A/N: This chapter, which I started just before Christmas (if you can't tell) more or less wrote itself. I had a vague idea of where it was going to go, and then…well, it didn't. It went here instead. I hope everyone is satisfied and that your appetite is slated for a while, anyway, because I have no idea what I'm going to do for the next chapter. It may be a time jump of a few months or a few years, depending on where it decides it wants to take me. If you have any particularly compelling ideas, let me know in a review or private message! As always, thanks for sticking with me in this, guys. :)
Another quick note: some inspiration for this chapter comes from the brilliant ReganX.
20 December
"Mama, you tell the best stories. Will you tell me the story of the Nativity?"
Princess Mary tilted her face up. It was pale and thinner than it had once been. The shadows beneath her big blue eyes were darker. Yet though Anne could feel her bones a little more sharply when she held the girl close, she was simply glad to be able to hold her at all. Her illness, which had come upon her so suddenly, had not been fatal as Henry had feared it would be, but nor had she recovered as quickly as Anne had hoped. There was a fighter inside the little girl, though, and a fortnight after the good Mistress Seymour had discovered her lying in bed in a cold sweat, Mary had been strong enough to walk about with Lady Salisbury. Now it was Christmastide, and it seemed to everyone, including Dr. Linacre, that she had made a full and remarkable recovery.
Anne smiled fondly at her stepdaughter. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. Dear little Mary-she did not want to hear of fairies or magical creatures, but rather of the birth of the Christ child. It was unsurprising, however; Katherine had reportedly been wholly devoted to God. Anne herself was pious, though she would hardly call herself a good Catholic woman, and she could appreciate Mary's interest.
"Very well," she agreed. "A very long time ago, in a land called Nazareth, there lived a beautiful young woman named Mary. She was kind and obedient and loved her family very much, but she loved God best of all. Mary was in love with a man called Joseph, who was a carpenter—"
"Was he handsome, Mama?" Mary asked earnestly, and Anne laughed softly. It seemed that this was enough like a fairy story for her to want to know such details.
"I suppose he must have been. Well, Mary intended to marry Joseph the carpenter when one day an angel appeared to her. God, the angel said, had chosen Mary for a very special duty; she had been chosen because she was such a loving, pure girl. This task was truly a singular blessing: God wanted her to bear His son. And though Mary was confused and even frightened, she agreed to do whatever God asked of her. She was still afraid of what would happen when her family discovered her secret, but God strengthened her and gave her courage. When she went to tell Joseph that she was going to have a child, at first he was angry and did not believe her story. He no longer wanted to marry her, because he thought she was untrue. But that night Joseph had a dream. He dreamed of an angel, one who told him that he should take Mary's word as the word of God, and that the child she bore was to be called Jesus…"
Her stepdaughter's head turned. Anne paused in her story and raised her head. Henry stood there in the doorway. He had a small, contented smile on his face and she suspected he had been there for several minutes now. She smiled back at him, and released Mary, who bounded over to him with open arms.
"Papa!" she cried, giggling as he scooped her up. "Will Harry be here soon, Papa? Will he be done with lessons and enjoy Christmastide with us?"
Henry frowned solemnly at her. "You must be patient, my girl. Harry is busy learning how to be a wise King someday," he said, and yet both he and Mary struggled to keep straight faces
It warmed Anne's heart to see them together. Henry may not have shown his love to Mary for the first five years of her life, but his love for her ran deep. Anne knew just how deep. She did not want to think about what might have happened if Dr. Linacre and Lady Salisbury's diligence, nor to remember the pitiful creature her husband had been during those two weeks: by turns distraught, angry or cold. She had done all she could to distract him or at lease soothe his fears. It earned her no gratitude. In fact, he had turned on her a fair few times until Anne simply stopped bothering. Had she indeed died, Anne shuddered to think what kind of a person he would have become.
Though she looked disappointed for a moment, Mary forged ahead. "Mama was just telling me about the Nativity and baby Jesus…Mama's sister just had a baby!" She craned her neck to look at her stepmother, seeking confirmation that her words were true.
Anne got to her feet. She smoothed the skirt of her day dress, conscious as always that she did not look much like a Queen. Though there were a fair few people at Court who were not as fond of her as Henry might have liked, people who tried to make her acutely aware of the relatively unimportant background from which she came, most people were respectful and made her somewhat more confident that someday she would not feel so out of place as Henry's consort.
"She did indeed, but her baby was a girl and not a boy," Anne said. "Mary knew from the beginning that the child she carried was a boy, the son of God."
This talk saddened her a little. While she hardly envied the mother of God, whose circumstance had been quite different than her own and with whom it would be sinful to compare herself, she did envy her sister. Mary had not yet resumed her duties in Anne's household. In fact, she was no longer at Court at all, but in the country. Anne half-wished to be in her place. Sir William was thrilled with his lovely little daughter and so was Mary. They may not have been in love, nor were they particularly wealthy though Anne's own good fortune had of course benefited her brother and sister, yet she believed they were truly happy. And Christ's mother had been quite poor herself, as had her husband, yet on the occasion or two that Anne had imagined the Lord's childhood, she fancied them as happy as well.
She, however, was the Queen of England. Her husband adored her, yet he was constantly busy. They lived predominately apart and saw each other only when time permitted them to. There would never be a quaint country home or a two-room house filled with children, where they would have to hold each other close to keep warm. Anne had no wish for poverty—only for happiness.
"What about you, Mama?" Mary demanded, breaking Anne's reverie.
Henry looked strangely uncomfortable. He set Mary on her feet before she could finish her question and put a hand on the top of her head. She pouted and looked up at her parents, at once disappointed and confused. "Mistress Saville, will you see that the Princess Mary arrives safely back in her apartments?" Henry called.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Nan murmured, rising from her place by the hearth.
"But Papa—"
"Henry, it is Christmastide—"
"Lady Salisbury must have you looking as beautiful as possible for dinner," Henry cut across both his wife and daughter. He stepped back, allowing Nan Saville to curtsy and simultaneously take Mary's little hand. The child cast an appealing look at her stepmother, but Anne could only smile. She would finish the tale another time, when Henry would be unlikely to come interrupt them. Neither of them resented his presence, but he was, of course, the center of attention whenever he was in a room: it was only natural. He was the King, after all.
When Mary was gone, he stepped forward to take her in his arms; she accepted the embrace, leaning against his strong body, her cheek against his shoulder. "She is entirely too curious for her own good," he muttered darkly, stroking Anne's loose hair with one hand.
"She is a child. All children dream of the future, Henry. She knows that someday she will be a wife, a mother…"
She felt his muscles stiffen slightly and she bit her lip. It was true that someday Mary would be someone's wife, and as such she would be expected to bear him children. That was the way of things, especially for royal girls. He could not deny her that and make her a spinster, an old maid. His father had already done that to the Princess Margaret, ad from what Anne could tell, her sister-in-law was a bitter and lonely woman. Mary would not necessarily fall prey to the same fate that took the life of her mother. It was only natural that he should fear for her health so soon after she had recovered from an alarming illness, but to worry about the day when she would bear children…
That was a very long way off, however. Anne was in truth more concerned about her own, more immediate future. It was her duty, too, to provide Henry with children. While it was unlikely anything would happen to Harry before he could take his father's throne, and as unwilling as she was to provide "competition" to her young stepson, the fact remained that things happened that were indeed beyond their control. Henry could use a second heir. It was expected of her.
"My love…you will not be cross with me, will you, if I desire to give you one of your Christmas gifts earlier than expected?" Anne whispered, her lips nearly against Henry's ear.
The movement made him shudder slightly. He tightened his grip. "Of course not."
She shifted slightly in his arms, closing one of her hands over his. He tried to lace their fingers together, but Anne resolutely moved their joined hands until she could place Henry's palm against the bodice of her gown. She pressed it there, lifting her eyes to meet this, which were blank and unreadable. It made her nervous, but she was determined to say this. She had been meaning to for nearly a week, yet between the arrival of her stepdaughter, the feasts and the informal gift-giving, she had not had the opportunity. The words had simply floated inside her mind, waiting for the chance to be voiced. She did not know why she was so nervous—she simply was.
"I…I am with child, Henry. I am going to have a baby," she told him, staring hopefully into his face. It was a frozen mask. That frightened her. She had seen how precious Henry's children were to him and she knew how much he loved her. Surely he would love a child created between them.
Childbirth was dangerous, yes, of course…but Anne desperately hoped that Henry's grief over Katherine's death, which had almost consumed him when they learned of Mary's illness, would not turn into paranoia for her own sake. Her desire to be a mother had never been as strong as it was now; learning, almost a week before, that she was indeed pregnant had been a relief. It had reprieved her from her feelings of emptiness and loneliness. Now, even when she could not see her husband, she carried their child within her, and though it would be months before she felt it quicken, its mere presence comforted her. No matter how much agony she would suffer bringing it into the world, she knew the effort would be worth it. Like her sister, she would have an infant to cradle in her arms, and whether she produced a Duke of York or a beautiful little Princess did not make a difference in the joy she felt thinking that she would truly be someone's mama.
He remained silent and still, and Anne's stomach suddenly soured. Even if he was angry or frightened, it would be better than this. She resisted the urge to twist out of his grasp, saying instead, "I missed my courses again this month, and we called for Dr. Linacre days ago…I am sorry that I did not tell you earlier, but we have all been so busy…"
"No…no, I am happy for you. For us," Henry said slowly. His voice had a strange far-away quality, and his expression was still unreadable. Anne had the distinct feeling that he was looking through her rather than at her, but she preferred even these distant words to the stony silence of before. He leaned down and kissed her very briefly, a kiss she accepted with a tiny, disbelieving smile. He did not sound particularly happy…but she would give him the benefit of the doubt and choose to believe that his sorrow over Katherine's death was again overwhelming him. He was not afraid—he was simply sad.
Henry let go of her quite suddenly. "We will not make an official announcement until the child has quickened, of course," he said, not quite meeting her gaze.
"Of course not," Anne agreed softly.
Everyone knew that not all children were carried to term, though Dr. Linacre had cheerfully assured her that she was quite healthy and would likely have a fairly uncomplicated pregnancy. She had been ill in the mornings, and often still was, but that was the only true "complication" which she had faced so far, despite being barely two months along. There was still a chance, however, that something would go wrong before—or even after—the child quickened.
"But what about the children? May we tell them?" she asked as he turned to go.
Even Anne's ladies were watching anxiously now. They had rejoiced with their mistress when she had learned of her condition and all of them had giggled with each other and predicted that the King would be thrilled to hear the news. Clearly they had overestimated his enthusiasm, and now many of them looked fretful. The King was not thrilled. He almost seemed confused, as though there were several emotions raging within him and he could not decide which he ought to display.
Henry had stopped halfway to the door. He did not turn back to look at Anne again. "Tell the children whenever you like. I am sure Mary will want to know." And then he was gone, practically storming out as though he could not bear another moment in her presence.
Tears welled up unbidden in Anne's eyes. She blinked furiously. That had gone horribly wrong; Henry had been supposed to laugh and greet the news joyously, but instead he had been cold and had shown more apprehension than excitement. It was not only disappointing, but humiliating. Simply because he already had two children, or had lost Katherine to childbed fever, did not mean he should greet the news of his new wife's pregnancy so emotionlessly. This was a child they had created from love; so few were in noble and royal marriages. They should be thanking the Lord for their great blessing, but she doubted very much that Henry was thanking God.
At that moment, she hated him. He had suddenly made her the object of pity, something Anne had no desire whatsoever to be. She did not want her ladies to look at her and think that it was a shame that her husband could not, like others, rejoice in the fact that his wife was young and fruitful and that he would soon have more children—more heirs. The news would, of course, be spread throughout Court, and everyone would soon know not only that the Queen was with child but that the King could not even bring himself to feign happiness for her sake.
Anne tried not to think how Tom Wyatt would have reacted to the news that she was with child. He would have been overjoyed. He would have laughed, perhaps cried, and thrown his arms around her, kissed her, swung her about and immediately started making plans…
But it was too late for that. Tom was her past; Henry was her present and her future, and the child growing within her was Henry's.
She turned to look at her ladies, an almost fierce expression on her face. "The King needs time to reconcile himself to the idea of having another child," she said sharply, then turned on Nan Saville, who looked almost frightened. Her expression softened slightly. "And he will."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Nan muttered, and the other ladies repeated it, as though they could convince themselves, and their mistress, simply by saying it.
Anne stirred slowly and fitfully. Her dreams had been full of strange things—shadowy faves, voices which echoed but seemed impossible to make out, and strangely enough, the Nativity. First she was merely a spectator, standing on the side of Joseph, the loving and forgiving husband, as he led Mary to a patch of fresh hay, urging her to lay down, to rest, to breathe as evenly as she could…and suddenly, Anne herself became the Virgin. It was she who lay there in the hay, clutching the straw in one hand and Joseph's with the other…but Joseph had become Henry, and the loving eyes had become cold, dull, emotionless. His hand was limp in hers.
A wave of pain washed over her in the dream. It felt akin to the pain which accompanied her monthly bleeding only twice as powerful. Her eyes flew open in that moment. It was no dream—dreams were never accompanied by this kind of unbearable pain. She did not understand. Her courses had not come for nearly two months now. Dr. Linacre himself had confirmed her suspicions: she was with child. How could this be happening to her?
All at once the horrible truth occurred to her. She was losing the baby. But why? She had been careful, knowing all too well that pregnancies were fragile things. And she had been quite content, if not happy, for the most part. They had all been delighted that little Mary had recovered, and after that, everyone had been more cheerful, though Henry had remained somewhat wary as though he expected his daughter or someone else he cared about to lapse again into illness. She could not imagine any serious emotional strain from which she had suffered except…except for Henry's gloom reception of her news the previous day. No, surely his despondency had only been temporary…surely her unconscious mind and her body had not conspired against her own great happiness to rid her of the supposed danger. Surely not…
Her despair was drowned a second wave of agony crashed down upon her. She felt something sticky and wet against her legs and could not still her cry. The ladies beside her bed began to stir, but not quickly enough.
"Nan!" she shouted. She could hear the panic and knew her dear, faithful Nan would as well. "Nan, quickly!"
The ladies on the mats scrambled to their feet, looking groggy, confused, alarmed. "Your Majesty, what—," they asked sleepily, but Nan was suddenly by her side. She threw off the coverlet and all the women now present sucked in their breath. A bloodstain had begun to spread on Anne's white nightgown and on the bed sheets.
"Fetch Dr. Linacre!" Nan snapped at the goggling ladies. "There is no time to waste! Go!"
They dashed off at once, practically tripping over their own clumsy feet. Nan perched herself beside Anne, who was curled up to try and fight the pain, sobbing into her pillow. Her eyes were closed. She was unwilling to witness the travesty of losing her first and dearly-desired (at least by her) child. Why had God done this to her? She would have died, like Katherine, so that the baby might live, but she thought—no, knew—in her heart that she would not have died at all…
"Oh, my dear, sweet Anne…don't cry now, love…," Nan was murmuring, stroking her hair. They continued like this, like mother and child, until Dr. Linacre burst in, his brows drawn, to attend the Queen and her seemingly empty womb.
23 December
His sister did not understand why they were not permitted to see "Mama." It was almost Christmas, she'd cried the night before, when Harry had arrived. Their stepmother could not be locked away, hidden from them, during this festive season. She would want to see Mary no matter what Lady Salisbury said about Queen Anne seeing no one except for the King. When her stubborn demands had not worked to soften her governess, Mary simply marched alongside Harry when he went to present himself formally to their father. She was still a bit frail since her recent illness, and Harry had worried, but she seemed perfectly able to make the journey to the King's audience chamber with Salisbury tagging behind, only half-heartedly trying to reprimand her young charge as she went. In fact, as Harry bowed to his father, Mary marched right up to him, her little arms folded.
"Papa," she said angrily, "Salisbury won't let me see Mama."
Henry looked surprised but—for once—not very complacent. On this occasion, Harry doubted that running to their father would solve Mary's problems this time. "For good reason. She is unwell," he replied. "She can see no one, sweetheart, not even you."
"You've seen her!" Mary accused. Her stubborn determination almost made Harry smile, but he knew that in just a few years, it would lose its charm and be considered an unbecoming trait for a King's daughter, or any young lady, for that matter.
The King's face darkened for a moment. "Dr. Linacre has instructed that the Queen see no one. She is unwell, and on this occasion, his word means more than mine. You will see her when she has improved, Mary, and you will obey Lady Salisbury as well as myself!"
His tone seemed unnecessarily harsh to Harry, and must have to Mary too. "Yes, Your Majesty," she lisped. She curtsied to him and turned away, putting her small hand into Lady Salisbury's. The two exited silently, leaving father and son alone together, the silence growing heavy and awkward. Harry realized that he did not really know this man he called "father," and as a consequence did not know what to say to him. The strain of Mary's illness was clearly visible; new lines were etched into his face, accentuated by their stepmother's current plight. It was disconcerting to see King Henry, his father, England's father, laid so low—tired, hopeless, broken.
He hesitated before he spoke. "Father…what…what is the matter with Her Majesty?"
At first he feared that he would be sent away or that Henry would simply ignore him. The King ran a hand slowly over his face; besides the lines, Harry cold see that there were dark circles beneath his father's eyes and that his complexion was ashen. He imagined that this was how his father must have looked upon his mother's death, though no doubt quite worse. Anne, after all, was still alive, though as far as Harry could tell, few at court actually knew what was wrong with the Queen and required her to be shut up in her chambers so close to Christmas Day, missing her first Christmastide festivities as Queen.
"She is with child," he replied finally. "She very nearly…lost the child…and Dr. Linacre fears she still may." At first, Harry thought that the idea of losing another child had been the upsetting thing, but his father continued: "She blames me, of course. She thinks—she knows—that I do not want the baby." The boy's eyes widened slightly. He could not imagine a reason why his father should not welcome a child by his new wife. At the same time, he thought he might rather not know the answer to such a sentiment. Unless the King was thinking of Harry's mother…of her death. Did he wish that Mary had never been born as well, that Katherine had suffered a miscarriage instead? It was too horrible to consider, let alone ask. He shuddered. God, they said, had a plan for everyone, and it must have been his mother's time. As for the new Queen, Harry hoped only that she and his father were reconciled and that her health would improve soon.
The King's face had regained a bit of color and he seemed to realize that he was speaking to his son. He cleared his throat. "I am glad you arrived safely, my boy. Run along and mind your sister. I will…send word if Her Majesty's condition changes."
Harry bowed again, feeling quite eager to go see his sister and try to raise her spirits rather than stay in the unusually gloomy company of his father. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, and perhaps it was sinful or at least imprudent given the condition of his stepmother, but he found he also looked forward to catching a glimpse of Lady Jane Seymour while he visited with Mary.
Charles Brandon thought that his old friend could do with a bit of cheering up. Henry had been gloomy, unlike himself, for months now, ever since the Princess Mary had come down with an illness; but she had recovered, and was doing—by all accounts—wonderfully now. The charming new Queen, of course, had suffered from what had threatened to be a miscarriage only days ago, but from what Brandon had heard, Anne was doing perfectly well now. Prince Harry had arrived safely and there was a general cheerful attitude circulating around court, one which he hoped would improve the King's mood. He missed the old Henry, the Henry whom he had seen again for the first time since Katherine had died a few months ago but who had been banished again by the Princess' illness. That Henry had been the rebirth of England, the reason everyone had called him "Good King Hal" in the beginning; it was not as if the people disliked him now, hardly, especially since they still rejoiced to have one of their own as his new consort…but so much had changed in little more than a decade. It saddened Brandon, yet he knew that things did not have to be that way.
He came to Henry's private chambers shortly before that evening's banquet, one that would undoubtedly be filled with dancing and singing and good cheer in spite of the absence of Queen Anne. But a brooding King would not do; there had to be some way to bring a smile to Henry's face…and of course, Brandon had another agenda too, one that he could not be pursued until his friend was sufficiently jolly.
"His Grace the Duke of Suffolk," called Henry's chamberlain as Brandon entered. The King looked up from a pile of parchment, his expression unreadable.
"Your Majesty!" Brandon called with a broad smile and bowed.
"Charles," Henry muttered, sounding unenthused, but he at least stood up.
Brandon straightened up and approached Henry with open arms. He embraced him unhesitatingly, thumping him on the back though he knew that it was unlikely his enthusiasm would likely not be reciprocated. Henry, however, seemed to warm slightly. He put an arm around Brandon's shoulders and there was a hint of a smile on his face. And why should there not be? Henry's children were here and the Queen was hardly at death's door, though from what he had heard, she had turned almost all visitors away.
"It's said that His Highness arrived this morning. I hope he'll come to see Uncle Charles before he returns to Richmond," Brandon said idly. Another smile hovered about Henry's lips, perhaps of bemusement. "And Mary? She is well, I trust," he continued.
"Much improved, I am told!" A genuine smile finally lit Henry's face, banishing some of the shadows there. Brandon was relieved to see that it reached his eyes.
"Excellent! Then I will have to claim a dance with your lovely daughter this evening, since your wife is indisposed." Something dark threatened to take hold of Henry then, Brandon could tell, but he was not finished. "And it is only a matter of time before we shall all be envious of you again for possessing such a gem, sire. Her Majesty has too strong a will to stay abed long and too gentle a heart to remain somber and isolated!" He did not simply say such a thing to lift Henry's spirits. He had no doubt that Anne would soon reappear to reign by his side soon. Surely that would distract him from whatever blackness had invaded his mind of late.
When Henry replied, his voice was somewhat terse but his words were teasing. "What would you know of the matter, Charles? All those women in your bed may be beautiful but they are hardly bound to you!"
He wondered, briefly, if Henry was afraid that the Queen might leave him, as though a woman would dream of doing such a thing. She would have to go through the Pope, and it was not as if she had any reason to. She was adored by the common people as well as by Henry and his children, received the best care, medically and otherwise, in the whole of England, and was provided for even more handsomely than Katherine had been, though the two women's tastes differed widely. There was no reason for her to want to go, nor for the Pope to grant her leave to do so even if she did. Surely Henry did not worry about something so implausible…but even if he did, Brandon was rather glad that he be brought up the "bonds" of marriage. He was not sure if it was the wisest time to make this proposal, but Brandon was not a patient man. He was, due in large part to his friendship with the King of England, rather used to getting what he wanted, and certainly hoped that he would not be disappointed this time.
"You know, sire…Henry…your recent marriage has made me think on my own behavior, and I have to say that I envied you more than I ever had in the past, seeing you with the Queen…"
He was cut off midway through the thought by Henry's raucous laughter. This came as something as a surprise to him and he smiled weakly, wondering if he ought to be laughing as well. Did the King think he was speaking in jest, or that the idea of him giving up his former way of life—or aiming to—was laughable? Yes, he had been (and still was) something of a womanizer, but so had Henry, the same man before him now who had spent five years deep in mourning for his first wife and now anxious about and utterly devoted to his second. When he opened his mouth to speak again, Henry cut him off.
"Charles! I would never have imagined to hear such a thing from you. Who is this remarkable young lady?" He was grinning now.
Brandon cleared his throat. Perhaps this had been a larger mistake than he realized. But he could not ignore the question, nor could he lie; he would simply have to tell Henry the truth as a friend, as a loyal subject and servant, and hope for the best. He looked his friend squarely in the eye. "I have not spoken to her yet, sire, because I know she would desire your blessing as much as I…" He took a deep, almost shuddering breath, and knelt before the King then. "Your Majesty, I have lost my heart to the Princess Margaret, and it is my belief that she loves me as well. It is my dearest wish to marry her."
An excruciatingly long silence followed this announcement. His eyes were humbly averted from Henry's face so that he could not even guess what Henry's reaction might be. Would be consider it an insult that his best friend sought the hand of his sister, a would-be Queen? Or would he remember that he was married to a humble knight's daughter himself for the sake of love and feel empathy for Brandon?
When they came, Henry's words were soft and slow. "You have said nothing to Margaret?"
"No, Your Majesty…"
"Stand up, Charles."
Something akin to hope rose like a phoenix from the ashes in Brandon's heart. He raised his chin and got to his feet. Henry's brows were drawn, but he could not make out just what he was thinking by the look on his face. It was not anger but no fool could call it empathy or joy. Their eyes met again. Brandon held his breath.
"You should speak to her, in that case. Ask her what she thinks of this idea of yours—she is, after all, the object of your desire. Tell her so, Charles."
The temptation to say that Margaret was already well aware of his desire was difficult to suppress, but Brandon inclined his head. "Yes, Your Majesty." Henry waved a hand to signal his dismissal, and he made to back out of the room as one was expected to do in a formal meeting with the King, which theirs had quite suddenly become. Then he hesitated. "Your Majesty…if the Princess gives her consent, will you give our union your blessing?" Margaret had already made it very clear that she would not act against her brother's will. Henry, however, did not answer, only stared at a spot somewhere in the empty corridor behind Brandon, leaving him to back away silently, as anxious about his possible future with Margaret Tudor as he had been before.
Princess Margaret sat alone in her bedchamber. She was dressed in one of her finest gowns, gorgeous cream silk with silver embroidery. Atop the red-brown hair hanging loosely down her back sat a pearl diadem, mirroring her simple pearl necklace. She stared at the image reflected in her looking glass. It did not show her a particularly lovely woman, she thought, nor a truly young one. But she did look virginal, regal. She cut the figure of a King's sister well enough. And…a bride? Was this what her wedding gown would be, too? Simple, regal, and for the last time, virginal? Would she even have a wedding gown? Would Henry see her as a future bride tonight…would Charles?
Charles.
At this moment, Margaret thought she would let go of all her pride and beg Henry to let him marry her. She had been haughty and cruel to Charles Brandon for so long, but she could no longer deny that there was something between them, something she wanted to spend the rest of her life exploring. Her brother had his child, Mary, to make alliances for him now. Surely he did not need his aging sister, the best match for whom had supposedly been the King of Portugal. She did not want to be Queen of anything, no matter how much she envied Anne Boleyn. She pitied her, too, and found that the more she thought of it, the more she liked the idea of being the Duchess of Suffolk—she would much rather be the Duchess whose bed was filled by a hot-blooded young man and whose womb would someday swell with a child than a lonely, useless forgotten Princess. But would Henry permit it? Why not? Charles was as good as his precious little wife. Besides, he loved her. He had finally said so to her face that very day, leaving her completely speechless. And for all their quarrels, she found that the feeling was mutual.
Her feelings may not be enough for Henry, nor Charles', but in that moment Margaret realized there was someone's whose feelings were all that mattered: Anne's. If she wanted to make sure she had her brother's consent, her sister-in-law was the one to ask. It made her a bit ill to think of asking Anne for her help in anything, much less a matter so dear to her heart. But if she was willing to beg Henry, she could at least request this of his wife.
She rose from her seat at once. Soon, her ladies would return to accompany her to the banquet, but before that she would see the Queen. Setting her face into a cool mask, Margaret lifted her skirts and set off. She was a Princess and a Tudor; it would be a blow to her pride to pander to a Boleyn, but Anne was indeed the Queen and in her womb—miraculously, some would say—grew a child of Tudor blood as surely as Margaret herself was. Whatever else her faults, the woman was no whore.
When she reached them, she found Anne's chambers guarded by two stony-faced young men. She stood before them, fully expecting to be let in at once, but they made no move to allow her access.
"What are you waiting for?" she snapped, unable to bite back her temper.
"Her Majesty and Dr. Linacre have both requested that none be granted an audience," one of them said simply.
Was the man blind? Did he not know to whom he spoke? "I know His Majesty has seen her. I am the King's sister—let me pass! I do not care what Dr. Linacre has decreed," she added, to silence his protest. "I am the daughter of King Henry VII. I demand entrance!"
The forcefulness of this declaration seemed to stir them. They glanced uneasily at one another, weighing their options-to let the angry Princess through and perhaps upset the Queen whose state, it was rumored, was fragile to begin with, or to perhaps face not only Margaret's wrath but that of the King as well. They would likely face his wrath either way, of course, and seemed to decide that the scowling woman before them despite her delicate finery was the more immediate threat. They moved aside slowly, almost shuffling away from the doors. Margaret lifted her chin haughtily and had to force herself not to yank them open like a spiteful child.
Anne's ladies were all huddled around their embroidery by the fire, none of them, it seemed, planning on attending the banquet without their mistress. Their chatter did not sound excited or anticipatory and there was nothing remarkable at all about the way in which they dressed. When Margaret entered, however, they all looked rather shocked.
"Your Highness…" one of them ventured. "Her Majesty…she is unwell…"
"I am perfectly aware, thank you," Margaret snapped, and ignored the protestations of the women as she continued towards Anne's bedchamber.
Naturally, thanks to all the commotion, the Queen did not look surprised when she appeared in the open doorway. Anne lay propped up by pillows. She wore a nightgown just a shade paler than her own skin, which appeared, save for her lips, almost entirely colorless to Margaret. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. One lady alone sat by her bedside, holding a small book; whether they had been reading or chatting together Margaret could not say nor did she particularly care. Besides her pallor, Anne looked perfectly healthy to Margaret. Why was she shutting herself up in here? She and the good doctor could not truly believe that a bit of music and wine could harm the child who had already survived, parse, a near miscarriage, and the court was more likely to cheer her than taunt her.
Margaret curtsied as deeply as she could bring herself to. "Your Majesty," she said woodenly.
"Sister, welcome," Anne replied mildly, giving no clue whatever as to her feelings on her orders being disobeyed. Margaret was too far from her to see her eyes. "What is it that brings you here?"
Hating herself for every step, Margaret approached the bed until she stood a few paces from its foot. "I have come to express my sympathy."
Anne's lips twitched up into a tiny smile. "Thank you for your concern. Only God's grace, and Dr. Linacre of course, could have saved my child." Her child. Margaret swallowed her bile and her envy. She would give anything for a child; it would be proof beyond doubt that she was no longer approaching the status of a spinster. Still, part of her was glad for Anne. The child she carried was, after all, Henry's as well, and however she felt about its mother, she was sure that she would find it as loveable as Harry and Mary.
There was no point in postponing the inevitable, however. Anne could—and surely would—help her. Margaret so dearly wanted to be wed to a man she could, no matter how infuriating he could be, tolerate, no, love, that she would pay the price: debt to Anne Boleyn. "And…to ask a favor of you." Hearing this, Anne raised one delicate brow curiously. Margaret chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before she continued, forcing every word out though they pained her. "His Grace the Duke of Suffolk asked the King for my hand this afternoon. The King has not yet given his consent, and I fear that he will not." There. It was said, though she had not specifically asked for anything. Hopefully Anne was bright enough to know and charitable enough to agree.
"You wish me to intercede on your behalf with the King?" Anne murmured. "But why should he listen to me?"
He has already made you the Queen of England, ungrateful child! Clearly there is nothing he will not do for you! Margaret wanted to scream this at her, but she simply lowered her head humbly. "I hope that he will overcome his own misgivings if he has you to advise him, Your Majesty."
Did her sister-in-law know how she envied her, how she hated her or at least had hated her, how she had argued against the marriage between her and Henry? Would she use this as an opportunity to pay Margaret back in kind, suggesting that the King actually force Brandon into exile or his sister into a nunnery or another awful foreign marriage? Or would she prove herself to be the dignified, kind-hearted woman that everyone supposed she was and that Margaret tried so hard not to see.
"Of course I will speak to the King." The words were simple and in them Margaret could detect no malice at all. In fact, Anne smiled almost…sympathetically. "I can guarantee nothing, but I promise I will try."
Margaret could not bring herself to thank Anne. She did, however, sink into a curtsy, ashamed that she had had to sink to such levels but relieved, for once, that the Queen's word carried so much weight in the eyes of her brother. "Your Majesty," she said, and turned on heel, vanishing. It was time that she got to the banquet. She actually felt that they might be a spectacle to look forward to, for once, rather than an ordeal in which she was put on display as the King's still-unmarried sister. Soon, all that would change. Soon, she would be far happier than "the most happy" Queen Anne—that was something she promised herself.
When the doors shut behind Margaret, Anne turned to Nan Saville. She had no desire to see Henry, not really, but she had a duty to his sister as she would to any subject. She was, after all, the Queen. Besides, she would enjoy being out of this bed and wanted to see Mary and her brother as well. She was tired of being cooped up here already though it had been only three days. The pain had gone; the sheets were clean. She felt nervous but well-rested. Life was passing by outside of her chambers. She was hiding from it, as though Henry's fears had infected the corridors of Whitehall and that shutting them out was the only way to protect herself and the child who somehow clung to life within her. But while she tried to shut those fears out, the demons of loneliness and doubt had bred within these walls.
"Nan, fetch me the gold gown with the bell sleeves," she instructed.
Nan, bless her, shook her head; her eyes widened. "Your Majesty, you mustn't—you aren't thinking of…the banquet. Not so soon! You have not fully recovered!"
"Fetch me the gown," Anne repeated.
"But Dr. Linacre…"
"I am fully aware of his advice, but he is a physician and I am your Queen." Her tone was suddenly sharper and impatient. She did not mean to snap at Nan, but her mind was made up. If she paid the price for it, she would have only herself to blame, and besides, nothing dictated how long she had to stay. In this one instance, at least, she could decide for herself. She was, as she had said, the Queen. Besides, she had been growing surer with each passing day that the Lord had rescued her child for a reason. He would not abandon her now.
A jittery Nan returned with the gown and helped Anne dress. She forewent stays, her fingers brushing lightly over the still-flat stomacher with its tiny seed pearls. Soon, she prayed, the baby would quicken, reassuring its mother that it still lived and grew within her. How it would feel, Anne pondered as Nan secured her hair with pearls, to have the baby move? Kick? And to finally have it in her arms…
She nearly lost herself in the fantasy, but came back to herself when Nan tapped her on the shoulder. "Your Majesty…" She gestured to the collection of necklaces, rings and earrings which had been brought out and laid before her. Anne waved her hand over them.
"No jewels tonight, Nan."
Her friend said nothing, though she again looked surprised. Anne smiled at her, hoping to assuage her fears. Nothing was going to happen to her at the banquet, she was sure now, that would not happen just as easily in her own bed. She touched Nan's hand and squeezed it gently before she stood up, smoothing her skirts. She had not wanted this then, but now she was beginning to see that being Queen could have its advantages. Even if Henry saw the child she carried as a threat, Anne did not it and she doubted the court did either. She would accept their support, however limited it was, if she could not have her husband's. She would draw strength from them where she ought to draw it from him.
Her ladies whispered and tittered as she emerged, all gold and ivory and ebony. She did not speak to them and rather enjoyed their half-frightened, half-excited voices as she swept out of the room, Nan following her. The rest of them would join shortly, she was sure, once they had silenced their curiosity.
The corridors, by contrast, were empty and silent and shadowy. The revelry seemed thus twice as great when they arrived in the great dining hall. Music and laughter echoed within and the warmth and light of the hearth and of the spirit of Christmastide itself emitted from its open doors. Women in a wide array of beautiful and colorful gowns populated the dance floor as well as the tables. At the royal table, she spied Henry already present as well as Margaret and Prince Harry. Her empty seat was quite noticeable…as it has been for too long, she thought, and approached the entry.
The heralds stared at her for a moment. Obviously no one had thought to expect her, and she thought that, in a way, that was more satisfactory. Still they blew their trumpets and the hall fell still. All eyes were drawn to the wide doors.
"Her Majesty the Queen!" the heralds cried, and Queen Anne stepped forward into the festive embrace of her court.
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