AN: Poemfic to Jonson's 'On My First Daughter'. Henry and Katherine attend the memorial service for their eldest daughter's death. AU – the New Year's child of 1510 died after six months of life and wasn't stillborn; they named her Mary…oh and I used the Gregorian calendar dates, not ours, so don't get confused by the grave inscription!

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;

Henry stood by Katherine's side, his hand in hers. He could hear her sniffling quietly, but knew that to say anything; to do anything to draw attention to the fact that she was acting anything less than regal; that she was acting more the bereaved mother than the perfectly long-suffering Queen would shame her. And he did not desire to shame her, so he said nothing, only tore his eyes from the grand memorial that marked his mother's grave and looked down at the tiny, but no less ornate, grave at their feet.

Princess Mary Tudor
January 31 1509 – July 2 1510
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety.

As he read it over again, Henry felt his own heart ache; ache for the child, who, such a short time ago, he had held in his arms and dandled before the Court as their one and only Princess Mary. Why had she gone? Why? She had been such a healthy, vibrant child, kicking and gurgling happily every time he saw her. He could never have guessed, that just six months into her short life, she would have contracted a summer fever and had all that life sucked out of her as quickly as a dry tree bursts into flame in a thunderstorm.

Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.

Oh that he could have her back! Oh, that he could go back in time and send his best physicians to nurse her through the fever. Or better yet, never send her away from Court at all. If she hadn't had her own household, she would have been fine. They'd all been fine on their progress. If she'd gone with them; if he hadn't deemed her too young to travel so far and for so long, she would have been fine too. She'd still be here and not lying cold and lifeless in the ground. She would have been here to welcome her new brothers into the world in just a few months' time.

Still, she was safe now. Safe in her loving Father's arms. After all, as a helpless babe, there was no power either on Earth or in Hell that could have stopped her being taken straight up to Heaven. He and Katherine had done everything right, after all. They'd had her baptised and confirmed at a week old, they'd given public thanks for her arrival and they'd treated her with all the love and care an infant could wish for. Moreover, not a single miscreant or person of dubious reputation had been allowed anywhere near their daughter. So, yes, little Mary's place in Heaven was assured. He could take comfort from that.

He could also take comfort from the fact that, until her sudden demise from the summer fever, little Mary had been a bonny, lively child. True, she hadn't been a boy, hadn't been a Prince of Wales, but even a beautiful healthy girl was more than most families managed at the end of their first pregnancy and childbed. Hadn't his mother been the first of three girls before her brother came along? Hadn't Katherine, like his grandmother, Elizabeth Woodville, felt the child quicken not four months after their wedding? Hadn't she fallen pregnant again within three months of Mary's death – nine months of her birth? Wasn't she due to come to term in three months? Wasn't she already showing larger and carrying the child higher than she ever had with Mary – a sure sign, the midwives assured them, that she was carrying twins? Weren't they both still young – young enough to have plenty more children? Yes, grieve though he might for his lost Princess Mary, there were still enough signs of God's favour smiling on the both of them for him to draw comfort from.

At six months' end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:

"She's in Heaven now, Henry. Our Lady has taken her and will be her mother now, now that I cannot be," Katherine's accented English broke into his reverie and he felt her put her hand on his arm. He nodded.

"Yes, Cata. Of course she is. And God will love her just as much as we ever did. He'll take better care of her than we ever could have done."

"And we never need to stop loving her. We can keep her in our prayers, just as we do the rest of our families who have gone to their rest."

"Of course we can. She'll always be our firstborn, our little Tudor Rosebud. Always," he promised, sliding his arm around his wife's waist and holding her as she crossed herself silently before turning her from the grave. The courtiers, a sea of black and ash grey on this, the first Ash Wednesday since their little Princess had died, parted before them to allow them to reach the chapel door. Upon reaching it, Henry turned.

"Farewell, my Princess. May God Bless you, now and evermore," he whispered, blowing his child a tender kiss, before he took Katherine's arm once more and, laying aside the persona of a grieving father and taking up that of a regal King, stepped out to meet England and his duties.

Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!