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Enjoy
Everyone who isn't us is an enemy -Cersei Lannister
1501 - 1536
"Father," Cecily whispered, her whispers died in the window as she closed her eyes. She opened her hand to reveal the crown ring she'd caught from the cold waters of the river Thames. The goddess Melusine had given her this gift and with it she had sealed her destiny, delivered her family from her ancestor's curse and given her glory. It only seemed fitting that she prayed to both deities while holding this trinket, for her father's soul.
She put her finger back on her middle finger and made the sign of the cross. Not long after her father, her husband had fallen ill. Some said that it was a curse on the Tudor king for stealing the crown from its rightful owner, for killing the last true remnant of the York dynasty, the Earl of Warwick, and turning the remaining Plantagenets into Tudor loyalists.
Nonsense. Cecily thought. Her lord husband was a good king, albeit harsh, cold, and unyielding as the season he was born into. He had taught her many things, given her many pleasures. Yet, she could never love him completely and for that she blamed her own magic, because she saw him only as a means to an end, a vessel which to plant her seed to so it would take root in her belly and restore the York monarchy through their children.
Arthur was more than ready to be king. He was crowned not long after his father died. Like Henry he was enchanted with the Spanish princess and it pricked him that she was meant for Harry and there was nothing he could do against it. Oh, he tried, very hard but nothing. She laughed recalling how hard he had spoken on the benefit of having a brother in the church, but everyone who knew the Duke of York knew he was not church material. Parliament obviously rejected his proposition.
The queen dowager's husband was interred in Westminster chapel he had refurbished and remade in his ideal image, it was another architectural beauty, a testament of Tudor greatness. She smirked as she visited his tomb, he lay next to his first consort, not because he wanted but because it was the right thing to do, the proper thing. His son by her would be crowned king and if he failed to have any children, his second son –also by her- would follow. He did not want to anger Yorkshire anymore, there were still many with strong sympathies for the old regime. He owed it to his dynasty to do what was right.
She didn't care really. She told her mother so. Her father was also interred in this chapel. Henry had not abided her lady mother's wishes to inter her father next to his fallen brother, Richard of Gloucester, the last York king. There was still too much bad blood between him and the Yorks. He had distrusted her namesake and lady grandmother, the Duchess Dowager. It was not enough for him to defeat the Yorks, he had to have them separate, even in death.
The coronation was nothing short of great. It piqued her how Arthur eyed his sister in law, the Duchess of York, Catherine of Aragon who was not blind to his attention. She smiled from time to time, showing that bright face of her, letting her auburn hair flow as she gave one of her many Spanish dances, amusing his new court.
Arthur desired her but she was his brother's, as his father he would not dare put desire over duty, but he was not all Tudor, he was not all cold, he also had strong York blood flowing in his veins and it manifested in the following years as his yearning for her became stronger.
Her lady mother saw it all unfold before her eyes. Mary grew close to her own mother, the Duchess of York, princess Catherine, and advised her against accepting the king's gifts but her mother hardly listened. She loved the attention and it was the first time that Mary realized how much her mother had been a flirt in her youth, albeit a conscious one, accepting gifts only from the bigger fish, in this case, the king of England.
People whispered amongst themselves during Arthur II long reign why he didn't marry. Many attested that it was because of his platonic love, others that it was so he would not appear to favor any country. Very few knew the truth.
The funeral procession lasted nearly a week, there were many stops. The tomb was being carried by his greater gentleman, men of honor, rich men, men who had bought their honor with their wealth and their loyal service to the king.
It was strange that the king did not have amongst him his brothers but as his father, he had never been close to his family, he was a king of ice, a king who rarely –if ever- showed any emotion.
"You are king now." Catherine whispered to her husband after the service had ended and prepared to go to the Tower where they would be lodged in preparation for their joint coronation. "Make your brother and England proud." She added then left him to his own devices. Henry watched her go.
Catalina, the girl who had come from Spain for him –just for him. Every man in Europe wanted her, even his brother, but she was his alone.
He didn't want to burden her with the pains of childbirth but Catalina, renamed Catherine shortly after her arrival to England (although to him he would always be that Spanish girl he had given himself to heart and soul) she had sworn a holy vow to give him a son no matter how much pain she had to endure. "It is all for you." She had said and true to her promise she had given him a son, the first of many.
His stepmother's mother and aunt, the former Duchess of Rutland had been there for the Christening, holding their new year son, she had personally presented him to his mother.
After tomorrow he and Catherine would be known as king Henry and queen Catherine. It had a nice ring to it, and he couldn't think of anyone more suited for that position. Even Arthur remarked on his last days that England would be blessed with such a queen.
Mary watched from her seat as king and queen entered the Abbey. They would exit as the anointed monarchs their Tudor predecessors had made rich beyond compare. Next to her were her daughters and granddaughters, the men were behind her. Mary's extended family was unlike any in England.
She watched behind her as her youngest grandson, Arthur and Sancia's son, Richie played with his toy soldier. Mary scolded him, one look from her was enough for the boy to be quiet, but that didn't stop him from giggling and shifting uncomfortably on his seat causing his parents many headaches.
"Is it going to be over soon?" Her oldest granddaughter, princess Mary Jane, tugged on her bell sleeve. Mary told her to be quiet and little Mary obeyed. She, however was not the only one excited. There was another Mary, one she knew very well and it seemed bizarre to stare at her as the coronation ceremony dragged on.
The Archbishop of Canterbury, once an obscure priest, Thomas Cranmer –a man Mary had come to know as the emissary of Satan in her own time- placed their respective crowns on each of their heads. The coronation outranked every other in history. Henry was their merry monarch, if his father and late brother had been the winter kings, he was the king of summer and his wife, still beautiful despite her childbearing years, was the queen of spring.
Their horde of children were with them, Mary saw the great contrast between the girls and boys. While the queen doted on the latter, the king doted on the former. But there was one, one beautiful, smiling, young woman who stood above the rest and when she turned Mary recognized her as herself, the princess Mary, the king's beloved pearl.
