AN; Here's the answer you were all looking for as to whom little Anne's going to marry – although I may break off her betrothal yet, in favour of another one! Enjoy, and read and review, please!

7

Princess Anne's Betrothal

1546

The proposed bridegroom was William "The Silent" from the House of Orange. 9 years older than Anne, he was already a young man, but not yet in his prime. The nobles of Orange, whose job it was to sign the betrothal contract in his stead, were to arrive in a month's time, and the ceremony was to take place the day after Twelfth night.

We ladies were thrown into a flurry of measuring, cutting and stitching, for Princess Anne had outgrown all her finest gowns, and needed some new ones.

The Queen ordered a gown of pale green silk to be made up, and embroidered with golden roses, so that it would match Anne's robes of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, as befitted a Princess.

Anne was the worst of children when it came to fittings, constantly wanting to stretch, move, or at the very least, smooth her hair back with one hand or another, which was a nightmare for the seamstresses trying to do their job. In the end, in desperation, I began to teach Anne some new songs to sing for her parents, so that she would be concentrating on them instead of what she could be doing.

Anne took up the challenge with gusto. Her favourite song was "Sommer ist ins Land gekommen", a German song I had learnt whilst on a state visit to Cleves back in my own childhood.

We sang it at the beginning and end of each fitting, and before long, Anne knew it almost better than I did.

It was during those fleeting hours that I loved Anne better and more dearly than I ever had before, because she wasn't arrogant then, she was just a normal nine year old girl who loved to sing, and delighted in wearing beautiful dresses, of which, being a Princess, she had plenty.

This new betrothal gown was no exception. Deep green emeralds were sewn on to the silk of her dress, and the contrast worked beautifully. Her robes were held in place by a great ruby brooch which her father had given her, and which was carved into the shape of a rose – A Tudor rose. On her head was a light yet elaborate circlet of pure silver, set with rubies and emeralds, the symbol of her rank as a Princess of England, Duchess of Buckingham and a Marquess of Pembroke.

I remember nothing of those days, save the glitter of rich fabrics, and the sparkle of lavish, expensive jewels in the dim light given off by the flickering, dancing, golden flames of the candles by which our urgency forced us to work.

Night after night, I would retire to bed, long after midnight, my vision blurry with exhaustion, my eyes itching with a vengeance, my wrists and head bound up in a burning ball of excruciating pain, but always relieved that one more day's work was over, for that meant that, although our deadline was drawing ever closer, our set task was also steadily shrinking.

Edward was so understanding during those frantic weeks – so gentle, so patient, so tender. He was almost surprisingly good to me. Every night, without fail, he would fetch me a cup of spiced wine mixed with poppy tears to ease the pain and help me sleep. Then he would wrap me in another blanket, lie me down on our bed, and start to draw his hands over my eyes using short, soft, smooth, stroking movements, moving his hands ceaselessly, until I sighed with contentment, and drifted away from him, into dreamland.

I had broken nights of sleep too, for often I would wake, crying out and choking, and drenched in panicked sweat, from a nightmare which included candles, lethal needles and poison.

Edward always soothed me with sweet nothings, and promised "Mary, it'll be all right. It'll be fine. It'll be worth it on the day. She'll look stunning. How could she not? You've done a splendid job. There's nothing to worry about. I'm proud of you. I'm proud of everyone's efforts."

"If the King and Queen should not like them -"

"You've done everything they wanted. Anne will look every bit a Princess, every inch a future Queen. She will do the Tudors proud, and I swear to you, your handiwork will too, Mary."

"You think so, dearest?" I asked sleepily.

One quick, sweet, momentary kiss. One light, loving, heavenly caress.

"I know it. Go to sleep, dear. Rest."

****

Scenes like that between us recurred over the nights of the following weeks, but he was right.

The day, the long-awaited day, came at last. William of Orange sent his cousin to represent him, and the betrothal went ahead as planned.

Anne, looking as radiant, and as confidently lovely as Edward had predicted she would, spoke her vows in a strong, clear yet slightly lilting voice, as she swore herself to William of Orange, and promised to marry him as soon as was possible after she reached the age of fourteen summers.

As she finished, the trumpets blared, and the court cheered her and clapped her, shouting her name over and over in a great, full-throated roar.

Anne Frances Cecily Tudor, Princess of England, Duchess of Buckingham and Marquess of Pembroke, had become the Princess of Orange.