A/N: I am never putting Seymour, Butts, and a Dick in the same scene again.

8 September 1540
Windsor Castle

"I don't believe the skull is fractured…"

What – who…

Her eyes cracked open only to snap shut against the sunlight slicing across her face from the right. She was drowning in an ocean of pain; her head felt as if it were caught in a vice, her right shoulder and arm were throbbing with every beat of her heart, and every inch of her ached as if she'd been thrown with force down a flight of stairs. There had been something about fire, if she remembered right…fire or an accident…

"…but I can't be certain, not until I can properly examine—"

"Dr. Phipps!"

She opened her eyes again as dark shapes approached her, blessedly blocking out the light. "Doctor, what do you think?" a voice came.

"Give me a moment, Father." Fingers brushed against both of her temples and wrapped around her good wrist. "Strong pulse, minimal bruising around the eyes, no sign of excessive phlegm production...has His Highness voided yet?"

His Highness?! How badly injured was she that they didn't even realize—

…and in a flash it all came back to her.

She'd been lying in bed, her mind conjuring up a golden world where she had been born a boy and England had avoided all the ills of the past fifteen years, and then she'd fallen asleep and found herself caught in the strangest dream…

…and either she was still in that dream or – or it wasn't a dream at all.

Another beam of light suddenly cut across her face. "Sun…hurts…" was all she could get out in an odd voice before some merciful soul pulled the curtains shut.

"Your Highness, can you hear me?"

She nodded, squinting up into the face of a young man wearing a black physician's cap.

"Dr. Richard Phipps, sir," he said. "Your lord father the King has sent me to care for you. How do you feel?"

She opened her mouth, but although she knew what she wanted to say the words wouldn't come. "Pain – fro-front," she finally stammered, lifting her left hand to show him where – but she was shocked into silence as a massive paw came into view. She'd always been so proud of her dainty wrists, her slim fingers…

"Sir, can you tell me where we are?"

"Huns…Hunsdon…" but she stopped; there was a canopy of estate above her head. "Not…"

His eyes narrowed. "I take it you can understand me, sir?"

She nodded, wincing at the stabbing pain even that slight movement brought. "I…I…not speak."

"You're unable to form words to answer?"

"No…mouth."

"You can form thoughts, then, but you can't translate them into words?"

She nodded again, this time careful not to move too quickly.

"I've seen this before," he said, looking up at – at Thomas More, who was standing on the other side of the bed with a concerned frown. That was right; in this dream (or whatever it was) he was still alive – but why was he wearing priest's robes?

The doctor turned back to her, worry lines forming between his brows. "Does it hurt to nod, sir?"

She barely moved her head this time.

"And do you remember everything that happened to you?"

"Remember…nothing."

"Nothing of the tilt, or nothing at all?"

Tilt?! She tried to explain but the words would not come. "Father…England…Princess…"

"Which Princess do you remember, sir?" Thomas More asked.

She couldn't stop the tears. "Mary…"

"Jesus have mercy," he breathed, crossing himself; out of the corner of her eyes she saw the other men follow his lead. "You don't know where you are, then?"

"Not Huns…" but she fell back, her eyes fluttering shut of their own accord. She was exhausted, dizzy, nauseated, consumed by pain – and yet she didn't dare drop off, she had to know—

"We'll let His Grace rest for now," Phipps said, his voice growing faint as he stepped away from the bed. "The speech and memory issues should resolve themselves over the next few days, but no matter what happens I've given the King my word I'll remain at Windsor until he's out of danger."

"So you believe the Prince will eventually recover his memories?" a voice said – George Boleyn's, if she remembered right. He had been there too…

"He seems to remember his blessed aunt's execution; I can't see why he wouldn't…"

She bit her lip so as not to gasp out loud. That was the Mary they thought she'd meant – but execution? Why would her father have killed his own sister? And why did they call her blessed?

"I wouldn't go that far," Boleyn said. "All we can tell is that His Highness remembers Blessed Queen Mary herself. I can only wonder how likely it is that he'll remember…"

A pregnant pause.

"It's simply too early to know, Your Grace," the doctor replied. "The brain is a mystery even to the wisest and most experienced physicians. I've seen men in the Prince's condition recover almost immediately but I've also seen…but never mind that; we have our orders. His Majesty has asked me to attend on him; while I'm away, Sir Henry, I would ask that the curtains be kept closed. If His Grace opens his eyes again, please send down…"

What orders…but she felt herself slipping away before she could—

By the time she woke again it was evening and the candles had been lit. "Where – where am I?" she asked a man sitting beside her bed.

"The state apartments at Windsor Castle, Your Highness. The King and Queen are in the Chapel Royal praying for your recovery and the Prin—"

"Sir Francis, no!" More barked. "Not another word!"

"But—"

"The Prince is not yet himself," a languid voice added, and if that wasn't an understatement she'd eat her kirtle – except that she wasn't wearing a kirtle and likely never would again, if this turned out to be something other than a dream or a vision.

But what else could it be?

It could be reality, her inner voice suggested. This could be the Lord's doing.

Or Satan's, she replied.

Thomas More's voice interrupted her dialogue. "Return to the King if you will, Sir Francis, and advise him that the Prince is awake."

As the young man bowed and left she suddenly realized with horror exactly what her body was calling for…how was she supposed to— "I…I have to…" and she gestured down.

The languid voice spoke again. "Is it safe to move him, Dr. Phipps?"

"If his head is supported – ah, I see the issue. Let us help you, Highness; don't try to move."

And then came the strangest sensation of her life; they sat her up, her head cradled carefully, her shoulder screaming in protest, and – and one of them touched – oh no…

She could only squeeze her eyes shut against the panic and terror and sense of complete and utter wrongness and concentrate on the process of voiding itself. If this were a dream she wouldn't have been able to imagine this; if this were a vision from God He would not have given her one of…those…or wasted her time with a basic bodily function.

This was real.

She was a man.

Once she'd finished they tucked…that thing…back under her shirt and gently returned her to bed. She could now clearly see the three men clustered around her: Thomas More, still in his inexplicable priest's robes; Dr. Phipps, the physician who had interrogated her earlier; and a bearded man whose hauntingly familiar eyes reminded her of someone she hadn't seen in years. "I'm sorry," she said to him, "but I don't recognize…"

"Sir Henry Seymour, Your Highness, brother to the Duchess of Wiltshire," he replied with a dip of his head as Phipps retreated to wash his hands. "Father More said you were having issues with your memory and His Majesty thought it best that you be attended by men of experience and discretion."

Jane's brother! She almost asked after her but stopped when she realized that she didn't know if she'd ever met Jane in this world, or if it was Jane or one of her sisters who had married the Duke of…

…of Wiltshire.

The doctor had called George Boleyn 'Your Grace'.

Please, no.

She cleared her throat. "My…my lord father the King is well?"

"The King prospers most exceedingly well, sir," Sir Henry replied, "and is looking forward to testing his mettle against the perfidious French."

"And my…and Queen Katherine?" she asked, relieved that she could put the words together to ask – but as soon as she said the words all three men froze. "What is it?"

"Sir, perhaps—"

"Please, I must know."

The men traded looks. "Will," Thomas More finally said, "your mother died a great many years ago."

"Queen Katherine was taken by God shortly after the birth of the late Prince Edward, sir, in November of 1521," Phipps chimed in as he returned to her side. "Your Grace was only five; I'm surprised you remember her."

1521? Then—

But what did Sir Thomas just say? "Did you just…did you call me Will?"

His brow knit. "Yes, sir; you are Prince William. Do you not remember?"

"I…I am a prince, I apprehend that," she replied, "and from the embroidery on the canopy of estate above me I must assume myself Prince of Wales, unless this is not my room. Other than that…am I an only child?"

More hesitated. "You are the Prince of Wales, sir, and your father's only living child with your lady mother. You however also have two younger brothers, the Princes Edmund and Charles, and a sister, the Princess Elizabeth—"

Elizabeth!

"—borne of His Majesty's current lady Queen."

"The sister of my brother-in-law, sir," Sir Henry added. "The former Lady Anne Rochford."

Her eyes snapped shut. If God had sent her here…or was that why he had? Was she expected to scourge the realm of the harlot and her diabolical filth? If so—

"Are you well, sir?" the physician asked. "Do you require—"

"It's just a twinge, Doctor – Phipps, is it?" she said, opening her eyes again and fiercely repressing the urge to vomit. "Forgive me for alarming you. Might I have something to eat?"

"Of course, sir. Boy!" he cried, turning to a page waiting nervously near the door. "Bring the Prince bread and meat. I trust the small beer at Windsor is fresh?"

"Brewed today, Doctor."

"Then bring some of that up as well." He turned back to Mary. "Forgive me, sir, but I don't want you drinking wine or strong beer until I'm certain you've fully recovered. Do you remember speaking to me earlier?"

"Yes; I couldn't get any words out but I was able to understand everything you said."

"That's an excellent sign, sir. From your questions I take it Your Highness's memory has yet to recover?"

"I regret not, although—"

The door burst open. "Don't you dare move a muscle!"

It was her father, slimmer and in far better health than the last time she'd seen him, his eyes full of concern and…and love.

He'd never looked at her like that before, not even when she was the pearl of his world.

"I don't want you risking yourself with even a nod of the head," he continued as he strode into the room and planted himself at her bedside, gesturing for the other men to rise from their bows. "Your lady mother and I have been worried sick. How are you, son?"

"Much better, Your Majesty – Father," she choked out; why had he called the harlot her mother? "I can only credit Dr. Phipps – and Your Majesty's prayers, of course – for my recovery."

"And your memory is returning? George told me you remembered my blessed lady sister."

"I did, sir, and I remember Your Majesty, of course, and – and Mother," she forced herself to say. But why would he bring up Aunt Mary if he'd killed her?

Or had he?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Thomas More glance her way. He must have caught the evasion – so why did he seem relieved?

There was far too much going on for her to sort out at the moment.

Father took her hand. "Anne is is still in the Chapel Royal wearing out both her knees and her rosary beads; she's arranged for masses to be said for your recovery as well. I swear to God, Will, you gave her the fright of her life today."

"Then I must apologize—"

But he shook his head. "Don't; your lady mother would be the first to tell you that – and let me assure you she's as proud of you as I am. You're the best—" and he turned away, just for a second; Mary had the impression he was fighting back tears. "You're the best son any King could ask for, although I grieve that we'll now have to do without your ready sword in France. I know how much you wished to punish King Louis personally for his insult to God and our family."

She felt lost; who was this King Louis and why had he – but her father was waiting for an answer and she could only hope not to anger him. "Must I forgo that honour, sir?" she improvised. "I would not see a King's head taken by a lesser man."

For a moment she wondered if she'd gone too far but her father beamed with pride. "Now there's the true English spirit!" he said to Thomas More approvingly, thumping him on the shoulder. "Between your tutelage and mine, Tom, he's the most honourable prince England's ever seen!"

But More demurred. "I cannot take any credit for Prince William's honour, sir; that derives from Your Majesty's own honourable nature and, of course, that of Queen Anne – and the late Queen Katherine, of course."

"You have the right of that," her father sighed. "I've been remarkably fortunate in my wives, haven't I? Anne is a treasure, of course, but Katherine was a true warrior. I remember Norfolk saying he didn't think Flodden worth the battle, but she certainly showed all of us what a daughter of Isabella could achieve. In fact, do you remember…"

Mary listened dumbfounded as her father spent a good three minutes extolling her mother's virtues. Not once in twenty-four years of life had she heard him utter a single word in praise of her; not once in twenty-four years had he even so much as alluded to her valour, piety, or strength of character. To him she'd always been the stubborn old 'Dowager Princess' he'd grown to loathe. But in this world she had brought him a son – two, if Sir Thomas had spoken right – and that had made all the difference.

Her supper arrived just as Father was winding down. "Eat up, Will!" he said, resting his hand gently on her free shoulder. "Phipps doesn't want you getting out of bed just yet – isn't that right, Doctor?"

"Not until tomorrow at the earliest, Your Majesty," he confirmed.

"Then I'll return tomorrow. Doctor, Tom: a moment of your time."

She watched them leave as the groom placed the salver before her and poured the beer. A day ago she would have given all she had for her father's love and approval; why, then, did it hurt so much to have it now?

Because it's proof he didn't love you before, she answered herself. He'd put on a show of caring when she was young but any love he truly felt was reserved for those who gave him what he wanted – and no Princess, no matter how highly born, could ever do that.

She'd spent four years chasing a shadow, praying for the day he'd love her again – and it was only now that she realized he'd never had the capacity to love her in the first place.

But her stomach interrupted her with a rumble; she reached for a slice of bread but found it uncommonly difficult to get her hand to do what she wanted it to. "My balance and movements are off," she said to Sir Henry, who had stayed behind to keep her company – and how strange it was to be left alone in her bedchamber with a man.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's not unusual after an injury to the head, sir. I've seen such things happen more than once to gentlemen on the hunt, and in my experience it always clears up within a day or two."

Now that was interesting; from what she remembered Sir Henry was a quiet, retiring gentleman who'd never had much time for country pursuits. "Which hunt is this?" she asked.

"The Wiltshire Hunt, sir. As Warden of Savernake Forest since my lord father's death it's my duty to officiate, at least while I'm in the county."

She almost dropped the bread.

In her world Edward Seymour was the eldest son and as such had inherited the wardenship at Sir John's death. "You have brothers, Sir Henry?" she asked, almost dreading the answer.

"Two living, sir: Sir Anthony and Master Thomas, both of whom are members of your household. They're both looking forward to travelling to France at the end of the month, although I suppose they'll now go with the King and not yourself."

"To do battle against King Louis," she murmured. "I seem to remember an older brother – and sisters, if I recall correctly."

"You remember Sir Edward, then?"

"Only his face and name, I'm afraid, and even then…"

He nodded in understanding. "I ask because Sir Edward was attached to Your Highness's household for some years before his death in the pestilence of '28—"

She sucked in a breath. Ned was gone!

"—and it seems as if your earlier memories are returning before more recent ones."

"Yes, I suppose they are," she somehow got out. "And your sisters?"

"I have three living, sir. Elizabeth is, as I said, Duchess of Wiltshire, and Dorothy was just last month married to Lord Shrewsbury. Jane…" and his face reddened, "has recently been obliged to take vows at Dartford Priory."

She felt the blood drain from her face. Surely her father hadn't—

"Sir, don't distress yourself!" he cried, rising to his feet. "Your Highness had nothing to do with my sister's dishonour, I assure you."

"I am glad to hear it," she replied, once again at sea. "I take it then that…"

And the full meaning of Sir Henry's words suddenly hit her. He'd meant to reassure her that she hadn't meddled with Jane, but by his reaction it was clear she probably had meddled with some lady along the way.

She was a man, after all.

She finished the bread and ham in silence, her mind reeling. She was no longer a woman; not only could she no longer claim the status of virgin – no man, after all, possessed a maidenhead – but she had almost certainly had relations with…with another woman.

You are twenty-four years old and Prince of Wales, her inner voice suddenly told her; you've probably swived half the ladies of the court.

She hadn't anticipated any of this; how could she? Her imaginings had been just that – the meandering, half-formed dreams of a neglected princess who'd been forced to deny her God-given birthright in order to survive. She'd never anticipated God acting on her thoughts, and even if she had she would never have expected her friend Ned Seymour to pay the price for them with his life. Ned was dead, Ann Stanhope, her dearest and oldest friend, was likely married to someone else (if she had been so fortunate as to find a husband with her meagre dowry), and Jane, that sweet, gentle lady who should have been Queen of England, had been seduced, abandoned, and immured against her will in a convent.

And Aunt Mary had died by the executioner's sword.

She peered over at Sir Henry, the pain in her shoulder momentarily forgotten as another possibility came to mind. "If I may ask…do I have any children that you know of?"

But at that his lips grew thin. "Your Highness's lord father the King has ordered your attendants not to speak of certain…delicate matters, sir. I apologize, but I cannot disobey a direct order."

"No, of course not," she replied, privately rueing his integrity. "In that case, are you able to tell me if I have any particular friends?"

"Now that I can do, sir," he said, his face relaxing. "My brother Sir Anthony has the honour to be one of your closest companions, as do Sir Francis Weston, Master John Paulet, and Master Thomas Culpeper – no, forgive me: Tony mentioned the last gentleman recently left your service under some sort of cloud. You're also especially close friends with His Grace the Duke of Suffolk."

She stared at him, puzzled. "The Duke…"

"Henry Brandon, Your Highness. He and you share as close a friendship as your lord father the King did with the first Duke."

So Charles Brandon was dead, although how she obviously didn't know; had Father sent him to the block for marrying Mary? Had he died of the sweating sickness? Had his death somehow led to Mary's execution? "Where is His Grace?" she asked.

"He had intended to travel to France with Your Highness, but at the moment he's in attendance on his lady mother the Dowager Duchess. I understand she doesn't have long to live."

"The Dowager Duchess…"

"The former María de Salinas, sir, one of Queen Katherine's Spanish ladies. She married the first Duke about a year before your own birth."

So Charles had married María instead of Aunt Mary (or María's daughter, for that matter) – and Henry Brandon wasn't her cousin.

That made no sense at all. If the world had changed because she had been born a boy, how could that have resulted in Charles Brandon marrying María de Salinas before she was born – before she was even conceived?

Just then the door opened to readmit Thomas More, who was accompanied by Dr. William Butts – and if that man wasn't a sight for sore eyes Mary didn't know who was. "Dr. Butts, good evening."

"Good evening, Your Highness," he said, bowing deeply. "How is your shoulder tonight, sir?"

"It hurts, but not as much as—" But she couldn't say that; in this world she'd never had her courses. "Not as much as other injuries I've received. In fact, until I shifted position just now I hardly felt it."

He peeled back the bandages covering her lower arm; she was surprised to find it an angry red, as if she'd scraped half the skin off. "We were fortunately able to reduce the dislocation almost immediately," he said, frowning at the wound, "which does make a difference. No chills or unusual sweating, sir?"

"Nothing of the sort. Was I injured during a tournament? No one's said."

"Not precisely a tournament, sir; you were training for battle when your horse slipped in the mud and you were thrown against a fence."

She grimaced. "And now I won't be going to…France, is it?"

"That's correct, sir, nor will you be able to wield a sword for some time."

A sword…she'd never practiced defence in her life. She was able to ride astride – her mother had made sure of that – but if this turned out to be something other than a vision she'd have to acquire a lifetime of military training in a few short months.

And that was only the start of it. She'd have to learn how to handle herself with other men – and with women as well; she'd have to adjust to the expectations of the world; she'd even have to learn to speak as a man. She'd be expected to sit, stand, and walk differently, and then there would be…

She looked up, realizing with a start what her companions were waiting for. "My horse…"

"I regret that it was necessary to put Ceredigion down, sir," Sir Henry said, the corners of his mouth turning down. "There was no choice."

At that she nodded, feigning the stoic grief expected of a prince who'd just lost a valuable destrier. "Thank you. I, um…I would rest for a while, if you don't mind."

"Of course, sir."

Most of the gentlemen departed, leaving her alone with Thomas More and a single page at the door. She had so many questions but if her father had given orders…but perhaps there were some things she could still get answers to as long as she avoided any mention of her own life. "My memory is returning only in fits and starts," she began, "and what I do remember seems to be from my youth. Are you permitted to tell me why we're waging war with France?"

His face grew grim. "Ostensibly we're on a crusade, sir, as the Holy Father has issued a papal bull calling for the overthrow of King Louis."

"King Louis the Twelfth?"

"The Thirteenth, sir; the son of Louis the Twelfth and your lady aunt, the blessed Queen Mary. His Majesty and Emperor Charles have agreed to coordinate their attacks, and with God's grace they'll succeed in returning the kingdom to faith and obedience."

So her birth as a boy had saved England from the horrors of Luther's madness but France had fallen into error instead…but no, that wasn't right; Aunt Mary's short time as French Queen had ended a year before she was born, and she hadn't borne the King a son. Why, then…

But that was a puzzle she wasn't up to figuring out at the moment, not with her shoulder throbbing and her head beginning to ache again. "Are you also permitted to tell me what happened to my lady aunt?" she asked.

"I am, but I must ask you to prepare yourself, for it is very bad news," he said. "Blessed Queen Mary was charged with treason by her son, King Louis, for refusing to swear an oath denying the Pope's authority and confirming his place as supreme head of the Church of France. She was duly convicted and beheaded by the Executioner of Paris on 19 May last."

She gasped out loud. Matricide!

"She died a martyr of the holy Catholic faith," he continued, his eyes moist, "and as such the Holy Father attended to her beatification as soon as he was advised of her demise. I must however warn you not to bring the matter up with Queen Anne—"

No doubt she approved of it.

"—for if the good Queen weeps any longer the King's Navy will find itself carried to France on her very tears."

Once again she found herself shocked into silence. The good Queen, he'd called her. But Anne was Satan's minion! She'd destroyed the Church, she'd poisoned Mary's mother, she'd even had this man beheaded! How could he not see—

—or had Anne been spared?

Just last night she'd imagined the possibility of Anne Boleyn escaping the Devil's clutches, but she'd blithely assumed her father would never have married her had she not cast a spell on him. Surely a knight's daughter would never rise so high on her own…

Jane Seymour was a knight's daughter, her inner voice helpfully reminded her.

But More was still waiting for an answer. "I will remember not to mention it, Sir Thomas," she said, before stopping herself. "Father More, I mean: my apologies."

"There's no need," he replied, waving away her concern. "I've only been a priest since my lady wife and father died in the great pestilence, and as you mentioned Your Highness's memories mainly arise from before that time."

"They do," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She'd been momentarily worried that her father had forced him out of his marriage and into the priesthood for some reason, but it wasn't at all unusual for a devout widower with grown children to enter the Church; Cardinal Campeggio, after all, had done much the same thing.

Alice More is dead.

Would the horrors ever cease?

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but she couldn't leave off thinking about Anne. Why had her father married her if she hadn't put a spell on him? Perhaps…but perhaps Satan had simply possessed the woman Father would have married had he been truly free, knowing that he could best wreak havoc if Anne had a reason to break England away from obedience to God's holy church. In this world he'd found an England impervious to his trickery, so he'd taken his malicious wickedness to France.

There were three million Englishmen and twenty million Frenchmen - seventeen million more souls ripe for the picking.

There was nothing she could do about that.

She drifted away, sleep overtaking her…until a loud disturbance roused her with a start. "What…"

She was alone – all but Father More, who was snoozing in his chair beside her bed – but outside her bedchamber door she could hear a harried guard trying to explain something to a hysterical young woman who was screaming, crying, begging to be let into her room—

But she knew that voice. It was that light child – that stupid little bitch! Hadn't she suffered enough from her as a woman? Must she—

The door burst open and a frantic Kathryn Howard raced toward her in a froth of tangled blonde hair and blind shrieking terror. "Will, darling!" she cried, taking Mary's good hand as More stumbled to his feet. "I just heard! I was at Lambeth, they didn't tell me anything! Are you all right? Did you fall, my love? Do you know me? It's Kathryn! They say your memory—"

At first she didn't understand; how did Kathryn know where her bedchamber was, why had the guards let her pass, why had she thought Mary would want to see her…why had she called her 'darling'?

Oh.

And the blackness took her away.