Had Duke Philip of Bavaria not been graced with steely steady nerves and the fortitude of years of combat, he might be uneasy at his current situation, for he had never expected that a simple hike over hill and vale to gather some of the best wildflowers for his beloved would lead to this predicament.
The three men before him were tall and sleek, muscular, and all armed with weapons. To the ignorant, they were just gentlemen skilled in the art of combat, judging by their immaculate hair and faces, their aristocratic bearing, and that they were dramatically dressed from head to toe in elegant black. But Philip was a seasoned, experienced warrior, and hence knew better. They were not gentlemen, though perhaps they could boast of gentlemanly birth.
They were assassins.
And not just any assassins, but of a kind that had been trained to such an extent that they would never stop until they had accomplished the task that their master had set for them. Philip saw it in the look of their eyes, the set of their mouths, the postures of their hands, and their stance – unmistakable features of men who would not flinch from doing things which are the darkest of sins, who kept going until there was no breath left in their bodies.
He folded his arms across his chest, smiling pleasantly. "What message does your master have for me, gentlemen?"
"Let her go or lose her altogether," came from the one who seemed taller than his two comrades and whose countenance was the most stoic, as if raping women and killing children meant nothing to him.
"Cease your fruitless pursuit, and your life shall be spared," another added. "If not, death would be merciful in comparison to what you shall suffer."
Philip laughed a low cold laugh. You amuse me like no other can, Don Luis. To resort to such means to be rid of me? You flatter me, actually. "If by some miracle, you all manage to survive to return to your master, tell him this: I welcome all his pathetic attempts at ridding the world of me with the fullest intention of mocking them all."
In a show of defiance, Philip blindfolded himself with a ribbon that his cousin, Queen Barbara, had "borrowed" from his beloved Mary to give it to him. It was a beautiful thing, made of the finest Tudor-green silk and inlaid with creamy pearls and silver gilt, but most of all it had the breathtakingly sweet scent of Mary's hair.
Needless to say, he took it everywhere he went.
And it was only fitting that he should use it in a situation like this; he was fighting for Mary after all.
"Your Grace," Philip, with the razor-sharp well-horned instincts of a warrior, sensed that it was the assassin who had not spoken yet. "I suggest you take this seriously. We will show you mercy."
"Nor would I show you any, gentlemen."
"Your Grace, the Princess Mary is not the only pearl in the ocean."
"She is to me."
Philip set his feet, and the assassins, realising that they will never convince such a stubborn, unusual man, exchanged glances with one another and nodded as one. Then the first assassin drew his sword and let out a battle cry as he charged directly at Philip. When his blade was only inches from his throat, he gracefully moved from his opponent's path and dragged his sword across his belly. The assassin dropped to the grass – his innards spilling from the slit faster than he could stuff them back in. With a serene innocent smile, Philip knelt beside him, and beheaded him with one clean swift cut of his sword.
Another assassin charged, this one hurling daggers as he advanced. Philip skillfully shielded himself from the first three flying weapons, then snatched the fourth out of the air and threw it back at its originator – striking him in thigh. The assassin cried out and grabbed the wound with both hands, and Philip brought his sword down, taking off not only the hands, but the leg which they held firmly. The assassin fell to the grass and was promptly beheaded.
The last assassin, who was the deadliest and steadiest of the three, could not help but betray his turmoil with a snarl. His master had been right. This German Duke was someone to be reckoned with, a formidable force whom only a fool would underestimate. No sooner than his fingers reached for the sword at his belt, than Philip hurled his sword at him as if it were a spear, piercing his chest and pinning him against a tree. Philip removed his blindfold and confronted his opponent, who presently clutched the sword handle, gasping for breath. He delivered a vicious blow, penetrating his rib cage, and withdrew his hand – with the assassin's still-beating heart in it. As the deceptive tenderness of his smile gave way to the cold darkness of a thoroughly hardened man who was immune to threats and grimly determined to stamp out all obstacles to his goal, he crushed it, as if fancying it was his rival whom he was crushing between his fingers.
Let her go? Lose her altogether? Over my dead body! Once a Wittelsbach man meets of the woman of his dreams, he will not rest until he possesses her completely…
"If I may venture to say so, sir, it is high time that Mary has a husband. If you could ever see your way to finding one for her…she is twenty-four now, and though she does not say it, I know that she longs for marriage and children of her own, just like any good Christian woman would."
Henry's smile went sly.
"There is no need for either of us to do that, Barbara. Reliable sources have informed me that there are currently two most attractive, most eligible, most persistent and most determined suitors who are competing for Mary's heart and hand. And I would give my hearty consent to her marrying whoever of the two she chooses. It is only a matter of time and choice. This I know it. This I promise you."
"Your Majesty is, as ever, most careful for your children," Barbara observed, seating herself on the chair beside him and taking up her needle and thread.
"I wanted to speak privately with you, Barbara," he said quietly, and with uncustomary hesitation. "There is to be a new Act of Succession, to take account of our marriage and other things. My councilors thought it advisable." He did not tell her that they had urged him to make provision for the succession out of fear that the precious, beloved Prince Edward would succumb to a childhood illness, as many children did. They think that I am incapable of fathering more sons, given my advancing age, and they fear that an accident or an illness would befall me, plunging me into the cold grave, he thought, although they dared not voice those concerns, since predicting the King's death and doubting his potency were treasonable offences.
Henry took a deep breath. What he had to say to Barbara was humiliating in the extreme for one such as himself to admit to, but it had to be said.
"The act refers to the possibility of our union being blessed with offspring," he said. "I wanted to assure you that you need not fear my having any such expectations. I know that we are newly married, and it is still early days, but still…well, it will be as God wills, since we all are in His hands."
There. Finally. He had said the unthinkable, unsayable thing: though he still knew himself to be a lusty man (it was all he could do not to lick his lips at the thought of last night's lovemaking with his wife), he doubted his potency, and hence he was prepared to leave everything in the hands of the Lord, and to make the necessary preparations beforehand.
This was something that he had to do. He was perfectly confident that, apart from setting his beloved boy's rights in stone, this act of his would earn him the everlasting favour and love of his daughters, especially his pretty clever tender-hearted Bessy.
Barbara's eyes filled with tears. She could easily guess what it had cost him to say that.
"I am sure that the Lord will look upon our union and your pleas with favour, sir," she hastened to reassure him. "You have been ill for a long, long time, and have only recently started out on the path to regaining your strength. And if your recovery takes longer than anticipated, well then, I am truly happy and contented as we are."
Part of what she said was true: it had only been a short time since her physicians had healed the ulcer on his leg and all his other bodily ailments, but the faithfulness with which he followed their instructions – taking their prescribed medicines regularly and exercising daily – meant that he was losing the excess weight and regaining that muscled frame that would make any woman's mouth water. He was no longer a young man, true, but there was still a chance, given his gradual return to blooming health, and his slowly-increasing strength.
Yes, there was still a chance that they could have a child, a new playmate for her darling stepchildren. If not…well, she was being as honest as could be when she said that she was content with what she had now.
The King smiled sadly at her and patted her hand.
"I have never had a wife more agreeable to my heart than you, Barbara," he said sincerely. "You are the light of my eyes, the staff of my old age. My children and I have much for which to be grateful to you. And you will doubtless to be pleased to hear that, when this new act becomes law, Mary and Elizabeth will be reinstated in the succession after Edward."
The Queen's soft comely features lit up with joy.
"Oh, sir, you can surely understand what this will mean to them both."
Henry, basking virtuously in her approval, went on, "I intend the throne to descend to the heirs of my body, and not to the Queen of Scots, my sister Margaret's granddaughter. My daughters will now have the right to succeed me, in turn, after Edward, and after them, the heirs of my sister Mary, the Brandons and the Greys. But it will never come to that. Edward will marry and have children, and Mary will too, in just a matter of time."
He smiled at his wife. "I may even find a husband for Elizabeth, if God sees fit."
"Elizabeth is telling anyone who will listen that she will never marry," Barbara confided.
Henry chuckled.
"Modesty, eh? Most fitting. We shall see about that. She will definitely change her mind when she meets someone who makes have her heart thud, her throat dry, her knees weak, and her desire rise!"
"Seriously, Sir, I think she is resolved on the matter."
"Well, I will un-resolve her," Henry laughed. "She is far too young to make up her mind on such a matter. We will give her time to grow out of it. Marriage is a woman's natural state. Just wait until she sees a lusty man she fancies!"
Queen Barbara smiled.
"Regarding Your Majesty's daughters," she said, "does restoring them to the succession mean they are to be legitimated?"
It was a pure risk, but it was one that she had to take.
There was a moment's silence as Henry's expression grew quiet and thoughtful, as if he was truly contemplating the idea – a genuine yet delightful surprise to her, given that she had expected to receive an absolute negative from him. If it could miraculously turn out well for her stepdaughters, then their positions could be settled once and for all. It was unfair to them that they should not know if whether they are Princesses or nothings, and while Mary's martial matters might soon be resolved in time (thanks to her hopelessly besotted cousin), Elizabeth's would still be of continual debate in the future, especially since no one can ever know what they are getting when they buy her, given her unreliable position, her indefinable pedigree, and of course the scandalous disgrace that had shadowed her since her mother's execution. Queen Barbara knew that her husband had not thought from their respective points of view, and there has been no one to be an advocate for them. As his wife, it was surely the right thing to do to open his eyes to the needs of his daughters, as well as the demands of his own dignity.
It seemed an eternity before he answered with a soft: "I will think about that, Barbara. I will think about that."
"It will all come to nothing." Catherine said. "If she is declared trueborn and restored to the succession, then everything that I had accomplished would all come down to nothing." She turned from her husband and paced the room as if she were a bitch on heat, her beautiful turquoise gown releasing the scent of lavender as the skirts swished in tune to her pacing. "A spell," she muttered, forgetting in her chagrin to keep her voice low. "A magic spell. Yes, that must be it. Surely the King and Queen are under some manner of spell. Undoubtedly, that little Boleyn bastard is a sorceress, just like her mother before her. Anne Boleyn's bastard has inherited her mother's dark arts and wily allurements, and their Majesties are now under a spell cast by an evil little witch. Why else would they be so solicitous of her needs, and even considering declaring her legitimate and reinstating her in the succession after her siblings? Damn her. Damn her to Hell."
"Catherine!" Brandon exclaimed. "Don't say that!"
She rounded on him, her hands up, her fists clenched. If he had been closer, there was no doubt that she would have struck him. She was in such a passion she was beyond knowing exactly what she was doing. "Damn her, and damn you too for standing her friend!"
"Anyone with good sense would have known that there was always a possibility of it happening, Catherine," Brandon tried to reason with her, modulating his voice to that of a well-meaning teacher trying to impart true wisdom to a stupid yet stubborn student. Lord in Heaven, what would Henry say if he learnt of how disrespectful his shrew of a wife was to his increasingly beloved younger daughter? What would he say? What would he do? He had to repress a shudder at the very thought of it. Princess Mary's wrath would be an utter kindness in comparison. "For all the King's attentions, the Queen is still not pregnant. As such, there are currently only three people in England with a rightful and justified claim to the throne. Three heirs, taking precedence one after another to honour their father. The Prince Edward comes naturally first, as the boy. The Princess Mary comes second, as England's older legitimate Princess. The Princess Elizabeth is last, as the younger legitimate Pri –"
"The Lady Elizabeth!" She interrupted venomously. "The Lady Elizabeth! Not Princess, Lady! God gave England only one legitimate Princess: the Princess Mary. The Lady Elizabeth is but the bastard child of a woman beyond sin, beyond darkness, beyond all evil. Why do I always have to remind you of that?! And why should there always be a possibility of her being restored to the succession?! Why would she be? All of Europe knows that no daughter of an adulterous, whorish witch could ever be a Princess, let alone become Queen of England! Everyone rues the day she was born! Oh, Lord in Heaven, I beseech of you, strike her dead!"
"Catherine!" Brandon exclaimed, he was genuinely shocked. He had absolutely no idea that his wife actually hated the Boleyn-Tudor Princess who had done her no ill at all so much. Heaven help me, what kind of woman have I married exactly?
"What?!" Her eyes were blazing with temper. For a moment Brandon believed that his wife had gone mad. "What's wrong with telling the truth? Everyone knows that she is the illegitimate child of a whore and a lute-player, and that the one and only reason His Majesty has acknowledged her as his own was his inability to harden enough to reject the little bastard a name and a shelter – which, in my personal opinion, is a merciful kindness that has been most wrongfully granted. She is no heiress to anything of worth, no Princess of England, no Lady, even. If she is anything like her mother, it will only be a matter of time before she sells her soul to the dark arts and consorts with the Devil."
Brandon was as white as a winding sheet. When he was able to find his voice again, he was dismayed to find that his voice had gone weak and hoarse, incapable of adopting a harsh icy tone: "God forgive you for putting us in such danger, Catherine. I will hear no more of this, and you will cease this nonsense at once. You hear?! No more! You are being nothing but cruel and merciless to a poor innocent child who has done you no harm."
Catherine whirled on him. "And you are fickle and faithless! I have been first your ward, then your wife. I have been a good spouse to you; you have no grounds for complaint: I have loved and cared for the children from your first marriage as if they were my very own, I have put up with all of your acquaintances regardless of my personal feelings, I have helped you to ensure that our estates are ran in good order, and I have given you children, though it has pleased God to take them away. As such, I deserve not only your love, but also your loyalty, your faith; you should stand by me no matter what I do or say, as a good husband should. And I say nothing but the truth. The little bastard's red hair came by solely through the work of her witch mother and the demon who lay with her, no more. She is unworthy of being a potential heiress, for she is not a Tudor even by half. And God Himself is against her: He has shown the late Queen Jane His favour by blessing her with a son! She should have died al –"
"One more word, Catherine Brandon, and I shall think that being hanged, drawn and quartered is far too good for you," a cold silent voice that almost shook the entire apartment with its intensity spoke up.
Brandon and Catherine froze. Slowly, oh-so slowly, as if speed meant everything, they turned towards the source of the voice that was at once like a roar and a whisper.
King Henry the Eighth. His blue eyes blazing, his cheeks flushed, his countenance bore an expression of untamable wrath.
Author's Note:
Hello, everyone. Here I am, back from the dead. I am terribly sorry, but due to personal and work issues, I am still unable to come to a decision as to whether I should rewrite or continue. This chapter was born from the intense guilt I felt for not updating for so long. I am so, so sorry, more sorry than I can say. My time is just not in my hands, and my inspiration and my muses are so uncooperative that I wish I could strangle them. Anyway, to be perfectly honest, this chapter is actually incomplete, just part of a rough draft that I have come up with. Please have a look and tell me what you guys think I should do next. Thanks! Until next time...