AN: Dear folks, thank you for so many replies even after such a long time. I never wanted to abandon this story, but a longer sickness and full-time work have kept my mind away from this. I never wanted it to remain unfinished, but this chapter rested on my desk for quite a while since it deals with very personal insights into grief and loss. For this reason I would like to warn everyone that this chapter might make you feel uncomfortable, but ultimately, I agree with my narrator here - that grief is part of life, and that there is always hope when there is life. Please let me know if you agree as well, or how you feel about the events of this chapter.

Chapter 51 – In which death did us part

We buried Mary Boleyn on an unusually cold day, and all I could think of was the gnawing question whether or not I should have seen this coming. George, outraged over the death of his elder sister, certainly had yelled those questions at me.

"Did you not know about this?"

"How could this have happened?"

"Why did no one warn us?"

"Is there nothing you could have done?"

I had no satisfactory answers to these questions, alas. As we followed Mary's mourning procession, led by the Queen herself, I firmly pressed George's hand to assure both him and me that we hadn't done anything wrong. Neither of us could have known this would happen. After the execution of Anne Boleyn, real-life Mary Boleyn had virtually disappeared from history. Sure, she had died some day, but I knew nothing about it. Could I have seen it coming? Should I have seen it coming?

She hadn't even been sick for long. As far as her husband William could tell in the few moments his tears ever stopped, Mary had only complained about headaches and blurry vision for a few days before simply collapsing in his arms. I told George it probably meant she had died from an aneurysm, which he accepted once I had explained what it meant. But honestly, I didn't know. Perhaps we could have done something had we thought of the possibility that she would die soon.

But you can never know everything.

The days and weeks after Mary's death were unusually sombre. The Queen withdrew from court to a great extent, while my father went out on long hunts. My little siblings were unhappy, too, since Mary had come to live with them at Hatfield to be their governess. Nellie especially cried for days and days, Lady Bryan told me. Edward, too, was hard to console, but Elizabeth appeared to stoically accept fate. The only thing she did was ask me if that meant that I, too, would die soon, since I shared a name with Mary Boleyn. I assured Elizabeth that I would not die in the foreseeable future, but I could sense in her slow nodding that she wasn't convinced.

Neither was I, to be honest. For how could I know? The babe I was carrying could easily kill me, even with all the precautions I had taught my midwife and ladies. I could suffer a stroke and no one would even understand what was happening to me. I could have an accident, be poisoned by our enemies, or die from an infection with no antibiotics at hand. There was no way I could foresee that, even with my historical knowledge. And despite all the medical and technological changes that George and I had carefully planted in the heads of others like seeds to grow, I couldn't be sure I'd live to reap the fruits. I could do much, after all, but I couldn't fight death.

It would appear that no one can. Not even those that are dearest to our hearts.

So when I found myself speaking to my father about the modalities of Elizabeth's betrothal, and his groom announced the Duke of Suffolk, I didn't see things coming. It wasn't until I saw my beloved uncle's pale, sombre face that I realized what was going to happen.

"Perhaps I had better leave you alone. Men's business," I told my father, gulping down the sudden sadness that threatened to make me cry. Uncle Charles nodded in my direction, giving me that faintest of smiles. I returned it, already close to tears, and squeezed his hand in mine. "Your Grace."

"My princess."

I swept out the room, nausea and kicks from my unborn child swirling inside of me. It couldn't be, I told myself. It mustn't be! But it had to. I had seen the look. I needed… clarity!

Without a second thought, I turned around again and snuck into the room adjacent to my father's council room. I knew it was most improper to be here, and that I would probably die from the pain that peeping on them would cause me, but I could not be anywhere else. I needed to see with my own eyes that my uncle's days were numbered.

I pressed against the door and heard my father speak.

"We've known each other a long time… a very long time."

"Yes," my uncle exhaled. "And I remember everything. In fact, I remember the things from long ago better than I remember yesterday." He paused, and I wished I could see his face. "I remember Your Majesty's sister so well. And the Battle of the Spurs."

My father chuckled.

"And when Your Majesty made me a duke," Charles continued. "God knows why."

"You were my general in York because I could trust no one else," my father insisted. "And I beg you now, Charles, to trust me. I have the power to make you well again. You know it."

The King's Gift… despite his learnedness, my father had always believed in this superstitious idea that a king's touch could cure certain illnesses. To be honest, I have always been stupefied by the fact that the kings of England who practiced this old ritual didn't die of the diseases they pretended to cure. To a modern mind, the whole concept seemed awkwardly hilarious… but not in that moment. When my father told Charles he would make him well again, I didn't chuckle. What I heard was not a man professing his magical abilities; it was an old man desperately hoping his best friend wouldn't die.

"They told me you were likely to die… but you won't die," my father expressed his thoughts. "I forbid it."

I bit my lip.

"Kneel," my father ordered, and again I wished I could see them. "By the grace of God, I, King Henry, king of England, Ireland and France, Defender of the Faith and of the Church of England, command you to be healed."

I loved the way he said it, I truly did. I am sure my uncle, too, appreciated the gesture. But there are commands that cannot be obeyed, however much you wish to. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, died in August 1545. The news came to me on a rainy day, and I found it only fitting that even the heavens would weep for a man, who despite all his failures had, at heart, been a good and loving soul. My father spoke no word to me about it, or anyone for all I know, but he ordered his best friend's body transferred to the capital in a lavish procession. There, at his own expense, he made sure Charles would be buried underneath a chapel in Windsor. It was a far better place than any low-born son of a standard bearer could have hoped to have. Still, even this comfort could not fill the void he left in my father's heart, I could see it.

And seeing that so many I had come to trust and love were departing me, I realized even more about life and death. For so many years I had meddled in political affairs, happily oblivious to the fact that it would all have to end one day. I had told myself I could prevent death, as I had so craftily prevented Anne's or that of my never-to-have-been-born siblings, Edward and Eleanor. But Mary Boleyn's demise and now that of my beloved uncle drove home a point – I could not save anyone forever. We were all mortal, even me.

I remembered the voice of that demon, or spirit, or whatever it had been which had sent me to this alternate version of reality.

"Everything you'll feel shall be as real to you as any feeling you've ever had. When you bleed, it will hurt. So will death."

I had expected this to mean my own death, not that of others, but the year 1545 proved me wrong. It had begun with my sister-in-law and continued with my uncle, yet unbeknownst to me at the time, the worst was still to come. In all honesty, looking back, I can firmly say that no other year in my Tudor life challenged my will as much as this.

"You will have no powers beyond your modern mind you pride yourself in", the demon's voice rang clear in my head.

For some time in 1545 and after, I wished I had never agreed. I regretted gambling with fate, I regretted ever having been so full of myself that I imagined I could solve every problem. I wish I could spare you the details of this painful time I had to go through, but I was not spared them, either. For better or worse, they changed the woman I was into the one I had to become to suffer everything that followed. To understand me, you have to understand what happened in that year.

And it's not just Mary Boleyn and Charles Brandon that I lost. If you wish to know my story, my true story, and all of it, you will have to suffer along as I lost two people even more dear to me, dearest to my heart. Fate didn't spare me. I can't spare you either.

I had barely recovered from losing my uncle when in October, urgent news came to me from the countryside. George saw my face grow pale as my eyes skimmed the letter, and thankfully he asked no questions but instead acted on my behalf. He put our boys in the Queen's care, then got us a carriage to take us to my mother's place, along with a nurse to tend to my swollen belly. He worried for our child while I worried for my mother.

She had outlived her original fate, I knew. But so had Anne, my little siblings, and others. She was no longer young, I knew that as well. But neither were many others, and now that she was past the dangers of childbirth, she had overcome the most frequent danger to women's lives in our time. Somehow, I had always believed that my mother would grow old surrounded by her grandchildren, as she deserved, yet now I found myself wondering if she would even meet the grandchild growing inside of me.

When I entered her sick room, all of those worries melted into nothingness. Her pale face, her sweaty hair, and the foul stink all clearly pointed to the fact that this was no longer matter of "if". It was a matter of "when".

"Mary?" She noticed me when I entered, even though her maids had assured me she was asleep. She lifted her head and tried to push herself up. "Oh Mary… my daughter."

Her tone brought tears to my eyes within an instant. I knew what would happen, I had seen it before. I had prolonged the time she had been given on this earth for many years, but not forever. Sniffing, I bent forward to embrace her tightly.

"Mi hija," Catherine wept with half-crying, half-joyful laughter. "Is it you? Look at you, I had not expected you here, not in your state… Oh Mary, tell me true, is it that bad?"

"Mother…" I stopped. "Mother, you know I would always come for you."

"My angel… you have others to worry about now," she reminded me in a crooked voice, pointing towards my belly.

I grabbed her hand and shook my head. "I came as soon as I heard. I simply had to."

"Yet you should not have. It is true, God commands us to love our mother and father, but the love for your own child must always be greater," my mother insisted. Then she touched my hair and smiled weakly. "It is natural for a mother to die before her daughter. It is the way of things."

"Please, mother, don't speak like that."

Catherine shook her head. "I can feel it, and I am not sorry. Seeing you was all I needed. You have become everything I have ever wished for." She coughed and sank back into the sheets. "I once believed it was my destiny to wear a crown, and for a time I did… but it never gave me the pleasure I feel when I look at you, Mary, or your children. Protect them always, promise me."

"I will. Of course I will. You know my boys mean the world to me… and this one, I hope it is a girl."

"I hope so too," she replied smiling. "And she will be strong and beautiful like her mother."

I nodded, realizing that tears were welling up in my eyes. "And her grandmother and great-grandmother."

My mother sighed deeply and turned her gaze away from me. "It is God's will. He wills you to be who you are, Mary, and what you are. Never forget it."

"Mama, please, let us not speak of the crown… You know how I feel about the succession, and I do not wish to argue with you."

"Oh Mary." Was that a chuckle or a cough? "You always believe that everyone wishes to argue with you, that everyone is able to see reason as you do. God has gifted you, mi hija, with wits he rarely ever bestows upon a woman. Not everyone thinks the way you do, and not everyone can be reasoned with. You cannot bargain your way out of everything, and certainly, my sweet, you cannot argue with God." Catherine looked at me again, and even though she was pale and frail, she seemed absolutely confident. "If He wills a crown on your head, you shall wear it. There are things we must accept, no matter our feelings. I have done so, and God has rewarded me with a good life. I will not leave this world an unhappy woman…"

This time, she truly coughed. I offered her water, but she denied, and only when I insisted did she take a sip from the cup I held before her. Of course I knew it did not truly matter. I knew she was dying. I just didn't want to accept it, and the fact that she had seen through my denial so clearly wounded me even more.

"I will tell my mother about you when I am with God," Catherine then said, and it sounded somehow delirious. "She must be so proud of you."

"Of course, Mama. And I promise I will name my daughter for her when she is born."

Catherine smiled, but she seemed to look through me. "Yes. Princess Isabella."

I felt the baby kick, and at that moment I found it bittersweet. I somehow knew that it would be the last time all three of us were together. I just didn't know how very true this feeling would prove to be very soon.

For three more days, my mother slowly withered away, losing her consciousness every now and then, and by the third day, she did not react to others anymore and spoke only incoherently. I felt utterly powerless watching it, for there was nothing I could have done about it. The day she died was cold and grey. Looking out of the window seemed like looking at my own soul in a mirror.

George tried to be supportive, to understand, since of course he knew what it felt like to suffer such a loss, but even his embrace and quips did nothing to quench this feeling of emptiness. When I had come to this world, I had not considered that this world, in a way, also came to me. I had entered people's lives, but in turn had allowed them into mine. Mary Boleyn, once nothing but a historical footnote to me, had become a friend and second mother to my children. Charles Brandon, the great philanderer, had become a most dear member of my family. And Catherine of Aragon, a woman who I had previously held in rather low regard, had become my mother.

When she died, a part of me died with her. No one would ever love me as much as she had, I realized. It broke my heart in a way I had not thought possible. Yes, life would go on, I knew, and it was only natural that she left before me, as she had said. But from the day she closed her eyes forever, I would never be able to shake off this feeling that I had lost something that could not be replaced. And, since I told you beforehand that I could not spare you grief if you wished to know my whole story, I must now also tell you that there was another loss I had to face in 1545 – one that was entirely different, but just as devastating as Catherine's death.

It was the day after Christmas, which had been a sombre affair at court, and it began with a strange pain and a feeling of wetness beneath my skirts. My water could not have broken, I wasn't that far along, I thought. But I had to make sure, I tried to feel the dampness, while in my heart a terrible fear arose. That fear came true when I saw my bloodstained fingers. I gasped. All of what happened next I do not really remember. It felt like a blur to me. When I regained my senses, I found myself lying in a bed that was not mine, surrounded by worried maids and sour-looking doctors. They brought George to my side to gently tell me what had happened, but I knew even before he made it to the bed.

I had thought that Mary, Charles and Catherine had left me empty, but now I truly was.

"I know," I whispered as George sank to his knees before me.

He grabbed my limp hand and kissed it. His eyes were red and swollen, but he tried to smile for me. His smile turned sour half-way through, devolving into a desperate sob.

"It was a girl," he wept.

"I know," I replied, this time crying myself. "Her name was Isabella."

George nodded, but seemed to be unable to hold my gaze. Instead, he leant forward, kissed my hand and held it against his forehead. It was strange – I was the one who could claim to be sore and empty, but in that moment all I felt was the urge to caress him. His hair was so soft, and the way he sobbed was so heart-wrenching… it is odd, really, the things you remember even after so many years. I will never forget that despite everything, I never loved George so much as I did in that moment when we shared our grief for our child.

"Can she rest with Michael?" I asked after what felt like an eon of tears.

George slowly raised his head. "The King will not dispute his granddaughter sharing a resting place with his son."

"No, he won't. Tell them, George, tell them. Her name was Isabella, and she was a princess of royal blood. Go, tell them."

"I cannot leave you in this state," he insisted.

"You must." With that, I let go off him. "Are you anxious about me? I do not feel like leaving this world today, George, and believe me, I know enough about dying now. It is not me you should worry about. You have a duty towards our little girl. Make sure she rests in peace, George. Be there for her."

He understood and rose to his feet.

"And George? Tell them to bring Harry and Charlie to me when the doctors are done."

George frowned. "Are you sure?"

I hesitated. Was I? The temptation to give into my grief was enormous, I hate to admit it. I could have wept for all those that I had lost until my tears ran dry, and I would have felt better doing so. But I thought of Mary Boleyn and the kindness she had showed me long before any of her siblings had come around. I thought of Uncle Charles's japes und the warmth in his embrace. I thought of my mother's undying support of me, and the sheer love that was always there in her eyes. And I thought of Isabella, my girl, my sweet lovely girl, and what a formidable woman she could have been. I had loved them all, each in a different way, but all of them fiercely. And if I gave in now, I would never feel anything like that ever again.

So I nodded. "I am. Bring them, please. They are the light of my world, and it is for them that I shall live from now on. For our children."

"For our children," he repeated quietly, and it sounded as if he was thinking of our poor girl and the great duty he still owed her. "I will do as you asked. Mary… do you know I love you? For better or worse?"

"For richer or poorer, until death do us part," I agreed. "You, I, our family, for now and always."

George nodded, and for a small second, there was a smile on his lips, and to me, it shone as brightly as the sun bursting through a sea of clouds.

"Now and always," he said. "I love you."

AN: Thank you everyone for sticking around and giving my story another read. If you can spare a moment, please let me know what kind of ending to this story you had been hoping for, since I had orginally planned to end this story at around chapter 60. I cannot promise regular updates the same size I used to, however, and I am not sure how to do this story justice. Any input would be greatly appreciated! Cheers, Rahja