Full Summary: Sucked into a vortex of intrigue, plotting and betrayal, King Arthur I finds himself pitted against his brother, Prince Henry, in a fight for the English crown. Surrounded by shadows within shadows, at the mercy of court factions, England's most reluctant King must reach deep within himself to find the strength to pull the realm back from the brink of another dynastic civil war.

Author's Note: I wrote this story and published it here about ten years ago, but it was so rushed and badly thought out, I deleted it not long after its completion. Something I always regretted, since I thought the story premise a good one. Anyway, the Covid lockdown has allowed me the time to go back and complete a full re-write of my first ever fanfic. And here it is!

Chapter One: The King is Dead.

21st April, 1509. Richmond Palace.

Prince Henry had never seen a man die before. They told him it was quick, a swift transition between living flesh and dead meat, as fast as a noose snapping a vertebrae. But his father, ever a man to defy convention, lingered on. Air rattled through the old man's lungs, his exhalation so weak it barely touched the haze of incense that hung heavy over the royal deathbed. The dying king's ears shut to the last rites murmured by the Archbishop, deaf forever to the prayers for the dying from his mother as she bent her old knees on the cold stone floor, rosary clicking softly in background. Henry thought to comfort her, but the spectacle of his dying father held him in its thrall as a myriad of thoughts collided in his head.

His feelings were alien to him, sensations he couldn't quite put his finger on. Grief? Grief for a man he had honoured, but never truly loved. Henry VII was a king, not a father – something the Prince had never been allowed to forget. If he had ever been so bold as to imagine the king's death, he envisioned it as a moment of liberation from the gilded cage he had been forced into and trapped in for seven long years. Picturing a future full of tournaments and pageantry, valour and war had pulled him through the darkest of days. All he wanted was to be free to chase those dreams, to be the hero of his own story.

Nervously, he stepped closer to the bed, careful to muffle his footsteps. All around him, other mourners bowed their heads, rosary beads entwined in their fingers, glinted dully in the candlelight. Henry felt self-conscious as he realised he had neglected to bring his own. Not that any words of prayer formed in his mind. Instead, he took his last look at the man who had been his father, his king and his captor. Henry VII's face was gaunt and half in shadow, cheeks sunken to dark pits and skin as wrinkled and pale as parchment. Long gone was the young and hungry exile who'd staked his life on the crown, fuelled by a sense of righteous justice. Left in his place, only this fading ghost.

From somewhere nearby, the Archbishop's voice cut through the Prince's thoughts. "The King is dead."

So, that was it. The proclamation was met with a sharp gasp from Lady Margaret Beaufort, but a quick glance around the other faces in the room and Henry could see the relief in their eyes. Like they all had better things to be doing. The Duke of Buckingham jolted like he'd been startled out of a pleasant nap, but he quickly regained his wits. "Write to Queen Margaret in Scotland, she must be informed immediately. Send messages to every city in the realm. And summon the ambassadors, the rulers of Europe must be kept informed."

To many, the haste may have seemed indecent. But Henry understood; matters of state paused for no one. Not even the death of a King. What he didn't quite understand was how Buckingham had managed to forget the most important person of all. "My brother, your grace. The Prince of Wales might also like to know of the death of our father."

"Naturally." The Duke's eyes narrowed, god alone knew what was going through his mind. He inclined his head in a show of deference and ducked out of the room.

Curious, Henry allowed his gaze to linger on the spot where the Duke had vanished. But it was Arthur who soon occupied his thoughts. Out in the Marches with his pretty Spanish wife, oblivious to his world about to be turned upside down. Poor, weak Arthur whom their father had expected to die at any moment. Simply living to claim the throne meant the new king had already exceeded expectations. Only time would tell if that is enough to steady the English ship.

Meanwhile, Henry returned to his now dead father as the others filed out of the chamber. Only Lady Margaret Beaufort remained, her knees still bent against the cold flagstones as she prayed and prayed for the soul of her only child. He had no words of consolation to take her pain away and he found himself looking at the closed door, realising he could walk through it unquestioned. At last, he was free.

1st May, 1509. Ludlow Castle, Shropshire.

The last thing Katherine of Aragon expected was to fall in love with this place. The long journey from Spain had been fraught with danger, the sea-crossing one long, endless storm during which a priest had read them their last rites on the increasingly likely chance they would all be sunk and drowned. Seasickness had left her so weak she had had to be carried ashore in the arms on of an old sailor, like a discarded doll washed up on the shoreline. At the end of these harrowing travails, she found herself on a dismal, windswept island in the middle of the sea which welcomed her with freezing sleet that didn't let up all the way to Dogmersfield.

Then she met her future husband. Still unwell, she had been woken in the middle of the night and dragged out of bed to be inspected like a prize heifer by the King himself, before being turned over to his son. Prince Arthur had burned red with embarrassment and scrutinised his feet the whole time before the unseemly farce was brought to an end by the timely intervention of Dona Elvira. But the wedding was nice, and by that time Arthur had gathered enough courage to speak to her in near whole sentences.

Upon arrival, she thought she might never see the sun again. Yet here she was, strolling the battlements of Ludlow Castle, relishing the feel of the early spring sunshine on her face as she surveyed her husband's lands. Down the steep hill, to the pretty stone arched bridge that crossed the winding river Teme to the little market town beyond. It occupied a place in her heart that had grown into a profound affection in the eight years since she had arrived.

Throughout all that time, Maria de Salinas had been at her side, day in and day out, come what may. This day was no different.

"I was just thinking of the past," Katherine said to her.

"If the news I hear from London is true, you would be best served fixing your mind on the future."

"You mean the King? He has been at death's door for three years and more. I think he shall outlive us all. Allow me this one concession to nostalgia, Maria." They came to a halt at the crenellations overlooking the forecourt and down the long, gravelled driveway. A fountain gurgled below, its water shining like crystal in the rays of the rising sun. "You remember how ill we were when we got here. Arthur and I. They feared we both might die."

Maria rolled her dark brown eyes. "When you said you were reminiscing, I thought it might be something nice. Dancing in the Alhambra, wading the seas of southern Spain. Alas, it is the time you and your newly wedded husband almost died."

Katherine laughed, quickly composing herself again. "What if Elvira and Diego were right, what if it did something? What if that is why I cannot get with child?"

"They lied to you, Katherine; they sold your secrets," Maria replied, firmly. She drew herself to full height, looking her in the eye. "I cannot explain what happened to Dona Elvira, why she betrayed you the way she did. I will certainly not excuse her. As for him, I will not speak his name again. But you are strong and healthy, you bleed every month so regular that even I know when it is due."

"You misunderstand me, Maria," said Katherine, eyes lowered, her tone flat. "They never said it was I who had the problem. Arthur. What if the illness affected his … you know? His seed."

Maria's eyes widened in shock. "Be careful who you say that to. King Henry has locked men up in the Tower for less." She spoke in jest, but it was only funny because it was true. At length, Maria continued: "Small wonder Prince Arthur supported his father in sending Dona Elvira and Fray Diego away."

They lapsed into a companionable silence soon broken by the sound of horse's hooves coming from below. Two chestnut palfreys, saddled up already, being led to the fountain for a drink. As Katherine watched them, she thought back on the scandal that had hit her own household before she even saw it coming. Her own Duenna secretly working with the Castilians to undermine her father; her confessor putting it into her head that Arthur was infertile and too weak to ever be king, angering the actual King in the process. Then he sold her secrets while bedding every wench that had the misfortune to cross his path. That pretty little market town was now richly sown with Fray Diego's bastard offspring. She had defended him, made excuses for him and fought with Arthur driving such a wedge between them that conceiving a child would have been impossible anyway since they were living at opposite ends of the castle.

Arthur's voice intruded upon her thoughts. Distant but clear as he called a greeting to the stable hands. He soon came into view, dressed in dark colours that made his golden curls stand out all the more starkly. As he set his foot in the stirrup, he looked up and met her gaze, holding it for a moment before bowing to her. Katherine returned the courtesy by bobbing a curtsey. It was all very chivalrous, but the distance remained.

"Are you still angry with him?" asked Maria.

"I was never angry with him," Katherine confessed, watching as Arthur rode toward the portcullis. His sister, Princess Mary, had joined him, riding alongside. "I was angry with me. For being duped. For believing their lies. For letting false friends come between me and my English family. Even now, they have me doubting him and I am angry at myself for doing that, yet taking it out on him which only makes it worse."

She swiped at the tears threatening to fall, but nothing got past Maria. The other woman wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Listen well, Catalina, the only people who deserve your anger are Diego and Elvira. She was like a mother to you; he swore before god to guide and protect you. They broke their promise and you are not to blame. Waste no more tears on them."

As loathe as she was to admit it, the tears felt good. A last release of emotion before her head cleared and she could think straight again. Maria spoke true, but Katherine was still kicking herself for being so blind to the faults of people she held dear. She drew a deep, cleansing breath and straightened her back, standing as tall as she could. "What if the damage has already been done?"

"You won't know until you talk to Arthur. Do it as soon as he returns."

Still Katherine hesitated. Princess Mary was with him, so it was only a pleasure trip they had gone on. They would be back before noon. She backed away from the crenellations, tracing her route back to the castle. Her mind was made up.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Princess Mary was pouring forth several weeks worth of pent up frustration and irritation. "You don't understand what it's like, Arthur. I spend all day with the Princess who cries and laments that she's ruined everything and you'll never speak to her again. Then when I'm with you, you're crying and lamenting that you have ruined everything and Katherine will never speak to you again. From what I can see, neither of you have ruined anything and the solution to both your woes is to stop being silly for long enough to just talk to each other. How hard can that possibly be?"

Her agitation spread to her horse, causing him to skitter and toss his head. Arthur grew concerned, but the creature soon settled when Mary paused for breath. He thought she might have more to add and was relieved when she just slowly shook her head, tutted disapprovingly and turned to face the path ahead. They were ambling along at a leisurely pace, taking in the rolling landscape of Shropshire when the subject of his recent quarrel with Katherine inevitably arose.

"All I'm saying is that I regret the way I went about the matter," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt her; I never meant to cause Katherine distress and it pains me to know that I did. I tried and tried to make her see what those people were doing, she kept defending them and all the while they were leaking information back to father. And you know what our father has become, don't you?"

Although she kept her attention on the path ahead, he could see her expression darkening. The court at London had become a human bear pit, ruled by fear and suspicion. Men were being rounded up and thrown in the Tower for the slightest thing, while tax collectors bullied and harassed innocent subjects into giving up their last battered pennies just to avoid the debtor's prison. Arthur was just glad he and Katherine had successfully gotten Mary out of there, bringing her to Ludlow after their mother died so he and the Princess could look after her themselves. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to do the same for Prince Henry.

"Thomas More's father, Sir John, is now in the Tower," Arthur continued. "And our Uncle, William Courtenay. A man who joined our father when he was a penniless exile in Brittany and fought alongside him at Bosworth. Rotting in the Tower of London."

"I heard about William, so I wrote to Aunt Catherine and cousin Harry," said Mary, quietly now as her mood sobered. "I didn't say anything direct and certainly not against our father, but I made it known I was praying for them. You will make it right when you are King, won't you?"

Arthur sagged, the despondency over his argument with Katherine and the prospect of what lay ahead in all other matters weighed him down more than ever. "How can I make it right? I can release all those men wrongfully arrested, but I cannot stitch heads back onto bodies. I cannot wash away the fear and trauma the Tower inflicts upon its residents. I look at what Kingship has done to our father, and it scares me, Mary. I look at him now, and see myself in twenty years time."

"You won't end up like him. Arthur, you're a good man with a good heart."

"He was a good man, too. He risked everything to return to this country and take the crown, ending the wars once and for all, uniting two houses who'd been tearing each other apart. He was a liberator, a reformer, an idealist. But the crown consumed him. When I think what it's done to him, it makes me wish we could all stay here at Ludlow and live our lives in peace. Just you, me, Katherine and our friends."

He could wish all he liked, he knew it was never going to happen. All he could do was make the most of mornings like this, when he, his sister and, once the air was cleared, his wife could all go riding together. They could be a family and just be normal. But even now, the real world looked like it was going to intrude upon their little pocket of harmony. He could see a party of black clad riders, one in front bearing the royal standard, galloping towards the castle.

Arthur and Mary continued skirting the outside of the castle walls, refusing to rush the last few yards of their journey for the sake of the privy council. A decision solidified when he spotted Katherine waiting by a postern gate. His heart skipped a beat at the unexpected sight of her. Her auburn hair was loose about her shoulders, her gown a simple white satin embroidered with silver threads that caught the light.

"Mary, ride on ahead and tell those men to await me in the hall."

Before carrying out her instruction, Mary fixed him with a pointed look. Almost threatening. He acknowledged it with a beatific smile. Once alone with Katherine, however, he pulled himself together and extended a hand to her, pulling her up into the saddle with him. "We need to talk," he said, as soon as she was safely in place in front of him. He circled his arms around her waist so he could hold of the horse's reins.

Katherine twisted in the saddle to face him, her large blue eyes meeting his. The whites were pink and puffy, like she had been crying. He sent up a silent prayer that he had not been the cause of her distress, but he knew he probably had been.

"I am sorry, Arthur," she said, plaintively.

"No, I am sorry. It was I who was in the wrong."

"No, I was wrong, I should have listened to you."

"And I should have been more patient, I acted rashly and I promise never to do so again."

Before Katherine could reply, Arthur kissed her. Relying on the horse's sense of direction, he released the reins and brought one free hand to her chin, caressing her face as the kiss lingered. Only the sound of someone clearing their throat parted them. Startled, Arthur only suppressed the curse on his lips when he saw that it was Mary. Pale and worried, she chewed her lower lip as she looked up at them.

"Arthur, please, you must come. Quickly."

"Oh, shit," he murmured, earning a light smack on the leg from Katherine. "I'm sorry, my love, dine with me this evening and we will talk properly then."

"It's all right," she assured him. "All will be well."

Mary had run on ahead, leaving Arthur and Katherine to follow on. He nudged the horse, urging it on a little faster as he inwardly cursed the councillors who had timed their arrival so thoroughly inconveniently. They crossed the drawbridge back into the castle forecourt and found them all, grim faced and kneeling in the gravel. Only one remained standing, with even Mary now down on her knees, her head bent low so all he could see was her auburn hair, hanging a loose braid over her shoulder. Confused, bewildered, not quite certain of what he was seeing, he wished they would all get up.

When Katherine tried to slide down from the saddle, he tightened his grip on her to keep her in place. He needed her, he realised. He needed her for what he was about to hear. Attuned to him, she covered his hand with her own as the last man standing, the Lord High Marshall, spoke aloud.

"The King is dead. Long live the King."

So, Arthur thought to himself, this is it.

Thank you for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.