Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, your input means a lot. I'd like to clarify that I own none of the characters, the TV show, or the history. Thanks again, and please read and review.


Chapter Nine: First Impressions.

December brought with it the wind blown snow storms that laid the land to waste from the towns and the cities, to the villages and hamlets. The fishermen left their boats in port, and the farmers retreated into the sanctuary of their homes, to seek what respite they could from the bitterness of the season. When the sun eventually rose, it shed little light from behind it's shroud of iron grey clouds, even less warmth, and set again within hours. The days were now at their shortest, and their bleakest.

To survive the month, the people had to live on the provisions stored since summer. Dried salted fish, pickled fruits, and whatever vegetables had survived the blights that tore through the harvests. The poorest city folk, and the landless countrymen did not even have this. They were forced to beg for alms at the doors of the wealthy or from beyond the city gates. The end of the year took the old and the weak with it, the young and the strong would be diminished by hunger and desperation.

But although the world seemed plunged into an eternal night, it was then that the celebrations began. The people, no matter how harsh the season seemed, knew that spring was around the corner, and soon nature would exert herself once more, and they would all be there to welcome her when she did. With the birth of Christ, life begins anew for all of them.

Queen Anne had decided to remain at the Palace of Westminster to preside over the Christmas and New Year festivities. The nobility were beginning to arrive barely a week into December, coming earlier than usual before the visiting foreign dignitaries could snap up all the best lodgings. Every day, Anne swept through the Palace with her army of Ladies in tow. She would point to various places, stating where she would like wreaths of holly and ivy to be strewn. New royal standards, Hapsburg as well as Tudor, were now hung from the rafters of the Great Hall. The colours of Luxembourg and Bohemia had been strewn from every beam to make their visitors feel at home, but welcome in England, at the same time.

Finally, in the second week of December, the day had come for a delegation to set off for the small town of Rochford, in Essex. It was here that Louis of Bohemia was due to dock, and Anne wanted the highest ranking Ladies and Gentlemen of the realm there to greet him. Protocol and propriety dictated that Mary could not go, so she remained in the Queen's chambers, beside herself with worry, nerves and elation.

Prince Arthur had appeared earlier that day, dressed in his finest ermine riding cloak and with a small gold coronet on his head. He'd swept a low bow to his sister. "Do not worry, Lady Mary," he'd said to her, watching as she paced and bit her nails. "I shall bring him safely home to you, and protect him as though he were of my own kin. As I would you."

Prince Arthur was barely ten years old, and Mary had laughed good naturedly. "Then I know all shall be well, Your Grace," she replied as she stooped to kiss his cheek.

Arthur was Henry in miniature, in looks and chivalry. He'd bowed low once again, before leaving the Privy Chamber with his tutors, governess and servants in tow, ready to join the delegation that would ride out to Rochford. Anne and Mary followed at a close distance to wave the delegation off.

"Not long now, Mary," Anne said as the delegation meandered it's way beyond the Palace gates.

The breath hitched in Mary's throat, and she changed the subject. "I shall send alms to the paupers at the gates," she stated. And then, she thought to herself, I shall spend the next few days deciding what to do with my hair.


France in December. The rain was a little warmer than it was in England, this far south. But that didn't make much difference. King Henry had withdrawn into the pavilion to rest his leg, the old ulcer suppurating thick yellow fluids once more. Not three months before he'd left England, the physicians had removed an old shard of wood that been found embedded in his thigh from his last jousting accident, and he dared to hope that that had been the end of it. But now it was back, and as painful as ever.

His temper was at a constant simmering point, and liable to boil over at the slightest provocation. Charles Brandon had been on the receiving end, and even some soldiers who'd cried off sick with the bloody flux. At times of lucidity he knew he was out of line, but when the pain nagged constantly, it was as though the wound were controlling him. He could feel the poison running from the sore, infecting every part of him, before eventually becoming him.

"Your Grace," the Duke of Northumberland bowed low to the King as he entered the tent. "I have a suggestion to remedy your pains."

Henry peered through the fog of his failing eye sight at the Duke who now towered over him, poultice in hand. "You can't do any worse than these butchers and charlatans of mine," he meant it as a joke, but the pain he suffered gave his tone an aggressive edge. He sounded like he wanted their heads on a platter. "What is it made of, any way?" He nodded to the poultice.

Emboldened by the fact that Henry had not yet ripped his spine out, John Dudley stepped a little closer and held out the poultice. Herbs infused with ointments, wrapped in fine muslin. "It is made from marjoram, and a paste of crushed pearl, lead, and and mixed with a little salted vinegar. It draws out the toxins, and kills the infection."

"Have you tried it yourself?"

"Not personally, but it is something my wife swears by," Dudley insisted and held the poultice out a little further so it was within Henry's grasp.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Henry took it, and felt it ooze within it's bindings. Vinegar was always the best for removing infection, but there was something else in there, if the smell of it was anything to go by. "Pull that screen over, will you? I want to try this now, and I need you to stay and talk to me."

Dudley did as he was bid. The screen would give the King some privacy while he applied the poultice to his leg. Nevertheless, Dudley gestured to a young groom to come and help him. Henry, meanwhile, struggled to get his breeches down, even with assistance. As soon as he pressed the poultice to the open wound, the vinegar did it's work. A searing pain tore through the flesh. He gave a sharp gasp, and his eyes swam with tears. Poultices had never been as sharp as this before.

"That's … That's very efficacious, Your Grace," Henry said as he winced through the sting.

The Groom held a towel beneath the wound to catch the fluids that now spilled down the King's thigh. Soon, the pain gave way to a soothing cool sensation that he had not had from any other poultice.

"Now bind the leg tightly," Dudley instructed the Groom from the opposite side of the screen. "But before you do that make sure that the poultice is spread evenly."

Once the job was done, Henry could feel the pain drain from his thigh. It was still tender, and the skin still flushed a livid, blotchy, red. But the pain was ebbing away nicely, making him feel like he was floating on air. A bright smile of pure relief filled the old King's face, and finally the two could get down to the business of discussing the war with the French.

The Emperor had finally sent some back up troops, and work had begun on a tunnel that would lead them straight to the walls of the city. Then, they would plant barrels of saltpetre directly under the city walls themselves, and the French wouldn't have a hope of surviving. The Duke explained it all carefully and clearly, but in all of his years of campaigning, Henry had never heard of such a thing. In his younger days, it was all longbow men and the rules of chivalry. Nevertheless, he yearned for home, and for victory, so chivalry could go to the devil in hell.

By the end of the short briefing, Henry, although exhausted and washed out, was feeling on top of the world again. The pain was gone completely, and now only a faint irritation remained. The Duke's poultice had worked miracles.

"Tell me, Your Grace, how can I ever repay you for what you have done?"

Dudley stopped for a moment, and looked at the King directly before protesting that he needed no reward. As he fully expected, Henry flapped a dismissive hand at his protests. "I insist!" Henry mock-chided as he dealt a playful thump to the Duke's upper arm.

Dudley pretended to think for a moment, before saying: "Actually, I had been speaking with Lady Frances Brandon and her husband the Marquis of Dorset. We were thinking of a marriage between Lady Jane Grey and my youngest son, Guildford Dudley."

"My little niece Jane?" Henry asked.

"That is so, Your Majesty. Would I have Your Majesty's permission? She is of your blood, so if you say no-"

"Why ever would I say no?" Henry cut across the Duke. "Like I said, anything. Go ahead and have the pre-contract drawn up, if that is what the Marquis wills." Henry didn't see the harm. Jane was never likely to inherit anything beyond her father's estates, and was therefore a safe distance from the crown. He saw no harm in it, just as he saw no glitter of triumph in the Duke's eye.


Stephen Gardiner's hands trembled violently as he held the bottle of malmsey over the pewter goblet. He sent the wine spilling over it's sides, and pooling messily at its base. He cursed heavily, then crossed himself with his free hand before slamming the bottle back down on the window ledge behind his seat.

Over the last few days, since he'd met with Frances Brandon, and Lady Mary had pulled out of his plots, he had been reduced to a nervous wreck. Every time he ventured beyond the doors of his offices, he mentally prepared himself for the sight of the arresting office come to take him away. He tried to imagine their halberds glittering dangerously as they barred his path. It was the waiting that was reducing him to a wretched nervous wreck.

To keep the Queen's temper sweet, he had done as she asked. A delegation of Scots were on their way down to London, and would be arriving in time for the New Year's celebrations. They would gather around the table to talk peace and trade, rather than shout about pillage and plunder. If he could successfully pull off marriage negotiations between the infant Queen Mary and Prince Arthur, perhaps he could even salvage something of his reputation, should the truth come out.

It was around noon when the knock came upon his door. It startled him, making the colour flush his face as he dropped the goblet of wine. For a moment, he stood and looked at the door, willing the callers to give up and go away. But after just a few moments, the angry, muffled, voice of Frances Brandon could be heard calling out to him.

"I know you're in there Winchester."

He didn't know what was worse. The halberd bearing yeomen of the guard, or that woman traipsing across his threshold as though she owned the place and everything in it, including him. Reluctantly, he answered the door and to his dismay, the Marquess was not alone. Henry Grey slouched nonchalantly against the wall behind Frances.

"There you are," she said as she pushed past him and into his office. "It's time we all had a little tête-à-tête is it not?"

Henry Grey followed his wife inside and they both settled themselves in two high backed chairs before his desk. Frances' eyes roved over the cluttered desk, and came to rest on the spilled wine.

"Tut tut, Winchester," she reproved mockingly. "Hitting the bottle this early in the day. Mary really has got to you, hasn't she?"

Gardiner watched them helplessly as they made themselves at home. Just a few short weeks ago both of them had been on his heretic hit-list. Now, they had him dancing on a string.

"How may I be of assistance, my lady?" he asked, pointedly refusing to answer any queries about his drinking habits.

Frances' gaze snapped away from the wine, and met Gardiner's as he resumed his seat behind the desk. She gazed at him searchingly for several long seconds, her mind clearly whirling.

"Whatever could you possibly do for us, Gardiner?" she finally asked, an infuriating half-smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "No. This is about what we're going to do for you."

Burn her? He wanted to strangle her. But given his tenuous position he merely choked on his ire, and tried to look politely interested. "And what, pray tell, is that you are going to do for me?"

"Well, you have a problem, don't you?" Frances asked. The question was a rhetorical one.

"A problem?" Henry suddenly guffawed at her side. "Poor old Winchester's got problems, all right. Several of them. Isn't that right, Stephen."

Gardiner exercised all of his powers of restraint, and kept his gaze firmly on the rather less infuriating face of Frances Brandon. "Do continue, Madam."

"So, you thought that my cousin Lady Mary would be a push over," Frances said. "You thought that you could blackmail and coerce her into being your good Catholic puppet Queen, at the cost of her own family. Turns out you were wrong. Mary is no fool, and she is stronger than she lets on. You underestimated her, Gardiner. Now she could go running to the Queen and tell all at any moment. And when she does..."

Frances let the sentence trail off, but Henry finished it for her.

"You will be feeding the carrion crows on Tower Hill faster than you can say a Pater Noster."

"So what we are willing to do for you," Frances resumed. "We will be willing to remove that problem for you. Permanently."

Gardiner looked dumbstruck. As though they had suddenly started speaking in an alien language. But the meaning soon started to filter through, and he could sense the colour draining from his face. "You will be disembowelled for it!"

"Who will sentence us, Gardiner?" Frances asked, sounding mildly amused. "Trust us, Henry and I have grand plans for the future, and we need certain obstacles to be cleared out of the way as much as you do."

"And in return for your obstacle clearing services?"

"I need you to marry my daughter Jane and the Duke of Northumberland's son," Henry stated. "Then, we will be needing a new Archbishop of Canterbury. Then there will be a Coronation, which we fully expect you to perform."

Gardiner's eyes flickered from one face to the other, and back again. He waited for the punchline, for this was surely a joke. But neither Frances nor Henry were smiling now. Not even that infuriating smirk. He bent down to retrieve his fallen goblet, and poured himself another glass of wine. He had a feeling he would be needing it.


Lady Mary looked out of her chamber windows, and over the gardens. A thick layer of dazzling snow coated the grass, and capped the hedgerows. Even the rocky walls had been given a soft, undulating, dream scape quality by the softening snowfall. For the first time she realised just how beautiful it all looked. A brand new day. A day that would end with her being formally presented to the first of her two suitors.

"Your Grace," Susan Clarencieux spoke gently as she edged around the door of the chamber.

Mary, startled out of her daydreams, jumped back from the window. "Susan," she said. "I am ready to be dressed now."

"Of course, Your Grace," Susan answered. "But, I should tell you, your new Lady in Waiting has arrived. Lady Mary Lascelles. She was a ward of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk."

"I shall swear her in later," Mary replied as she prepared to face the agonising decision over which gown to wear when she met Louis. She looked over one of her recent favourites. A crushed velvet red skirts, with black over panel. The sleeves gathered at the elbow, so they flared at the wrists, reaching almost her ankles. "This one," she stated firmly with a smile.

Once she was laced into the gown, she picked large ruby necklace, and a diamond brooch to pin to her front. She fitted her own earrings of black opal, before the ensemble was finished off with a French hood lined with seed pearls. Mary studied herself in the mirror, and gave an impatient sigh.

"It will for now," she said, shaking her head sadly.

"You look beautiful Lady Mary," Susan said, trying to reassure her. She could tell, however, that Mary was far from content. Her face fell, and tears welled in her eyes. "What is it?" she gasped, and took Mary gently by the shoulders, ready to dab away any stray tears that fell.

"I can't do this," Mary choked trying to keep her emotions in check. "They will both find me old, and ugly, and shrivelled up like an old spinster. Just look at this gown. It's wearing me, not the other way round!"

Susan looked her up and down. "Nonsense, Your Grace," she said after a few moments of inspection.

"But everything rides on these meetings," Mary pointed out helplessly. "My future happiness. Everything I have ever wanted."

"You're thinking too much," Susan said as she embraced her mistress. "Just be yourself, and they will soon see past all these surface details, and these baubles. It is you who is to be married, not your gown."

"But if I don't make a good impression, than I shall not be marrying at all!"

At that moment, a girl cleared her throat from the doorway. Mary and Susan spun around to find a small, dark haired lady peering shyly into the chamber. She blanched in fear as she noticed them looking at her. She gulped a few times before finally remembering protocol by dipping into a low curtsey, and finding her tongue to explain her intrusion.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," she said. "But, I could not help but over hear-"

"Have you been eavesdropping, Mistress Lascelles?" Susan angrily demanded, but Mary sushed her.

"It's all right, Lady Lascelles. What can we help you for?"

"Well, it's just a girl I know has just been sworn into Queen Anne's household, and I think she might be able to help you. In fact, I know that she can help you. She knows all about hair and fashion, and all the latest styles."

Mary listened with growing interest. "Who is she?"

"She is Lady Katherine Howard, the niece of the Duke of Norfolk."

Mary and Susan conferred among themselves for a minute, but evidently agreed to see the new girl. "Go to the Queen, and ask her to send Lady Howard over as soon as she can be spared."

With that, Mistress Lascelles, looking highly relieved, vanished back into the outer gallery. Lady Mary could hear her footsteps receding off into the distance. But finally, she could feel some renewed hope. Normally, she was perfectly capable of selecting her own gowns, her own jewels, and making herself perfectly presentable. But it was as though her whole future now hung in the balance, and one hair out of place could cost her everything. She turned her gaze back out of the window, out at all the snow that smothered the gardens and hedges. She wanted this day to be over as soon as possible.


Night was once again closing in around the walls of Windsor Castle when the household began to assemble at the front of the ancient fortress. The beacons along the road had been lit, and sand laid down to help ease the way for the many horses that were expected to be making their way inside soon. Every single member of staff, from the lowliest of the kitchen boys, to the immaculate Grooms, had been given clean livery to wear when they received the first of the foreign guests. The ranks filed out all along the front walls. Up to one thousand people in all were employed by the Palace.

Once the staff were out, then came the nobility. The squires, knights, barons, earls, marquises, and Dukes; in that order from the lower orders to the higher. The Bishops were represented by Gardiner, and the Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer. They led the way for the Queen and her full retinue to take up their place of prominence among the vast crowds that now assembled in rank and file.

Queen Anne stood, resplendent in satin and damask, coronet placed firmly on her head, and jewels sparkling from her throat. Her ladies brushed down her gown where she stood, holding herself with poise, like a statue while the women did their work to her. As they moved away, however, she caught Lady Rochford by the elbow.

"Where is Lady Mary?" she asked in a low voice. "I have not seen her since this morning."

"No idea. Should we be worried?" Jane relied as she glanced back into the Palace for a sign of Mary.

"Jesú, I think I can hear them!"

"I'm freezing!" William spoke up as he tugged the flared sleeves of his mother's gown.

"William, shush!" Elizabeth snapped at her youngest brother who shivered to her left.

"Children!" Anne scolded them both. "Please, Lady Jane and I are trying to talk."

"Katherine Howard is here," Jane nodded to the newest of Anne's ladies who was now lined up just behind her. "Maybe we should ask her? She was helping to prepare Mary for the meeting."

"Oh heavens!" Anne cried. "It's too late. They're coming. Quickly, Jane, run over and send Lady Katherine out to look for her."

With that, Jane disappeared into the crowd to send Katherine on her mission. Anne, meanwhile, kept watching as the vast retinue of Louis of Bohemia came ambling into view. Her heart beat raced, and she kept glancing over her shoulder, and sending up silent prayers that Mary would show up to be formally presented to her suitor. The last thing she wanted was for the Bohemian delegation to take it as a snub. But as she peered into the distance, she thought she saw the shimmering of something silvery white bursting on to the road that led to the Palace. Caught between the advancing procession, and the Palace. "Oh good God, who is that?" she whispered to no one in particular. If it was some imposter, she would have them clapped in irons later.


"Quickly, this way!" Susan's voice called out as she and Mary went skidding down the gallery towards the Great Hall.

Mary stopped for a moment to catch her breath and clutch at the stitch in her side. "I can't," she panted. "Must … breathe …"

Katherine Howard had been as good as her recommendation. Mary was a vision in silver- white and cream damask, satins and silks. She even had silk stockings, and silk slippers of silver grey. Her hair had been brushed to a glossy perfection. But the last minute delays had cost her precious time, and now she was running late. Poor Mistress Lascelles had gotten lost in the race to the Great Hall, and was probably now roaming the galleries desperately looking for the way out.

Once she had stopped panting, Mary clamped one hand over the silver, jewelled diadem that the Queen had loaned to her, and used her free hand to hitch up her voluminous skirts. With one bracing intake of breath, she took off again at full pelt towards the short cut she had remembered.

"Susan!" She called out to her Lady. "Down here, it's shorter!"

Mary hurtled herself at a door, and burst into the open with Susan hot on her heels. She came to a jolting halt as she looked all around her. Darkness was falling. Her gown shimmered in the light of the rising moon, an effect she loved. But, her heart beat raced as she realised that they had emerged at the wrong side of the Palace. Susan's gaze darted all over the place, but she soon took the initiative.

"Cut across the lawns, and we'll be there in no time!"

They took off again. The snow was soaking into Mary's gown, her silk slippers soaked through and freezing her feet until they were numb. It felt as though she had run miles by the time they had raced around the back of the Palace to the front road way. She almost collapsed with relief when she saw the beacons shining on the drive way.

"We've made it!" she gasped as she picked up her pace in one final surge of energy.

Mary could see the whole of the Palace congregated in waiting for the arrival of the visitors. They would all see her running up the driveway, but she was beyond caring because she now chronically late. Queen Anne would be going spare waiting for her, after all her planning.

"I need to stop," Mary gasped again as she came to a rest at the road side. She turned to her right where the whole household seemed to looking in her direction. "God's death, I hope they cannot see me!"

"It's not them you need to worry about," Susan whispered in an undertone. "It's them," she nodded to the left, towards the Palace gates.

Mary turned to look. The sand on the road had disguised the sound of the horses hooves, and her mind had been in such a whirl that she missed the enormous procession snaking it's way through the gates. A grand carriage was at the front, the flag of Bohemia proudly flying from the front.

"Don't let him see me like this!" Mary squealed as she tried to get out of the path of the carriage. "I cannot have him see me like this!"

Just then, another voice bellowed from the distance. "Lady Mary! Lady Mary! The Queen is worried!" Mary, startled out of her wits, lurched forwards and tripped over the hems of her skirts, straight into the path of Louis of Bohemia's carriage. The horses reared up on their hind legs in fright, making an almighty racket as they did so. Mary sprawled into the sand, ruining her gown and knocking the diadem clean off her head. Susan reached down and dragged her out of the way as the carriage crashed to a halt.

Mary was mortified as she collapsed into Susan's arms. Her legs gave way, and she slipped back to the ground, sitting in the deep snow that was all the deeper here because it had been ploughed to clear the drive way. Tears stung her eyes.

"My life is over," she sobbed.

Susan sat with Mary still in her arms, but was looking at the carriage, over Mary's head. She tried to give Mary a shake, to bring her to her senses because a man had appeared from within.

"He will think me the biggest fool in England!" Mary wailed.

The man stooped to pick the fallen diadem off the floor, and wiped the sand on his velvet jacket.

"Madam," he said. His voice was pure European silk as he paused before the crumpled form of Lady Mary. "This is yours, yes?"

Mary had her face buried in Susan's chest. She froze at the sound of his voice. So much so that Susan suspected her heart had packed in and she'd expired from shame, shock, and grief. But slowly, Mary raised her face once more, and turned to look up at Louis of Bohemia as he stood over her, holding her diadem. He extended one hand, and pulled her slowly to her feet as though she were as light as an autumn leaf.

She stood there silently, her gown skewiff and soaked, her hair a mess, and just looked into his eyes. He smiled. She noticed that he had full lips that she yearned to kiss. He placed the diadem back on her head.

"There," he said. "Now you are perfect again."