CHAPTER ELEVEN
Autumn 1530
Owen whimpered, and in a now-automatic gesture, Mother moved to feed him. From the other corner of the nursery, Mary watched, moved by the intimacy of the gesture, but also very aware of the stark contrast. The former Queen had given birth to a healthy son long after her fertility had gone, while the actual Queen, who was supposed to be young and healthy, had had first a girl and now a miscarriage. There were few, least of all her father, who would view this as a good sign.
She was terrified, and sick of it. Sick of having joy tempered with fear, sick of the fact that Owen's christening would be marred by this shadow. His baptism would have been the crowning moment of glory on this miracle in her mother's life, a small but grand affair. She would be carrying the chrism oil, while Aunt Mary of Suffolk would be godmother. Her father had originally planned to stand as godfather, but considering the circumstances…
They went downstairs to ensure that everything was in place for the festivities. Her mother would be able to attend this baptism, since she was no longer Queen, and had summoned several women who had served her in the past in honor of her son's birth. One of them was Jane Seymour, a longtime friend to her mother, and Mary was just greeting her when there was an enormous fanfare up the river. She figured it was Arthur coming back from court with her aunts and Uncle Charles, but as she craned her neck to see it properly, she saw the royal standard fluttering in the wind. Father had come after all!
The barge bumped against the jetty, and the King disembarked, bedecked in his finest attire and jewels. He was smiling broadly, exuding joy and charisma, but Mary was old enough now to pick out the glint of pain in his eyes. Why was he here, when surely he must be grieving his own child's loss?
Her thoughts of Anne were overtaken by more pressing concerns, as Mother came out onto the dock to greet him. It was the first time her parents had met in two years, and it seemed odd to see them together, when for so long they had been apart. Once upon a time, she had thought that having them separate would be her world burning to ash. She had been through it, and she had survived.
She only wondered if her father and Anne would survive.
Father and Mother were cordial with each other, her condolences on his lost baby sincere. Mary recalled that between them, they had shared six losses.
Mother gestured for Jane Seymour to come forward so that she could introduce them - unnecessary, as Jane was one of the Queen's ladies, but formal introductions never hurt anybody.
"Lady Jane," he murmured as Jane curtseyed. "Please rise; let me look at you!"
He took her hand and raised her to her feet, lingering even after she had straightened up out of her curtsey.
"Your Majesty," said Jane, looking Henry directly in the eye. "It is an honour to be presented to such a noble Prince."
Mary waited for her father to acknowledge this, but he seemed almost struck dumb by it. His gaze was unfocused, almost dazed, as though he had never been greeted by a woman before. With a sudden stroke of understanding, she knew. Her mother evidently did, and she had to clap her hands to get Father's attention.
"Well! Let's get inside!" Mother and Arthur exchanged a look that Mary caught, before they headed inside.
So Anne was out of favor with Father, or at least he was not as enthralled by her as he had been before Blackfriars. It wasn't as though he had taken a mistress yet — he and Jane had just exchanged a greeting. But he was certainly taken with her, and although two years ago, Mary would have been vengefully thrilled, she knew enough now to be very, very worried.
Father held Owen at the font as water trickled onto his forehead and the bishop boomed - in Latin, despite Father's new religious tastes. Mary waited with bated breath, exhaling only when he cried out, showing that the Devil had been driven out of him. Beside her, Mother was beaming; precious few babies of hers had even lived long enough to become members of the Christian flock.
The baptism over, Owen returned to his parents' hold as the banquet began. Although they had intended for this to be small and intimate, the Great Hall was still filled with people from the entourages of everyone here: Aunt Margaret, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, and Father. Owen soon grew fussy because of all the noise, and Arthur took him to the side for some much-needed peace.
Following a lapse in her conversation with Uncle Charles, Mary excused herself to find her brother. Arthur had managed to coax Owen back into a cheerful mood, and he was flailing his arms about. One hand caught Arthur under the chin, and he yelped. Owen's hand came away, leaving a small bleeding scratch.
Mary bit her lip. She hadn't realized that newborns' nails were that sharp. She hastened over with a handkerchief, taking Owen so that Arthur could dab at his chin. She was mindful to hold the bundle well away from her own face.
As Arthur tended to his first wound of fatherhood, Mary turned back to look at the adults at the high table. Her father had sent a server carrying the platter with the best cut of venison to a lower table, where Jane Seymour was sitting.
Mary sighed. Although she would not say it aloud, she wondered how Father, as Owen's godfather, would manage his charge's religious upbringing. Of course, they couldn't have refused him, especially considering he was the King, and he was doing them such an enormous service so soon after losing his own child.
"The King is quite taken with Mistress Seymour," she murmured to her uncle.
Arthur nodded. "Your mother herself noticed it as well. She asked me to speak to your father about not taking a mistress."
Mary glanced at him, intrigued by this glimpse into their dynamics. "Mother herself asked you to?"
"She knows it's not good for anyone if your father's eye strays. Infidelity doesn't serve anybody, least of all his own soul."
"And you and the King are - close enough - that you can talk like that?"
Arthur shrugged. "Your father… needs to be persuaded gently at times. But he listens."
He passed the now bloodstained kerchief to a servant. Mary shifted Owen's weight in her arms, making sure to keep his tiny sharp nails tucked into his swaddling.
"All the same," Mary said in a low voice, "it was big of Father to come, when nobody expected him to."
"I counseled him not to," Arthur said. "But there are some things he can't be persuaded out of. I supposed he had to do this for himself."
Mary nodded. At least her father and her uncle were not estranged thanks to the respective fates of their children. She was glad of it, both for her father's sake and for Arthur's. It would also help for Owen to be in favor with the King, as she could only imagine how the malcontents would react to word of Anne's loss.
Her heart began to pound, and too late she realized the signs of a panic attack. She was terrified for her mother, for her father, for Arthur and Owen, for what could happen next. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe.
She felt Arthur take Owen back and guide her to what she guessed was an alcove. He placed a strong hand on her shoulder and gripped it tightly, the pressure firm enough to distract her but not to hurt. "Focus on my hand."
Mary shut her eyes and focused on the steadying anchor of his hand, on the chatter and music all around them, on Owen's soft cooing and rustling against her shoulder. Her breathing slowed, returned to normal.
"I used to get them." Arthur whispered. "When I was panicked about becoming King."
"I used to get them as well," Mary confessed. "Back when matters were… bad."
She swiped at her sweaty brow under her hood. "They stopped when… they stopped after a while." When I stopped hating you. "But now they're back."
Arthur nodded. Mary glanced at the festivities, thankful nobody seemed to have noticed her breakdown. "How did you cope with them?"
"I faked my own death," Arthur said blandly.
Mary didn't know whether to shake her head or nod, and ended up doing both. That was as good advice as any, she supposed.
Once again, Mary found herself awake in the early hours of the morning. This time, however, she immediately knew why, from the noise of guards outside. She hurried downstairs, wondering what it was now. Father and Arthur were supposed to be up for Owen's vigil.
She saw Mother with a hastily donned cloak as they met at the grand staircase. "What has happened?"
"George Boleyn has docked here, with no warning."
The Queen's brother, Mary thought with instinctive revulsion. But she knew this was not good.
They met Father and Arthur in the antechamber of the More, where this time Mother asked, "What is happening?"
Arthur took her hand. "We're just finding out," he said breathlessly, even as they all made for the front oak door.
Once they were outside, Mary could see George Boleyn charging up the front drive, panic etched on his face.
"Your Majesty!" he called out to Father, courtesy forgotten. "The palace has come under attack. The Queen is trapped inside with the Princess Elizabeth. A siege!"
"What?" Father gasped, incredulous.
Mary stopped a pace or two behind the adults, gravel having worked its way into her slippers from how fast she had been running. George was gasping for air. "The palace is surrounded by people - rebels, Your Majesty. That's not all. There are others. Northampton, Doncaster, York, and others have also come under attack. Word is Eliza Barton has raised an army, and they have mounted a rebellion against Your Majesty and the Queen."
Terrible silence fell over them. Father's expression was half horror, half incomprehension. Arthur looked like a cornered deer, and it was he who finally spoke first, voice barely even audible.
"In whose name have they risen?"
"Yours, Your Grace."
It was Mother who spoke next. "I will raise an army and ride out against the rebels myself," she said, all tiredness gone from her voice. "I will take Northampton, and Arthur will come with me."
The men glanced at each other, but they knew better than to protest. She might have given birth barely a week ago, but she had defeated an army before while Father was in France. Mary felt a fierce wave of pride that quickly died in the face of her mounting dread.
"George, wake the Duke of Suffolk and send him north to Doncaster," Father added. "Send someone to Kenilworth, and get message to the Duke of Norfolk -"
"His wife is here," Mother broke in. "I will send her to the Duke with a message to go to York with his retainers."
"Excellent," replied Father.
Mother hurried off, with only a brief kiss to Mary's forehead. Mary was left on the front drive with Father and Arthur. The sun had fully risen, and Mary squinted.
"Henry," Arthur said. "You honestly don't think that I have anything to do with this?"
Father could not even look at him. "Of course not. But that's not the point, is it? That's not how it works."
Mary felt the now familiar constricting noose of a panic attack closing around her. The hitch in her breath alerted Arthur, and he turned to comfort her, but she needed just a few seconds to get herself under control. She looked at him directly, trying to keep her voice even. "Go find Mother and get the retainers ready."
Arthur smiled and nodded, but the guilt remained in his eyes, radiating off of him. Still, he was a Tudor, and he squared his shoulders and jogged inside.
She was now alone with Father. He surely had places to be, but he still took this moment to speak with Mary. She would never doubt again that her father loved her.
"You and Arthur have reconciled, haven't you?" There was a note of fondness.
"His Grace of Clarence proved to have kindness and decency in him, and with Owen's birth, I felt sure God was pointing towards him," Mary said carefully. She didn't want her father to feel like he had been replaced, but he looked glad.
"I am so proud of you, my pearl. You have shown graciousness beyond what anyone could have expected of you."
"Your Majesty has too high an opinion of me." Mary looked at her feet.
"Truly. When you lost everything through no fault of your own, you were still brave enough to get to know your uncle, though you had no reason to."
Father turned wistful. "I hope you know that I have always loved you, and I did care for your mother. The Great Matter was never your fault. It is just - England needs a prince to guide her, a son that will silence every upstart who thinks he deserves to plant his bottom on the throne."
He fell silent, and they could hear men being roused to arms. Mary straightened up. "Father, you must return to the palace. I'll stay here and look after Owen. Take down these rebels who have threatened England."
Father smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "You always have been every inch a princess, in my heart. Pray for me, and pray for England."
Mary nodded and headed back inside. It would not be safe to linger outside much longer.
Worry, worry, worry thudded within her. What would happen to Elizabeth? To her father? Her mother and Arthur could be imprisoned for treason, even if it was nominal! Owen too, could spend his whole life in the Tower! And how dare they supersede Mary's rights in favor of Owen?
Mary glanced out a nearby window to see reinforcements already lined up. Her mother was still well-loved in the North, and could have an army ready at the snap of her fingers. But there was no word on how large the enemy might be.
She watched them charge away, her stomach churning. She already knew how it all might go down.
Would they ever be free of anxiety?
Mary smiled bitterly. It was the lot of a queen - or a king - to be afraid for the whole of one's natural lifespan.
At times like these, she understood why Arthur had fled.
A/N: The dialogue between George Boleyn and the adults is Velocity Girl1980's work, although the ending conversation between Henry and Mary is my work.