The Once Queen
A/N in case anyone was wondering, because it will not have been addressed in this chapter, yes, I am aware that John Seymour would have died on Dec 21st, but I'm going to assume that he died at Wulf Hall so it would take several days for the news to reach the palace.
Also, if anyone was wondering, I will be merging the Tudors TV version of Jane Seymour (what I remember of her anyway) and the historical knowledge of Jane Seymour together. So, whilst she will maintain a meek and obedient front, I will be staying true to history in her evident dislike of Princess Elizabeth (from what I have read anyway) in barring her from the hall at Christmastide, and having been the wife to do what Anne Boleyn was accused of doing: setting out to seduce a King (with her family's heavy influence, no doubt) for the purpose of becoming his wife.
One reviewer asked about whether or not I will address the Pilgrimage of Grace in this, I must admit that I have not watched The Tudors in a while so, rather ignorantly, had forgotten about this. I have read up upon this and will be re-watching some of the episodes. So, yes, his lingering guilt and PTSD will be addressed, though not in great depth for a while as this book is mostly from Anne's point of view, and they are nowhere near intimate enough for him to be telling her/her seeing his struggles.
THIS CHAPTER – LIKE LAST – IS UNEDITED SO I APOLOGISE FOR ANY SPELLING MISTAKES, BUT I DID NOT HAVE THE TIME TO EDIT.
Chapter 7: The Point of No Return
22nd December 1536
Hampton Court Palace, England
The King had accepted her request for an audience.
It had been the first thing that Anne had done upon waking on the morning of the 22nd in her beauteous new rooms at Hampton Court Palace, calling for a servant and handing him a short note, requesting an audience to discuss the matter of her son's surname. Along with barring her father permanently from her chambers, of course, after Nan had reported that he had requested, and then demanded, entry several times that day.
As soon as the note had been delivered, she had called upon her Ladies to help her dress in a manner that depicted her as 'humble'. At her request, Nan had raised a brow and Lady Ughtred had tried and failed to conceal a snort. Anne had narrowed her eyes at them both, prompting them to swiftly comply.
Now, dressed entirely in a modest, off white dress with limited jewellery and pinned back hair, her green-clothed son in her arms, she ventured out of her chambers. Hopefully, Anne decided, Henry seeing the boy would make him more generous.
It was just her foul luck, however, that her decision to leave her own chambers coincided with Brandon leaving his own, with a woman at his side.
Anne's eyes swiftly darted between the two, who paused like deer caught in headlights. Brandon, however, swiftly changed his expression into one of unrepentance, whereas his bed mate looked like she wanted to flee down the halls, but some kind of pride – from the raised chin – was holding her in place.
The once Queen raised a brow at her husband's bedmate, and so the young woman finally gave up and simply scuttled off as fast as she could. Anne took great pleasure out of acknowledging that the woman was one of Jane's Ladies in Waiting.
Innocently, Anne wondered to herself what sort of backlash the Queen may face should the Court discover about the activities of her Ladies, or if the Queen would be threatened, knowing that she herself had a wondering husband too.
Directing her judgemental expression at the Duke instead now, he simply scowled at her. His eyes then moved down to her son and he delivered his first words to her in over six months. Those being very flattering, of course.
"I suppose you're off to do some flaunting."
The Duchess of Suffolk and Pembroke frowned at him. Of course, she would doubtlessly be doing some flaunting of her victory whilst at Court, which, would hopefully be made all the sweeter by whatever she could get out of Henry, but a part of her still felt offended by his words.
"And you're off to do some more whoring around, no doubt. If that poor girl hasn't already informed the castle of your rather poorly sized appendage," Anne said, moving to step past him.
A hand reached out and caught her arm in a firm grip. Anne paused, and glanced up over the side of her shoulder at the taller man. He leaned towards her, smirking lightly, "well, you'd know all about my… appendage. Wouldn't you, wife?"
"Enough to know its lacklustre," she told him, before adopting a smirk of her own and leaning further into him, "why do you think I'm going to see the King?"
His eyes seemed to project some foreign emotion at her words, hand tightening where it was grasping on her forearm, though not hard enough to hurt, and jaw clenching harshly.
The Duke went to say something, but what it was Anne would never know, for a voice began to holler out her name from further down the hallway. A familiar voice. Her father.
Taking advantage of Brandon's distraction, she wrenched her arm from his grip and began to make her way past him down the hallway, holding her son closer and speeding up, leaving her father shouting her name a hallway away.
The nerve of that pathetic, whorish man, the once Queen thought to herself angrily as soon as she judged herself a suitable distance away from both he and her father to allow herself to relax.
Knowing she needed to ease her rage before she met with the King, lest he be reminded of the qualities that had endeared him away from her, Anne looked down into the bright blue eyes of her darling son. Gently, she cooed at him. His little hands reached up, and so she offered him her pointer finger, which his tiny fingers grasped around in a motion that made her heart simply melt.
Her Bess and this little boy deserved the world, and Anne Boleyn would stop at nothing to deliver it to them.
Determination building, Anne reluctantly tore her eyes from her son and navigated the final hall that would deliver her to the King's chambers. As soon as she arrived, unlike so long ago at Whitehall when she went to Henry's chambers to relinquish her position opposed to fighting for her son's, the herald immediately nodded at her, opening the door and announcing her presence, and then stepping aside to admit her.
Stalking in, she was met with the sight of her husband. Alone. Inwardly, she was smiling. It would be so much easier to try to get to Henry when he was alone, had the Seymours been here… Their influence certainly would not have helped her cause.
After the door had closed behind them, Henry stood from where he was seated at a rather large desk, a goblet of wine within his position.
"Anne," he greeted cordially. Though, he wasn't looking at her, he was gazing directly at her six-week-old son whose bright eyes, eyes that matched his father's perfectly, were opened wide.
After looking down at her son and smiling warmly, Anne similarly greeted, albeit a touch more coldly, "Henry."
He did not even glance up at her, eyes seemingly transfixed upon the child. Though every instinct within her screamed to not do so, Anne knew that if she wished to make any progress, she must, so the Duchess inquired, "would you like to hold him?"
Henry nodded, and Anne wondered if it was truly a conscious movement. So, cautiously, she moved forwards beat away her resistance, passing the babe to him.
Luckily, Anne did not know what she would have done had it occurred, Lionel did not immediately begin to cry, instead letting out a long yawn as he gazed up at the man who was certainly his father, no matter what the Seymours and Cromwell would say.
"He has very bright blue eyes at the moment," Anne noted, hoping that Henry would take the prompt.
He did.
"Like mine," the King finished, and Anne smiled victoriously. If she had suggested it to be so, the King would undoubtedly have snapped at her, mentioned her numerous affairs but, for Henry to have suggested it himself…
Over her months at Pembroke, Anne had frequently considered her own mistakes and how she could have turned them into successes. One such had been her repeated failures to effectively get through to Henry by the end of her marriage, because she had been going about it wrong. Considering how Wolsey had controlled him, Anne was altering her methods. She would simply prompt Henry towards the channel of thought she wished to connect him to, and allow him to believe it was his own idea when he came to her conclusion.
It was manipulation, she knew. But she justified the means and tried to push away the hurt and regret by reminding herself that this man was not the one whom she had loved and married. Nay, he was a shell of whom had once been her Henry.
"I had hoped to discuss you allowing him to take the Boleyn name," Anne began, and Henry's head snapped towards her, "it is the only name that shall not bring him shame. After all, Lionel is not a FitzRoy, as he was conceived within marriage and I would refuse it for him. Of course, there is always the Brandon name-,"
"He will not be a Brandon," her ex-husband refused adamantly, his eyes hard and hateful, "he will never be a Brandon."
"Of course not, Your Majesty. It was only a suggestion," Anne told him lightly, and watched as he began to mull over her other propositions.
After a moment, he questioned, jaw tight, "you would refuse FitzRoy?"
"I do not regard my son as a bastard, Your Majesty," Anne told him strongly, "he was conceived within wedlock with no other man but Your Majesty. Also, to give him the title of FitzRoy would be to say that he has no claim to the throne."
At this, her ex-husband's tone became far darker, and more threatening. Anne longed to wrench her baby from his grip. "You think your son the heir to the throne? Before the sons of my sweet Queen Jane?"
Ignoring the stabbing pain that his last words invoked, Anne bowed her head humbly, and hoped that such a position would hide the fact that almost every single word she was about to utter were falsehoods, "I would never presume so, Your Majesty. It was simply that… well, the Queen has yet to have any sons and, though I'm sure God will see fit to bless you with many, in the case that he does not, naming Lionel a FitzRoy may prevent you from ever considering him as a possible heir, should the worst arise. I am sorry to have offended you."
From the King, silence reigned. After several moments, Anne dared to look up, and found her ex-husband gazing upon her son thoughtfully. The quiet was soon pierced by Lionel's cries, prompting Anne to swiftly move over towards her son. She placed out her arms for Henry to return her son to her.
He did not, and her stomach clenched with anxiety.
"Your Majesty," Anne said, her voice strong and eyes steely, fright for her boy taking over her, "if you would hand me back my son-,"
"Our son," Henry told her, before he reluctantly returned Lionel to her arms. Anne regarded him with disbelief for but a moment, before nodding at Henry, and offering him the slightest of smiles.
"Yes, our son."
Though, Anne thought rather viciously, I shall raise him to be nothing alike to you.
Just then, the herald opened the door to the King's outer chambers once more.
"Edward Seymour," the man announced, "Viscount Beauchamp."
The Queen's brother swept into the room, his step faltering when he realised that Anne was already there, with a rather conflicted looking King standing behind her.
Taking this as an opportunity to leave, Anne turned on her heel and moved towards the door. As she moved past the Viscount, however, she could not help but murmur to him lowly, quiet enough that the King would not be able to hear, "too late."
From the sharp look Seymour shot her, he'd heard her, and from his rather furious expression, he understood exactly what she had already ensured.
TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ
Hampton Court Palace was decked out in opulence for the Christmastide festives, just as Anne had expected it to be. Rich fabrics of red, green and gold adorning the hallways along with peculiar, wonderous contraptions built to reflect light spectacularly, with candles inside.
As Anne walked the hallways, every courtier noticed her, and each of them stared and whispered in wonder.
Most knew that Anne had been allowed to wear purple, having witnessed her within it immediately after her fall from Queen to Duchess, but it was entirely another event to witness the Duchess in said colour after having recently delivered a child that was widely believed to be the King's son.
Anne received all those looks with a growing smugness, her need for vengeance having grown insurmountably after being delivered some inside news from Lady Ughtred: her daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, was to be refused a place in the hall on Christmas day, despite Henry's whore having willingly offered a place her other step-daughter, the Lady Mary.
When the news had been delivered, Anne had shaken with rage. How dare she! How dare he! Those two, spiteful beings deserved one another.
Now, however, her expression was shuttered into one of nonchalance, her chin tilted upwards as if those she passed were beneath her. Normally, she would not allow herself to appear so arrogant, instead keeping herself steady and ensuring that she exuded charm and fire, encouraging others towards her like moths, but right now she feared should anyone approach her, she'd burst.
When she spied Sir Thomas Seymour amongst the nobles, nothing could stop the small sneer that broke out across her face.
"Now, now," a voice commented from her side, and Anne turned her hostile glower onto the unwelcomed guest, who took her arm, "you're not being very kind to poor Thomas, whatever did he do to you?"
"Plotting my death might have had something to do with it. I don't know though. Perhaps it's simply his unpleasant face."
"What a charming wife I have," the Duke of Suffolk commented, though he kept his expression entirely under wraps.
Anne, deciding that her own outward domineer was not going to make her the allies she so desperately needed, followed his suit, whilst idly commenting, "yes, you do. Though I heard you prefer the charms of seventeen-year-olds. How is dear Katherine Willoughby? Has she been gracing your bedchamber too?"
Teeth gritted beneath angry eyes, "I do not like your tone, wife."
"I do not like your presence, husband," Anne told him acidly, "leave."
He did not, continuing to walk with Anne towards the doors to the feast hall. The urge to shove him away was strong but, after he had made that scene all those months ago with the goblet, the last thing that Anne wanted was to have negative rumours swirling about them at her moment of victory.
So, she contented herself to walk in silence besides him. Insufferable husband or not, her victory began today.
TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ-TOQ
The feast, as usual, had been exquisite, the company less so but that had hardly mattered as Anne, at the earliest opportunity, had removed herself from the table of Dukes and Duchesses across the room – a distance, she believed, was rather purposeful and likely orchestrated by the Seymours – to sit beside the French Ambassador.
"Ambassadeur de Castelneau, how have you been, these past months?" Anne inquired of him in fluent French, her accent near flawless after her time serving under Margaret of Austria and two Queens of France.
"I am very well, thank you," the Ambassador of Francis I informed her, "I was very glad to hear of your good fortune."
Anne smiled widely at him, "my daughter and son are my pride and joy, Ambassadeur, and I am sure that they will grow into fine rulers one day."
The Ambassador's eyes widened at her implications, but that was followed by a warm grin, "I am sure they will, if they are as capable as their mother."
The once Queen bowed her head humbly, only raising it when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Ambassador stiffen with shock, his eyes fixated on something in front of him. Or someone.
When she looked up, Anne realised that Henry was in front of her, decked out in splendorous green, a green that matched his red-faced wife's attire. Clearly, they had been arguing, and Henry had decided to use Anne as a tool for punishment.
But Anne cared little about his purposes. All she knew was that Henry was here, in front of her, smiling at her just like – no. No.
She wouldn't, she couldn't think like that. Lest he fool her twice, and the next time truly separate her head from her dainty neck.
"Will you dance with me, Anne?" At the familiarity of his words, the Duchess could feel the shock waves that raced across the hall.
With little choice to refuse, for whom dare refuse a King, Anne reached out and took his hand, journeying with Henry to the only sparsely populated dance floor.
Luckily, the dance being played was not one that required intimacy or passion, such as La Volta, instead allowing her to maintain some distance; distance that she desperately needed to ensure that she didn't do something foolish, with this being the closest she and Henry had been since the annulment.
Anne swallowed harshly.
The eyes of the Court followed their every move like spectators to a bull fight; those that had previously occupied the dance floor had fled, electing to watch the drama unfold opposed to joining in the dance.
For once, being centre of attention made her uncomfortable. She wanted to fidget, she wanted to leave, she wanted-
Her eyes connected from afar with Brandon's, the man in question still in the same seat at the table of Dukes and Duchesses as he had been at the beginning of the feast. Her uncle Norfolk was talking at him, but the Duke paid little attention, preferring to meet his wife's eyes with a scornful look.
Anne's gaze torn from his by a sharp squeeze of Henry's upon her waist. She looked down at his hand and frowned, but this time did not allow her attention to stray.
Instead, despite sudden, surprising want to be anywhere but here, she offered him a pretty smile and batted eye lids, inquiring, "have you given any further thought onto our sons last name?"
"Yes," Henry told her, matching her smile with one of his own. Such a view melted her somewhat towards him, pushing her discomfort to aside. He was acting like her Henry. But he wasn't.
He wasn't.
He couldn't be.
And with such words, Henry turned to the musicians, gesturing for them to stop the song even though it was not even mid-way through. Then, he offered the spectators the same smile that he had offered Anne, and raised his arms upwards.
"On November 9th," he told them grandly, and Anne remained where she was, raising her chin, "God blessed me with a son whom I acknowledge as mine own," the crowd began to whisper to one another, the quiet sound congregating into something loud that the King was forced to halt before he could continue, "due to his uncertain legitimacy, the boy will harbour the name of Tudor, though, as of this moment, no place in the line of succession, in addition to the Dukedom of Bedford."
Anne's lips tilted upwards. Her final victory, though far from achieved, had begun.
A/N
So, little Lionel will be known as Lord Lionel Tudor, Duke of Bedford. I had originally thought to have him be named simply the Earl of Bedford due to Seymour interference, but as Hal FitzRoy has a double Dukedom, I think it would be quite strange for his other – legimiate/illegitimate/who-knows – son to only gain an Earldom.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please, if you can, review as I always read all of them! I'm constantly checking for any throughout the day and I'm always so glad to read them!