Hatfield, September 1533

There was always at least one infant crying. If it wasn't Elizabeth wailing because she was overtired, or Edward roaring for a feed, it was George howling because his smallclothes needed changing or Anne mewling because she wanted picking up and walking around the nursery.

Their lusty bellows served as a constant backdrop to Mary's days, setting her teeth on edge and piercing her very soul, particularly when she saw those around her drop everything whenever any of the babies so much as whimpered. No one had doted on her so much as a child, not even when she was the unofficial Princess of Wales at Ludlow, the pearl of her father's world. Why did Anne Boleyn's brats deserve to be so adored? Oh, if they'd been delicate, she might have understood it somewhat better – any child's life was a precious gift given by God, after all – but anyone who heard those babes 'exercising their lungs', as Lady Bryan put it, could hear at once that they were far from delicate, despite their small stature.

No, this wasn't about the babies' health. This was about Anne Boleyn's insecurities. No doubt she'd insisted that the copious nurses attending her litter dote on their every breath in a way that none of Mary's maids had ever doted on her to rub salt into the wound; to remind Mary that, like it or not, it would be her son that took the throne after God took their father, not her or any boy of Katherine of Aragon's. Why else would Mary be here, at Hatfield, relegated to one of the smallest chambers and demeaned so far as to have to change the soiled napkins of her half-siblings, and not even of her brothers, but of her sisters, Elizabeth and Anne? Her father would never have ordered it, not after she'd gone so far as to write and congratulate him on the birth of her half-siblings. She'd even found it within herself as to say that she hoped the long, arduous birth hadn't been any harder than expected on the Lady Anne and that she would recover soon. No one could have asked more than that of her, surely?

But apparently it hadn't been enough for Lady Pembroke. for hard on the heels of the messenger informing Mary of the birth of the so-called Prince of Wales and Duke of York and the two supposed Princesses had come another, bearing the news that her household was to be dissolved without further ado and that she was to decamp from Tickhill to Hatfield, there to await the arrival of the new royal children, to be a part of their household.

Mary had thought about refusing, but the messenger had been the Lady Anne's father himself, and despite herself, Mary was more than a little scared of Thomas Boleyn's keen, malevolent eyes. Biting back tears of fury and frustration, she had packed her bags, and had even been standing at the doors of Hatfield like a chatelaine would to welcome her half-siblings when they arrived, if only to prove that she still had some dignity left, no matter the circumstances.

Determination had, in fact, been the only thing that had kept her from breaking down into tears herself as first Edward, then George, then Elizabeth and Anne were carried past her, all four of them crying and flailing against the strictures of their swaddling bands, as though they knew they'd been taken away from their parents and were protesting their indignation at such a move. Was this what her life was to be now, ruled by the tyranny of four children not even old enough to hold up their own heads?

"Lady Mary!" Lady Shelton's voice cut through her musings, sharp and nasal, "Why are you standing around wool-gathering? Can't you hear the Lady Anne is crying for a change? See to her at once, or I'll report your negligence to the Queen!"

The older woman clapped her hands sharply and Mary flushed, inclining her head and hurrying over to take the youngest of the children from Mistress Parry, who had been rocking her fruitlessly for several long seconds.

"I can't say I envy you, Lady Mary, the Lady Anne's got a temper on her this morning," Mistress Parry chuckled, "I'll be surprised if she stays still for you."

Mary felt her lips pinch as she carried the wailing, writhing infant over to the corner of the room, where there was space for her to lay her down and kneel in front of her to unpin her swaddling bands.

If it had been Elizabeth, she might have smiled at her, or even sung a lullaby, but she found it harder to warm to the younger of the girls, for Anne, like her brother George, had Lady Pembroke's dark hair and sallower skin tone, rather than the copper fuzz and pale skin that both Elizabeth and Edward sported, although George did have his father's eyes, rather than his mother's and sisters'.

Silent and deft, she moved through the motions of changing Anne, as she did what felt like a dozen times a day, all the while praying and begging that her father would come to his senses soon, and welcome her back to Court, as befitted his eldest daughter.

1534

"To the right high honourable Princess Mary of England,

What I have to say grieves me mightily, as I am sure it will Your Highness, so I will not dissemble, only lay the facts of the case out before you as plainly as I know how.

Having received the report of the birth of the Concubine's litter of pups, His Holiness was much alarmed and wondered if it might be a sign from God. The Emperor tried to reassure His Holiness of the papal infallibility, but His Holiness was not to be dissuaded. The Holy Father withdrew into his inner sanctum and prayed, fasting for several days, before emerging once more. When he reappeared, His Holiness declared, to the shock of all those present, that the birth of four living children at once was a sign from the Almighty: Your venerable father had been right all along. His marriage to Your Highness's mother was indeed invalid, and as such, his union with the Lady Anne Boleyn ought to be sanctioned by law as it has already so clearly been by the Lord Himself [….]

A papal messenger is riding for London even as I write. I pray this letter reaches you before he reaches your father [….]

The Emperor bids me inform Your Highness that, in the light of His Holiness's surprising volte-face, he can no longer protect you without jeopardising his own faith. As your ever-loving cousin, he bids you lay aside your pride and submit to your father, throwing yourself on the King's great mercy…"

Mary laid Seňor Ortiz's letter aside, her heart racing. How could this be? How could the birth of four children, miraculous though it admittedly was that they all lived and were now nearing their first birthday, be enough to sway the Holy Father into denying the validity of her parents' dispensation, into overturning the decision his predecessor had made all those years ago?

For a moment, she wanted to deny that it was true, wanted to claim that the letter hadn't been written by Seňor Ortiz at all, but rather by one of her father's agents, seeking to trick her into denouncing her mother and relinquishing her claim to the status that was rightfully hers, that of the heiress to the throne.

But she couldn't. Over the years, she'd had enough smuggled messages from her mother's proctor in Rome to be able to recognise his distinctive handwriting from across a room. She knew all the hallmarks that he tended to put on his letters to prove that they were genuine. This letter bore them all. However horrifying its contents were, they were the truth, or at least the truth as Seňor Ortiz saw it.

Mary buried her face in her hands, her thin shoulders shaking.

"My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" she cried in a stifled voice as she crossed herself, begging God for a sign that he hadn't, that she was still his beloved daughter Mary, Princess of England.

When none came, the last vestiges of her self-control broke. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Mary reached for a quill and parchment with a shaking hand.

"Forgive me, Mother," she thought brokenly as she inked her nib with ink as thick and glistening as blood, "Forgive me for abandoning you!"

"To my well-beloved Father King Henry,

I write to you today not as a beloved daughter, but as a penitent supplicant…"

Windsor, 31st July 1534

"The Lady Mary Tudor!"

The heralds banged their staves as they shouted and Mary took a deep breath, before gliding down the length of the Great Hall. If her steps were a sight more hurried than was strictly considered proper, then it was only to keep her nerve from failing her at the sight of her mother's greatest foe sitting on the dais hand-in-hand with her father, as though she had every right to be there.

At last she was close enough to the dais to fall into the deepest curtsy she could comfortably manage, her skirts of dove grey damask pooling out around her.

"Your Majesties."

"Lady Mary," her father greeted coolly, "I'm told you have something you want to say to me, publicly."

He laid slight emphasis on that last word, enough to warn Mary that, written submission or not, she wasn't getting out of this. Mary swallowed hard and began her carefully rehearsed speech.

"Your Grace, My Lady Queen, I come before you to apologise for my long defiance of you and my denial of the validity of your marriage. I hereby humbly seek Your Graces' pardon and acknowledge that your marriage, celebrated in January 1533, has been sanctioned by God. I also hereby state that, having been weaned of the sin of pride, I now know myself to be naught more than Your Majesty's natural daughter, and am honoured to have been placed in the household of the true-born heirs to the throne, Edward, Prince of Wales, George, Duke of York, Princess Elizabeth and Lady Anne."

Mary's voice cracked on the last word and she gulped again, before falling silent and bowing her head.

There was silence for several long seconds, before her father rose. He stamped down the steps of the dais and stopped before her.

"Very prettily spoken, Lady Mary," he answered, gesturing to her to rise. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her in a slow circle, so that each and every man, woman and child in the room could take a good look at her.

"I remember that some of you in this room were desirous that I should put this jewel to death! But look, here she is, returned to the fold like one of Christ's sheep that were lost and have now been found!"

The words rang through the room, carrying a distinct note of warning with them. Despite her years of regal training, it was all Mary could do not to flinch away from her father.

As quickly as he had held her though, he released her, swinging around again to face the great oak doors as the heralds proclaimed, "His Highness the Prince of Wales, His Highness the Duke of York and Their Highnesses the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady Anne!"

The quartet of almost one-year-olds were carried in, though they screwed their faces up at the noise of the trumpets, and Edward, ever the strongest of the four, was squirming fiercely in Lady Bryan's arms, determined to be put down on the floor so he could show off his new walking skills.

Delighted at his heir's obvious precocity, Mary's father laughed, "Let him come to me, Lady Bryan! You should know by now not to stand in the way of a Tudor and their desires!"

Lady Bryan curtsied and placed Edward on the floor. Squealing happily at his new found freedom, he toddled towards the dais. Their father knelt, caught him in his arms before he could fall, and lifted him high above his head.

"Look, ladies and gentlemen, upon your future King! Is he not the bonniest, lustiest Prince you have ever seen?!"

There was an instant roar of approval, one that startled the little Prince's siblings into tears, but no one paid any heed to that as everyone in the room sank down in obeisance to their future sovereign. Mary's father caught her gaze, silently making it only too clear what he wanted from her.

She sank to the floor, calling out, "Long Live Prince Edward. Long Live the Prince of Wales!"

Her merry words and blithe smile, however, were no more than a mask she was wearing to please her father; a mask behind which her heart was breaking afresh with every word.