Wonders never cease, but I have actually managed to write half a chapter for this story in the past day or so. In celebration, you're all getting chapter 2! I will try not to make it a year before I update again!

Melrose Abbey

It was the voices Rachel swore she would remember forever. Not so much the words, though, in truth, those too were branded indelibly into her mind, but the tones in which the Wardeness General of the Northern Marches delivered her message. They would haunt Rachel for the rest of her life, echoing in her nightmares from that day forth. Funereal tones.

"I deeply regret to tell you, Your Highness, that Her Majesty the Queen is dead."

It was as if the colour had leeched out of Rachel's world. Her throat closed and she had to fight to keep breathing as the blood drained from her cheeks. She scarcely heard the older woman's words as the Wardeness continued, "An allergic reaction to a strange new drink the Portuguese are fond of. Your Highness will no doubt be pleased to know that your lady mother wasn't alone. Your father was with her. The report says Her Majesty died in His Grace's arms and the end was mercifully quick."

"What does it matter how quick the end was? My mother is still dead!"

The words were out before Rachel had even fully realised that they had taken root in her mind. There were gasps at her uncharacteristically blunt words and she fought to bring her spiking temper back under control.

"What of my lord father the King?" she asked, her eyes roving the hall, instinctively seeking her Consort and greatest champion, David.

But David wasn't there. He'd stayed behind at Ludlow with Beth when she'd come north to Melrose to act as Regent in their parents' absence. It had seemed a good idea at the time, one of them staying behind to personify royal rule in the Marches and pacify the fractious Welsh. Now, however, she regretted it. She regretted it like she'd never regretted anything in her life. In the current moment in time, she wanted nothing more than to have her beloved husband at her side.

"His Majesty is making preparations to have Her Grace's body brought home for burial, My Lady. He asks that Your Highness arrange requiem masses for your mother and ride south to gather your Privy Council and begin to look to your own coronation as Queen of England in the meantime. His Grace feels that England will need her leader during this time of crisis."

"Of course," Rachel nodded abruptly, "I'll see to it."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that her voice was surprisingly calm. She'd never imagined she'd be this calm when she heard of her mother's death.

She pushed herself up on the arms of her throne. For a split-second, she stood, peering out over a sea of courtiers.

"Long live the Queen! The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!"

A single voice rang through the silent hall. The words echoed heavily, ringing in everyone's ears. The scene seemed to freeze for a moment, and then, as one, the courtiers blinked and sank to their knees, paying Rachel more respect than they ever had before.

Several instants passed. The breath caught in Rachel's throat. A wave of emotion welled within her and she had to swing on her heel and force her way out of the room to hide it. She heard the consternation swell in a cacophony behind her, but was out in the cloisters before anyone could stop her.

Breathing heavily, she struggled with herself, then raised her head, closing her eyes to feel the sun on her face. She was almost astonished to realise the summer's day was still as glorious as it had been half an hour earlier.

Her heart stopped. How could she have forgotten? She'd been invested as Crown Princess of Albion here.

For a moment, it was as though she was back there, in the midst of that ceremony. She could hear the halboys as they blared in her honour. She could smell the climbing roses as they wound their way around the pillars forming the arches of the cloisters. She could see Alexander and Dickon in their rich velvet doublets as they escorted her down the passage. Their parents, standing at one end, waiting for them with solemn looks on their faces and hidden pride in their eyes. Feel her heart pounding in her chest so hard she half-feared it might break. Sense the quivering of words on her lips as she prayed to God, the Virgin and all the saints she knew that the ceremony would go off without a hitch, that she wouldn't make a mistake. She remembered the weight of responsibility that she had sensed settling over her shoulders as Mama nestled her golden circlet in her dark hair and Papa handed her the half-size sceptre and orb that signified her new status.

"Your Highness?"

Rachel turned as a tentative voice broke into her reverie. Her half-sister Eleanor Rose stood behind her.

Several moments passed as Rachel struggled with herself. What should she do? She knew only too well that her mother had never approved of her friendship with the younger of her half-sisters. Allowing Nora to comfort her would be tantamount to doing her mother's memory a disservice. On the other hand, there were few people Rachel trusted more than Eleanor.

In the end, her longing for comfort won out over her desire to honour her mother's memory. She stepped towards Eleanor.

"I swore allegiance to my parents here, Nora," she whispered, "It was just over there, on the other side of the cloister. I swore to do what I could to rule Albion well when my turn came and they fitted a coronet on to my head. They named me Crown Princess of Albion that day."

"I'm sure you were a beautiful child," Nora murmured in response, resting a daring, caring hand on Rachel's shoulder.

They stood like that until Rachel's river of tears had dried up at last.

The candles flickered, casting long, dancing shadows in the corners of the chapel and over the reclining Queen's wig of hair. The shadows added depth to her wig, making it appear as though her ebony hair was as rich as it had ever been. As alive as it had ever been.

"The Portuguese craftswomen know their work. If – If I didn't know, I might even think she was merely sleeping."

The thought drifted through James's head as he looked down upon his wife's bier. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to trail a hand down the figure's cheek, almost starting when cold, forbidding wax met his fingertips instead of warm, loving flesh.

"Oh, sweetheart," The words came, unbidden and broken, from James's lips. He screwed his eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears, his hand clenching at his side, "What did we do to deserve this? You should have had years ahead of you yet; years. We should have grown old together, watched our families grow. You should have died in your bed at home, Rachel, Elizabeth, Arabella and Bessie at your side. I shouldn't be standing here, in a foreign chapel, wondering how on Earth we came to this."

His throat closed and he couldn't bring himself to continue. Choking back a howl of grief, he sank to his knees, sending a wordless prayer up to the Almighty. Was it a prayer for Anne's soul? A plea for guidance as to how he was to go on, now that he'd lost his wife, his dearest love, his Queen? If anyone had interrupted him, in that moment, and asked, James wouldn't have been able to say.

Whichever it was, however, when James rose again, nearly an hour later, shaking out his legs to rid them of their stiffness, he was calm, his mind clear.

He would take Anne home. He would take her home on the earliest possible tide and bury her at Glastonbury, like she'd once asked him to ensure she would be if she ever died before him. And he'd have Cecily taken up from her resting place at Leicester and brought to lie beside her mother. It was what Anne would have wanted. She'd been talking about having Cecily reinterred and turning Glastonbury into the new royal mausoleum for years.

Impulsively, he drew his sword. Holding it up, blade downward, so that the hilt formed a cross, he kissed the cross-guard, then laid the weapon briefly in Anne's embalmed lap.

"It will be done, sweetheart," he vowed, "I swear to you, it will be done exactly as you would wish."

Filled with new purpose, he sheathed his sword, crossed himself and turned to leave the chapel.

"Your Majesty!" A Portuguese page ran up to him as he exited the sacred space, "Queen Isabel would like to see you."

Irritation flared in James. What did the silly girl want now? She'd been trying to persuade him to delay his departure for days now; said he couldn't be thinking clearly because of his grief, but she was wrong. His mind had never been clearer.

Ignoring the servant, he swept past, his shoulders set. He'd tarried here long enough. It was time to go home.