Chapter 29 – A Thousand Dreams, I Still Believe: It was the first time Henry and Anne planned to go to Hatfield together. Henry had done so deliberately, for more than one reason. He found he enjoyed Anne's company more than he had recently. Her fury over his mistresses, her demands to know where he was going when he was innocently hunting – or not so innocently seeking brief trysts, as was his right – and their lack of a son had turned him bitter. She had promised him a son, and all he had was a new daughter, troubles in his realm and abroad, and a shrewish wife. But during the summit she had impressed him with her determination to be a gracious hostess to their royal guests, the extra effort shown in her gestures of learning greetings in Portuguese, German, and even Scots, which sounded something like English yet was not English at all.

It had reminded him that perhaps he was too hard on her. Yes, Anne had grace and charm that befitted a Queen, but she had not been born royal. If she did not always act with the calm serenity of a Queen, it was not her fault. She tried, he had to admit that. And perhaps he had expected too much, too soon. He could remember how woefully unprepared he had felt upon first becoming his father's heir, and he at least had been raised a prince, if only a second son. It had not been enough preparation for a future as a King, but it was far more than Anne had been given. The six years of their engagement had been a battle, not a chance to prepare for their future, and now she was having to learn as she went.

He had to remember that. And, since he had news before they left which she might not take well, he reminded himself to be even warmer than usual when they met in the yard, settling on their horses. They passed the first hour of the ride in pleasant talk, before Henry turned his horse off the road and beckoned Anne to join him. "My lord?" she asked, expression puzzled.

"We must speak, Anne, and I wish for privacy." He reined up beside her. "I intend to speak privately with Mary today, while we are at Hatfield."

To his surprise, Anne mostly kept her composure, though she could not hide how her face paled or the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. "I see. May I ask what you will speak to her about?"

"I will urge her to throw off the malign influence of her mother and take the Oath, and so return herself to favor." Henry, in spite of his good intentions to treat Anne better, now let his voice and face harden. "If she does, I will want her at court with us sooner rather than later, third lady in the realm after you and our daughter. I expect you to welcome her as you have my son." At Anne's nod, he continued. "If she is still obstinate, I will be ordering her removal from Elizabeth's household."

Anne took a deep breath and let it out. "If you do that, what is to stop her from acting just like her mother and insisting on being called Princess? Katherine has been willing to all but starve herself – I hear she has Lady Darrell cook her pitiful little meals on the hearth in her room, rather than be served by the staff who refuse to call her anything but Princess Dowager. Could you really stand to let your daughter live in such a state?"

Henry's jaw clenched. "What Katherine chooses to do is none of my concern," he snapped, those good intentions of his wavering. "And I will thank you not to call me weak, madam."

"I did not mean that, Henry," Anne said quickly, and Henry thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes before it vanished. "It would be to your credit as a father to be unable to bear such a thing, not an insult. It is a valid concern. Mary is stubborn, and she will do as Katherine has given half a chance. I never cared for her with Elizabeth, I admit it worried me from the beginning, but at least I know that Lady Bryan, as my father's half-sister, would never let her get away with such pretensions."

"And she will not do so at Woodstock," Henry said brusquely. "I will be placing her in the care of Lord Rivers and his wife. I am certain I can trust my dear friend and indeed, distant cousin, if you recall, to handle Mary."

Anne nodded. "I am sure you are right, my lord. Forgive me."

Henry let out a sharp sigh. "You worry for Elizabeth, it is understandable. And you made me proud during the summit. But you must come to accept that I know how to handle Mary, and she will learn her place. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Anne said with a smile Henry knew was not a true one, but she was trying and he could accept it for now. "But we will spend time with Elizabeth? Both of us?"

"After I speak with Mary." He might well need the comfort of the simple joy little Elizabeth's precocious cheerfulness gave him after he spoke to his elder daughter. He could not tell Anne the truth, for it would only frighten her more. He missed Mary, very much. She had been his first child to survive, and though she was neither legitimate nor a boy, she would always be the first. It meant she held a special place in his heart that not even a prince could fill, and Elizabeth surely did not, though she was his little jewel. Mary was his pearl, and he wanted her back.

When he'd first dreamed of marrying Anne, he had pictured them with their son, a bright sturdy boy, and a daughter as lovely as her mother. But he had also dared to picture Mary and Fitzroy with them, his son teaching his younger brother how to use his toy sword, Mary playing games with her little sister. He still wanted that ideal image, and he needed Mary to give up her defiant claims – the alternative was the risk of civil war and that could not be allowed to happen.

Mary would bend. She would, because if she did not, Henry could only allow her defiance to go unchecked for so long.

At Hatfield, Lady Bryan was clearly flustered by their surprise visit – while Henry had arranged things with Anne, he had made sure that no one at Hatfield was prepared for their arrival – and with the eyes of one who could recall his own minders hurriedly neatening things in advance of a royal visit, could tell that the bustling servants were rushing about to do just that. It almost amused him, but in truth his mood was too uncertain for that.

When his demanded guide, a young maidservant, led him to Mary's chamber, Henry was briefly startled by how small it was. He had ordered that Mary not be housed with any estate, but he had not truly pictured it. It saddened him that his daughter was here, but it was by her own choice.

For her part, Mary scrambled from her single chair, sinking into a low curtsey, her skirts spread about her. "Your Majesty," she said, head bowed as was proper – though she darted looks up at him through her lashes, trying to read his face. Henry schooled his features to neutrality, although it was nearly impossible to do so. "Rise, Mary," he ordered, voice calm rather than gentle. As she did so, he found he was studying her intently. When he had bowed to her from the stable yard, on his very first visit to the infant Elizabeth, she had been too far to see clearly. But now...

He could still remember Katherine as she had been when she first came to England to marry Arthur, and his childish infatuation with the pretty Infanta. Mary's features were a blend rather than looking primarily a Tudor or a Spaniard, but her every move carried the grace and surety of that young Infanta. It wasn't – he did not miss Katherine. But he found that a part of him missed the simplicity of his boyish feelings, his straightforward life as Duke of York. And worse, much worse, was that his little Mary was a woman now, fully and completely, and he had missed it. Because of Katherine and the lies she had filled Mary's head with, he had missed the last years of her growing.

In that moment he thought he might hate her for that more than anything else.

"You've grown into a beautiful young woman, my Lady Mary," he began, not missing her flinch at the title he used for her. "Our long separation grieves me."

"It grieves me as well, Your Majesty," Mary replied, chin lifted slightly in yet another reminder of Katherine. "It grieves me even more that you and my mother the Queen are separated, and most of all that you are separated from our Holy Mother Church."

Henry's jaw clenched. This was not a promising beginning. "I have freed the English Church from the false dominance of the Pope, Mary. This is something all the faithful of England should rejoice in," he told her sternly. "As they should rejoice in my now having a true wife and Queen for the first time in my reign."

Mary shook her head, hard enough that a few locks of hair escaped the pins that confined it. "She is not your Queen. Father, please. You know that my mother is the true Queen and I am your true daughter, the Princess of Wales. She has convinced you otherwise, but you must know the truth in your heart!"

At first, Henry's anger was lessened by Mary's wide, earnest eyes, glittering with tears, the faint pleading note in her voice even as she stood firm in her belief. As firm as Henry could ask a child of his to stand, if only it were a belief in something true. But then she said he had been convinced by Anne, and - "Do you think me a fool to be led around by a woman, any woman? Anne is my wife but she does not rule me, girl, and she never has! Your mother was my brother's wife and never truly mine, and you are a bastard."

"My mother is the Queen, and your Concubine is a heretic. Please, Father, return to your marriage and the Papal fold," Mary said, sinking to her knees. "You still can, you would be welcomed as the prodigal son."

Henry stared at her, reminded of Katherine sinking to her knees before him at the trial of Blackfriars. And yet... Fitzroy had told him that Mary simply trusted her mother had told him the truth, and Henry could detect only sorrow and honest conviction in Mary. It infuriated him, but it also decided his course. Steady belief such as this could not be changed by punishment, and clearly Mary was not yet ready to listen calmly to the full truth. In time, perhaps she would be, and Henry could combat Katherine's poison with reality. But not now. Now he needed to be firm and unyielding, but also change strategy.

"You are an ungrateful and unfilial bastard child," he told Mary, voice cold and harsh. "I no longer wish you to serve the Princess Elizabeth, for fear of your influence upon the innocent child. You will be moved to another residence as soon as may be arranged, and I will not see or speak to you again before you take the Oath."

He did not wait for a response, but turned and left the room.

They had begun sharing a bed. Young Edward had been ill over the winter, highlighting the need for a second son, and at any rate, Jane wanted a child. At some point, she supposed, her husband must have either realized he wasn't likely to be able to annul the marriage by the time he might have a chance – or he had heard that the sheets were stained with blood the night after their wedding. So she and Brandon were now man and wife in truth.

It was... pleasant enough, physically. And if Jane never really desired his company at night, she didn't find it objectionable. As Mary had once said, Brandon was skilled at love, and she learned to do things that he enjoyed in bed as well. It was only fair, and she didn't mind it, as such. Bodies were designed to enjoy sexual acts, and her body was no different than any other woman's. It was only that it still didn't move her, as it seemed to move most of court. She still didn't understand the craving and the recklessness that desire drove many to.

But it didn't really matter. Things were what they were, and she knew well that if her husband wanted a wanton lover in bed, he would seek one out. He had been doing so all their marriage, and had been discreet enough that she wasn't shamed. She was lucky, she knew, because her husband's infidelities did not tax her as the king's did Anne's, or whatever it was that had befallen George and Cat's marriage. No one knew what it was, only that something had happened.

So far, Jane showed no signs of pregnancy, but she wasn't unduly worried. Edward had recovered well, after all, so there was not much pressure on her. She wanted children but was sure they would come with time, and in the meanwhile she had her stepchildren. Eleanor was settled in at court now, accepted into the circle of younger courtiers that circled around the Duke of Richmond, one that also included young Kathryn Howard, Eleanor's younger Douglas cousin Margaret, and Jane's niece Alyce Percy. The four girls were fast friends, which Jane felt did Eleanor a world of good. Meanwhile, one of her own favored attendants was her bastard-born stepdaughter Sarah.

All of her household were bustling now, of course, as was Jane herself as her sister's chief attendant. The royal progress was coming, and Anne was both more cheerful and more strained than usual. Jane understood why. Her sister was relieved that Lady Mary would be leaving Elizabeth's household, but at the same time worried that Henry removing her would lead to his softening toward her. She was elated by her success at the summit – two kings, a queen, and a princess about to become a queen had all treated her as one of them – but still frightened by her lack of a son.

To get away from London would do her good, Jane thought, and she said as much when she found Anne alone, pacing her bedchamber. "I suppose so," Anne admitted, twisting one of the rings on her hands. "Cat's brought me a tonic."

"What?"

"A tonic. She says it helped her get pregnant, that it encourages conception. She says to mix it in my wine so no one knows I'm drinking it, just as an extra measure toward getting a prince. You know, they used to say the Woodville women were witches, just like they now say of me."

"You should pour it out and get rid of the bottle," Jane said firmly. "No good can come from that sort of thing, and I have to think less of Cat's good sense in giving it to you."

"Do you?" Anne asked, looking over her shoulder. "What id it works?"

"Do you want a prince born from herbs? From something an enemy could call witchcraft?" Jane hissed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "What would the king say?"

"The king may have softened toward me again recently, but I have no reason to think he won't soon go back to his harem in the woods, wherever he's got it, or some slut at court," Anne snapped. "When he does, he'll come to my bed less and less, and my chances of conceiving go down. At this point, I will take what help I can get. And anyway, our little niece was born from these herbs, or so Cat tells me, and there's nothing wrong with Jacquetta."

Jane scowled. "I don't think this is a good idea, Anne."

Anne shook her head hard, and grabbed Jane's arm, drawing her over to the window. They looked down at the gardens together, as Anne spoke in a low, tense voice. "Katherine came from fertile stock, and you and I both know that if a lack of boys really meant God's displeasure, no bastard boy would ever be born, only bastard girls or dead babies. But Henry believes his lack of sons from her was proof of sin, and he will believe it again. But a second successful pregnancy, even with another daughter, will make him hopeful that a son will be next, that I am still fertile. So for me, even another girl that lives is better than she did, and a promising sign. I need a boy, but most of all I need another pregnancy that ends with a living baby because another girl will buy me time. If I miscarry again, or do not conceive at all, then he will see us as cursed."

Jane could not argue with that. Katherine had been given many years, but the king had been younger then, less fearful of his dynasty's future. The years of loss with Katherine, the years of waiting for Anne, these had taken their toll on a man who did not have much in the way of patience. Another girl would disappoint him, but if the baby lived, they could do as Ann had done with the first miscarriage, and turn it to at least less of a negative. Henry's own mother had been the eldest of three girls before she had a brother, and Anne's Howard relations had scores of both boys and girls among them. A second miscarriage could not be explained away as the first had been, nor could the lack of any pregnancy at all.

So finally she nodded. "Don't get rid of it then. But for God's sake be careful, Anne."

"I intend to be."

Fitz enjoyed going on progress. They were in the west country this year, somewhere he hadn't gotten to see before, and there was always something to do. A hunt, a new house to visit, something. He liked to see the people turn out, and was relieved to see that most of them showed no vocal disapproval of Queen Anne. Nothing would be more likely to turn his father's mood dark than that. Fitz had not been at the coronation, but his friend Surrey had, and had told him all about it.

But nothing like that happened as they turned from the Thames proper to its tributary the Evenlode, and Fitz decided that what he liked very best about the progress was the chance for privacy. Oh, it wasn't constant, or certain, but when everyone was in the middle of a hunt, it was easy enough to slip away for one's own purposes. Which was how he ended up racing with Kathryn Howard, the both of them laughing as the trees flew by.

When they stopped, they picketed the horses where they could graze and settled under a tree, sharing bread and cheese and a skin of wine. "We're heading for Bristol, did you know?" he asked her after washing down a piece of cheese with a sip of wine. "I've never seen it, but they say as a city it's second only to London. It should be interesting."

"I think almost anyplace is interesting," Kathryn laughed. "I never knew anywhere but Lambeth until Her Grace rescued me – oh, I mean, took me into her household."

"Rescued you?" Fitz asked, sitting up and narrowing his eyes. He didn't like to think of Kathryn needing to be rescued from somewhere that should be her home. And yet, he could still, dimly, remember how uncomfortable it had been to live in the home of his mother's husband. He didn't remember much more than that, given how young he had been when his father had given him his household, but the memory lingered, made his stomach knot. Made him determined to keep working on both Mary and his father, to make his royal family as happy as possible.

Had Kathryn's childhood held similar ghosts?

Kathryn shrugged, looking sheepish. "It was not... If you ask cousin Surrey, he'll probably admit Lambeth is, well. No better than a brothel. I was too young yet, to be caught in anyone's toils, but I saw things, and... I know it was only a matter of time. But the Duchess took me from there, and brought me here. I am always grateful to her, and the Queen for taking me under her wing." She smiled then, and hurried to continue as if to erase her earlier words. "Queen Anne says if I keep progressing on my reading and writing in English, I should be able to learn to at least speak French from her and the Duchess soon."

He understood. How could he not? "I was very little when I left my stepfather's home," he said gently. "But my father rescued me, from a man who I recall did not like me one bit. I don't remember much else of what it was to live under his roof, only that I feel ill when I try. I do understand, Kathryn, in my way. As I understand so much about you. I think – that is – I have always felt that we do. Understand each other. Quite well, in fact." He sounded like an utter fool. Had his father ever felt like this, with the Queen or even the Princess Dowager, who they said he had truly adored when he had been Fitz's age?

But Kathryn was still smiling at him. "I think we do," she told him. She sighed then, looking up at the sun. "We should get back, before anyone realizes we have left." They were both young, so little was likely to be said, but even so, they couldn't really risk it.

"You go back first, so no one will think we were alone together," Fitz said quickly. She was right, after all. He followed her at a distance, to make sure she was all right, but ensured they didn't rejoin the progress together or even at the same spot. It didn't save him from Will Parr's teasing, but it did keep Kathryn out of trouble, which was the important thing.

They did not dare wander off from the progress again, but that did not stop them from spending as much time together as possible. Kathryn often found herself with the Brandon twins, who were also Fitz's cousins. In the company of Edward and Eleanor, no one questioned the two of them being together. Although he did think Lady Suffolk suspected something, when he saw her watching them and caught her eye, she smiled and winked at him. He thought that meant they had her approval, at least.

Approval for what, he didn't dare think just yet. They were both too young to order their own lives, even if he was the highest-ranking duke in the country, and he didn't dare hope too hard. Not yet.

Mary stared out of her litter at her new prison, and tried to tell herself that at least here at Woodstock Palace, she would not have to constantly give way to her baby sister, pretending Elizabeth was the true princess. Except... Elizabeth herself was one of Mary's only comforts; her little sister loved her with a small child's honest affection, and it made Mary's life easier to bear.

And now, not only had she lost that – and she did not know if Fitz would be allowed to visit – she had lost the illusion that her father would one day relent. She still could not think of his cold words without starting to cry, so she resolved never to do so where someone might hear her. Instead she held her head high and stared at the palace. It was an ancient building, long tied to the history of her Plantagenet forebears. Good things and bad, like so many of the older palaces.

What did she know of her new jailer, Anthony Knivert, Viscount Rivers? Not much, in truth, though she was aware that he was a distant cousin through the brother of Elizabeth Woodville. She could vaguely remember him as one of the men always with her father – the Duke of Suffolk, her uncle by his marriage to her aunt Margaret, was a clearer memory, but she thought she could just manage to picture Knivert. His wife, Katherine, was far more familiar to her, having been among her attendants at Ludlow.

It was one more insult to her, being put under the rule of her onetime attendant. Still, Mary was not entirely friendless, and the notes Chapuys managed to slip her had suggested that Lord and Lady Rivers were not truly among the Witch's partisans. They were close to her stepsister, the Duchess of Suffolk, but not to her. It would be better, she could hope, than life under Lady Bryan, who was half-sister to Anne Boleyn's father. Even if it was rumored that Lady Rivers in particular was drawn to the Lutheran heresies. They could not dare mistreat her – not even Lady Bryan had done so in terms of physical attacks, because one could never be certain that she would not be restored to favor if the Witch fell. At most they could threaten, and Mary was accustomed to threats and to scorn by now. They would not sway her.

She reminded herself of this again and again as she was led inside and to her chambers – a comfortable bedchamber and a sitting room, and Mary was surprised to find a small shelf of books there. That must have been Lady Rivers' idea; she recalled Katherine Parr as having a great love of learning and books. There was also a sewing basket and an empty book for sketching with charcoal sticks to draw with, and a lute. Again, Lady Rivers' touch; who else would know the things Mary had once liked to fill her time with? All of these things were quite pleasing to her, except that one of the books, one in pride of place on a small lectern, was an English Bible.

No matter. One of her few possessions was a Latin Bible, and she had no need for the heretical English version.

"I trust my wife has left you with enough things to occupy your time, my Lady Mary?" a light male voice spoke from behind her. Mary turned, and her dim memories told her that this was indeed Lord Rivers, Anthony Knivert. He bowed respectfully to her, but she could not let the title stand.

"I am the Princess of Wales, Viscount Rivers. However, yes, these are pleasing to me, save for that English Bible. I have no need of it."

"No, but you will leave it there, my lady." Mary opened her mouth to object to her title again, but Rivers spoke over her. "You are Lady Mary, the king's natural daughter, by the laws of England. Whatever the theological arguments of a Church to which England does not belong, that is the law as it stands, my lady. I will not break it to pander to your pride, nor will I allow my servants to do so when they tend your needs."

"I need no servants who will not address me as is proper," Mary said flatly, thinking of her mother, who had done the same.

"Which is why they will not address you. As you will not eat in the hall without a canopy of estate and that you will not have, you are free to eat privately here. Servants will bring you food, water for bathing, wood for your fire, candles for light, perhaps new books from time to time. They will do so at set times without addressing you, and thus avoid either offending you or breaking the law."

"Am I to be confined to my rooms then?" Mary said, voice sharp.

"No. There are gardens you may walk in; every possible route away from this castle is guarded, so you will not have any opportunity to escape. I advise you not to try it. I will not be able to hide it from the King your father, and he is likely to take it as treasonous behavior. The Duke of Richmond may continue to visit you, although he is the only person with standing permission to do so. Others may come if they petition the King and he agrees. You will be allowed to refuse any guest not sent with orders from His Majesty."

Mary was quiet as she turned this over in her head. Her father had tried demeaning her and since that had failed, he was now going to try comfortable isolation. Lord Rivers was evidently determined not to allow her any chance to assert her rights. "May I write letters, Lord Rivers?"

"You may, but I will read them before they are sent, as well as any you receive. And, as the King believes that your mother encourages your intransigence, you will not be permitted to write to her."

Of course she wasn't. At this point, Mary could not even pretend to surprise, for all that she wanted to. "Very well. I understand my father's terms," she said flatly. "I need no further explanation and I do not require company at this time."

When he left her alone, as she had directed, Mary went to unpack her meager belongings, fighting back tears again. She would not cry and she would not break. She reminded herself of that for the rest of the day, when servants came twice with food and once with a metal tub for her to bathe, not speaking to her or even looking at her. It was better than Lady Bryan's cruelty, the mocking whispers of Elizabeth's ladies.

She was her mother's daughter. Silence would not crush her.

All in all, Anne did not object to the sudden influx of Tudor relations among their court, even on progress when the court was usually reduced. Henry was softer, in the presence of his nieces and his nephew, or in his Owen cousins, who were more distant kin born of Owen Tudor's bastard son – David Owen had been a trusted servant to his half-nephew Henry VII, and Henry had recently found places at court for several of his descendants. One of them, Jasper Owen, was now in Anne's household as her carver, while two more were among Henry's household.

It did give her some pause that Cromwell had involved himself in bringing the Owens to court, but when she mentioned it to Edward, he shrugged. "Michael said that the king was growing discomfited with how large your family is in comparison with his own, between your mother's kin and us. He thinks that Cromwell was merely heading off a potential problem – and the Owens aren't Tudor in any dangerous way."

Jasper was certainly pleasant enough as a member of her household, and as Jane has commented, anything that sweetened Henry's moods could not be a bad thing. And, Anne reminded herself when she saw Henry with his bastard son and his nephew, enjoying a hunt together, while the boys might well remind Henry of the legitimate prince he lacked, at least when he was with them he was not with a mistress.

And, if he remembered he needed an heir above all, then he would seek his pleasure in her bed. So she resolved to be a warm aunt to the Brandon siblings and to Frances Douglas, and a courteous if not overly familiar kinswoman by marriage to the Owens. She already tried her best with Fitzroy, for all that the sight of him reminded her of her own lack of sons, and so she feared him. But she always knew she could not shame the memory of Margery Seymour, and Henry preferred that she was kind to the boy. It was not his fault, she reminded herself often. And the gossip was that Bessie Blount's husband had been as cruel to the child as he could get away with. She could and would be better than that. He was sweet to Elizabeth, and that counted for much. Of course, he was also very fond of Mary...

Henry wanted her to be kind to Mary as well, should the girl ever submit. That, Anne knew, would be harder. But then, she doubted that even a cowed Mary would want much to do with her, would likely always believe Henry never would have discarded Katherine if Anne had not come along. So if it came to it they would likely not interact often. And civility would be a small enough price to pay to keep Henry in a good mood.

In any case, she had more pleasant things to think about. The progress was going well. The hunting had been excellent, and the consecration of three bishops – Edward Fox, Hugh Latimer, and John Hilsey – at Winchester was a personal triumph for Anne, who was a patron to all three of the men.

Best of all, they had been well received by the locals everywhere they went. Despite her siblings' efforts, there were many among the common people who still preferred Katherine to her, particularly in the countryside. But here there were no cries of anger, and the calls of greeting to both king and queen were excited.

And now they were at Wolf Hall. Anne could hardly contain her curiosity. All three of her siblings had been married at court, her stepmother buried at Hever, and so she had never before had reason to come to the Seymour manor, owned by Edward, where her siblings had been raised before their father had died. Jane showed her the tree where, she said, Edward had taught her to read, their father having not bothered to allow her to begin lessons with the tutor who worked with his sons. "I think he did it to get better at it himself," Jane said thoughtfully, fingers skimming lightly over the bark of the old oak's trunk. "I never asked him, but that would be his way."

"It certainly would." It was why Edward had worked with their brothers when they were learning to fight, and even taught the girls how one would properly hold a sword, how one used a bow. Women could be archers for hunts, so he'd been freer with that than he had with swords. The memory made Anne laugh as she didn't think she had in a long time, and Jane, guessing her thoughts as she so often did, giggled with her.

"What are you two laughing together about? Sneaking off from Anne's ladies?" Of course it was Edward, which only made them both laugh all the more. Anne turned and hugged him, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, it's nothing, Ned. Just... I'm not worried, for the first time in a long time, and I think it's making me giddy." She realized as she said it that it was true. Her concerns still held, of course, but in this moment, in her siblings' childhood home, she couldn't be so very worried about anything. She wanted to believe things would be better now.

She had not even felt the need for Cat's draft, which remained wrapped up at the very bottom of one of her chests. First, it had proved too hard to slip it into her wine without being noticed, and then she had just... not done so. But it remained with her, a comforting thought. A way Anne could feel that she was more in control, somehow. If her body did not oblige her, then she had the means to force its cooperation.

And Henry was back in her bed.

It was as if something had fallen away, some barrier that had kept them apart. She didn't know if it was the progress, being free of London's tensions and responsibilities, if it was the success of the summit, or Henry's satisfaction in having kinfolk close who were no threat to him, but they were better now. He was showing her more kindness, and Anne gritted her teeth against her temper, trying to learn the control of a Queen.

Even when she saw him singling out Catherine Willoughby to dance, Anne was able to smile through it. The girl's mother was a partisan of Katherine's, and it did make her nervous, but Henry knew who Maria de Salinas was. It would make it impossible for her daughter to be subtle, even if the mother did push the chit into Henry's bed for the sake of her former mistress. Better someone whose loyalties were so known as to make them ineffective than someone who could hide their true goals.

She still wanted to rip the girl's hair out, but she was Queen. She was better than that, and Henry was in her bed at night, no matter who he flirted with in the day, or even who he might sneak off with. He came back to her, and so she would be able to give him a son soon.

When she did, she would be untouchable.

She rode dressed as a man, alone in a hooded cloak. A woman of advancing years, Maria de Salinas would not have undertaken such a journey for anything less than her Infanta's sake. And to her, the Queen was and always would be Infanta Catalina, even if that was a title she herself would no longer had responded to. Maria could remember their years in the Alhambra together, their years of privation after Arthur died, the happy times of the early years of Katherine's marriage to Henry VIII.

Her Infanta was dying, and Maria would be with her, the King be damned!

Elizabeth Darrell let her in with a tremulous smile, and Maria squeezed the girl's shoulder in comfort. She was loyal, Maria knew, and had done her best for her mistress in increasingly thankless circumstances. "She was calling for Princess Mary earlier," Elizabeth said quietly. "I think she saw her, her fever is high enough to make her see things."

"Damn that heretic monster, he will not let her come, will he?" Maria asked grimly.

"No. They say she has been taken from the Lady Elizabeth's household and shut up somewhere with the King's friend Knivert and his wife, until she submits to him."

"You would think Maud Parr's daughter would have the human decency to allow Mary to see her dying mother – but then, she would likely find herself in the Tower if she did," Maria said, forcing herself to be honest. She was certain that Mary's new keepers could not enjoy their task, but she recalled Knivert a little, and she knew Maud Parr if not her daughters. They would be the sort to do their duty by following their King's commands, even if they found them repugnant. She could hope, at least, that they would be kind to Mary. She could do nothing for the princess now, but for her Infanta...

"Catalina? Catalina, it's me, Maria," she said, settling on the stool by the bed. She got no response for long moments, and took her oldest friend's hand in hers. She could remember holding hands as they raced through the gardens of the Alhambra, Infanta Juana and her Moorish maidservant Soraya following at a calmer pace. Infanta Juana had been the younger girls' favorite, the one most likely to indulge childish play, filled with a sense of mischief. Her fate was one more tragedy that Maria tried not to dwell on.

"Do you remember the swifts?" she whispered in Spanish. "How we would laugh to see them fly from the bushes as we ran about?"

"Or when Juana took us to see the bats," came a faint, thready voice. Maria looked up to see Catalina's eyes half-open, a slight nostalgic smile on her face. "We were so frightened at first..."

"Until we realized they were soft and small, and would be more scared of us if we moved than we could ever be of them, yes."

"I miss the gardens, Maria. I wanted to bring Mary to them, I wanted her to marry Charles and see them..."

"I know, my Infanta, I know. But Mary will be Queen one day, you know she will. No one can defy the Pope forever."

"Mary... where is she, she was here... I wanted her to see you, I want her and your Catherine to be such good friends..."

Maria's throat tightened. She could not bear to tell Catalina that she had been hallucinating, that her daughter was far away, locked up as she was. That if King Henry had his way, Mary would be shut away until she too caught ill and died. "She could not stay, I'm so sorry," she told Catalina instead, deciding on a kind lie. "The King allowed her to come but he fears allowing her to stay."

"Oh... But he permitted me to see her. He is softening, Maria. Perhaps... with me gone... He will have the right to marry now, he can put the harlot away without harming his pride... He will be kinder to Mary then. Will you... watch over her, as you can, Maria? Chapuys will, he will help..."

"Of course, my Infanta, my Catalina."

Catalina smiled. "We will wait, Arthur and I, we will wait in the garden, for you, for Mary..." Her voice faded, breath rattling in her chest before going silent, her eyes fixed and unseeing. Choking on her sobs, Maria reached up and closed her Infanta's eyes.

She would watch over Mary. With Katherine dead, the monster could remarry for true now, a good woman who would bring him back to the Church and remind him who his trueborn daughter was. She knew what to do. Her daughter had written her to say that the King had begun to single her out to dance with. While Maria hated the thought of her Cathy in that man's bed, it was the only way to keep her promise.

Her Cathy would be Queen, and they would restore Mary. It was the only way.