queen Katherine had the patience to spend those long hours with her, for she refused to do anything but pray for the soul of her dead child. Henry was finding his own ways to mope, likely with some whore or a good round of hunting. But he was no longer her loyal the loving husband, thankful for a Prince from her.
She could only hope that there would be more children, more sons. She was fertile; there was no reason why she should not have a son. But then she thought of Queen Katherine and King Arthur – was it the Tudors who had trouble bearing sons?
But no – if it was either her fault or Henry's fault that they were sonless, it would be on her that the blame would fall. Henry had four children now, and one of them was a healthy son, even if he was a bastard. But she had three children – one Infanta Maria in Portugal, for her Portuguese son had died; and then Mary and Katherine in England. She had only daughters, but he had a son.
She could only hope that another Prince would make its way into her cradle before long – only a son would be able to spare her this agony.
So she would pray – all day, and all night, she would pray.
A/N: Sorry that this was so short! But a lot happened, and the next chapter will be a considerable time jump. Thanks for reading, please review!