January 4th, 1522

Caitrìona Bête POV

The biting Scottish wind whipped around me, tugging at the edges of my worn woolen cloak as I hurried through the cobbled courtyard of Holyrood Palace. The year was still fresh, barely four days old, but the chill in the air felt like a promise of a long, hard winter. I was Caitrìona Bête, all of twelve years, though few within these stone walls knew my true parentage. I was the secret, the hidden shame whispered about in hushed tones - the bastard daughter of King James IV and Rosetta Bête, a woman they called a witch.

My mother, bless her soul, had passed on more than just her striking green eyes and gorgeous silver hair. She had gifted me with the Sight, a burden and a blessing that set me apart from the other girls my age. While they dreamt of embroidery and marriage proposals, I saw visions, felt the echoes of moments yet to come. It made me an outsider, a curiosity, but it also made me valuable.

Today, that value was about to be tested.

Word had spread across the seas of my… abilities. I was known, even in England, as a seer of some renown. And that was why I, a humble, illegitimate girl, was summoned to an audience with King Henry VIII himself.

He was here in Scotland, ostensibly to discuss matters of diplomacy, of alliances and borders and all the other tedious affairs of state that kings are supposedly concerned with. But I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that he was here for me.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I was ushered into the audience chamber. The room was opulent, draped with tapestries depicting heroic battles and regal hunts. Courtiers stood stiffly, their eyes darting between themselves and the imposing figure standing before the fireplace.

Henry VIII was everything I had imagined, and yet, somehow, more. Taller than most men, his broad shoulders were accentuated by the rich velvet doublet he wore. His face, though not conventionally handsome, possessed a captivating intensity, a raw power that radiated outwards. He fixed me with a gaze that felt like a physical touch.

He dismissed his advisors with a wave of his hand, and suddenly, we were alone. The silence in the vast chamber was deafening.

"Caitrìona Bête," he said, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through my very being. "They say you possess the Sight."

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Some say so, Your Majesty."

He chuckled, a sound that held no humor. "Some say? Surely you know the truth of what you are." He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Tell me, girl, what do you see?"

My hands trembled beneath the folds of my cloak. I had foreseen this meeting in flashes and fragments, but the reality was far more overwhelming. "I… I see many things, Your Majesty. Fates intertwined, paths diverging…"

He cut me off with an impatient gesture. "Enough with the riddles! I have no time for such nonsense. I want you to look into the future, Caitrìona. I want you to see… our future."

My breath hitched. The implications of his words hit me like a physical blow. He was married, of course. To Queen Katherine, a woman renowned for her piety and grace. But I had heard the whispers, the rumors of his discontent, his desperate desire for a male heir.

"Your Majesty," I stammered, "I cannot simply…"

He silenced me with a look, a look that brooked no argument. "See it, girl. See us together. Husband and wife. See the children we will have, ruling England for generations to come."

His words were a command, an irresistible force. I closed my eyes, focusing my mind, willing the Sight to come. The chamber faded away, the sounds of the court dissolving into a silent void. Then, the images began to flood my mind.

I saw him, Henry, standing beside me at an altar. I was dressed in white, my hair adorned with jewels. He looked younger, perhaps even… content. Then, the scene shifted. I saw a gaggle of children, playing in a sun-drenched garden. Their laughter echoed in my ears, a sound of pure joy.

Another vision flickered: Henry and I, seated on thrones, our faces etched with the lines of time and experience. We were surrounded by advisors, by petitioners, by the endless demands of ruling a kingdom. But in our eyes, I saw a flicker of something… real.

The images swirled, fragmented, tantalizing, and then, darkness. I gasped, stumbling back, my eyes flying open. Henry was watching me, his expression unreadable.

"Well?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "What did you see?"

I hesitated. The visions had been powerful, compelling, but were they truth? Or merely a reflection of his desires, projected onto my mind? Could I, a mere girl, truly alter the course of history?

"I… I saw us together, Your Majesty," I said softly. "Married. With children."

A flicker of something – triumph, perhaps – crossed his face. "And did you see happiness, Caitrìona? Did you see a future worthy of a king?"

I nodded slowly. "I saw… a future, Your Majesty. A future filled with both joy and sorrow, with challenges and triumphs. But a future nonetheless."

He smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his face. "Then it is settled." He reached out and took my hand, his touch sending a shiver through my body.

"You will come to England, Caitrìona. You will be my advisor, my confidante. And in time…" he paused, his eyes locking with mine, "…you will be my wife."

My heart pounded in my chest. I knew that accepting his offer would change my life forever. It would thrust me into a world of unimaginable power and danger, a world where alliances were forged and broken at the flick of a wrist, where lives were mere pawns in a game of thrones.

And yet… I couldn't deny the pull I felt towards him, the fascination with his power, the allure of the future I had glimpsed in my visions.

"I will go with you, Your Majesty," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But know this: I am not a puppet to be manipulated. I will speak my mind, and I will not be silenced."

He squeezed my hand, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Caitrìona. I wouldn't have it any other way."

As I looked into his eyes, I knew that I had stepped onto a path from which there was no turning back. I was no longer Caitrìona Bête, the secret bastard daughter of a Scottish king and a witch. I was something more, something… powerful. And I was about to enter a world where anything was possible, where the future itself was mine to shape.

February 13th 1522

King Henry VIII POV

The air in the court crackled with a tension thick enough to choke on. Every eye was glued to me, their King, Henry VIII, the man who held their destinies in the palm of his hand. I stood tall, a figure of power and determination, the weight of the crown pressing down on my brow, a constant reminder of my duty to England and, dare I admit, to myself. For too long, I had been shackled, bound by tradition and expectations to a marriage that had yielded nothing but heartache and disillusionment.

Today, that all ends.

The proceedings had been arduous, drawn out by stubborn resistance and clinging to outdated doctrines. Catherine, bless her soul, clung fiercely to her position, to the sanctity of our union, to the belief that God himself had sanctioned our bond. I pitied her, truly. I did. But pity cannot rule a kingdom, and sentiment cannot secure a lineage. England needed an heir, a strong, undeniable heir, and Catherine, after years of trying, had proven incapable of providing one.

The murmurs subsided as Cardinal Wolsey, his crimson robes a stark contrast to the pale faces surrounding him, cleared his throat. His voice, weighty and resonant, filled the chamber as he delivered the long-awaited pronouncement. The words echoed through the hall, each syllable a hammer blow against the foundations of my old life, forging the path towards a new one: "…declared null and void… no marriage existed in the eyes of God…"

A collective gasp swept through the court. I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated relief wash over me. It was done. Freedom. The weight on my shoulders, the nagging doubt and frustration, began to dissipate. I saw the look of abject devastation on Catherine's face, the tears welling in her eyes. A pang of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at my conscience. But I pushed it aside. I had a kingdom to secure, a future to build.

I knew my actions would be scrutinized, debated, condemned by some and celebrated by others. The whispers of dissent would rise, fueled by religious zeal and political maneuvering. But I was the King of England, chosen by God himself, and I would not be swayed from my path.

As the commotion began to settle, my eyes scanned the assembled crowd. I had a plan, a bold, audacious plan that I knew would shock the sensibilities of many. But it was a necessary plan, a vital step in securing not just my future, but the future of England. My gaze locked onto a figure standing near the edge of the court, a young girl with eyes as bright and captivating as the summer sky.

Caitrìona Bête.

She was a wisp of a thing, barely a woman, with limbs still carrying the awkward grace of childhood. At twelve years old, she was a mere babe in the eyes of some, but I saw something in her that others did not. I saw resilience, a spark of intelligence, and a beauty that promised to blossom into something truly magnificent.

More importantly, she was the bastard daughter of King James IV and Rosetta Bête, a French noblewoman. This union, though born of scandal, presented a unique opportunity, a chance to solidify ties with both Scotland and France, forging alliances that could secure England's position on the world stage.

I stepped down from the dais, my every movement deliberate, drawing the attention of the entire court. I moved towards Caitrìona, the air thick with anticipation and confusion. The girl stood frozen, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.

Reaching her, I took her small hand in mine. It felt fragile, delicate, yet I sensed a surprising strength within her grasp. I bent down, lowering my voice so that only she could hear. "Do not be afraid, Caitrìona. I mean you no harm."

Lifting her hand, I gently kissed her knuckles. The gesture was simple, yet it held within it the weight of my intentions, the promise of a future she could scarcely imagine. A murmur rippled through the court, louder this time, laced with disbelief and outrage.

Straightening, I met the gazes of the assembled nobles, silencing them with the sheer force of my will. My voice, amplified by the stunned silence, boomed through the hall.

"My lords and ladies, I have endured years of uncertainty, years of praying for an heir to the throne. God has shown me the path to secure this Kingdom and bring stability to our shores for generations to come." I paused, letting the words sink in. "Therefore, I announce my intention to secure that future by taking a new wife."

The silence was deafening.

I turned back to Caitrìona, the young girl who held the key to my ambition, to England's stability. I looked into her wide, apprehensive eyes and spoke with a sincerity that surprised even myself.

"Caitrìona Bête," I said, my voice ringing with conviction, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, the Queen of England, and bear the future heir to this great nation?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. The court held its breath, waiting for her response, waiting to see if this audacious gamble would succeed or crumble into ruin.

Caitrìona looked at me, her eyes searching mine, trying to discern the truth behind the words. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I will."

The court erupted. A cacophony of gasps, shouts, and whispers filled the hall. Some were aghast, others intrigued, and some, I suspected, saw the political advantages of such a union.

I ignored the uproar. I had achieved what I set out to do. I had secured my future, and the future of England. The path ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but I was Henry VIII, King of England, and I was not afraid.

As I led Caitrìona from the court, her small hand trembling in mine, I knew I had set in motion a chain of events that would forever alter the course of history. Was it a reckless gamble? Perhaps. Was it driven by ambition and a desperate need for an heir? Undoubtedly. But as I looked at the young girl by my side, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope, a belief that somehow, against all odds, we could build a future together, a future where England would reign supreme.

The journey would be long and arduous, but I, Henry VIII, was ready to face it head-on. The new dawn had broken, and I was determined to seize it with both hands. My reign will be one of stability and solidifying my claim to this throne, and I will forever be known as the King who saved England.

May 13th 1522

Caitrìona Bête POV

The silk feels like a shroud. Not a comforting one, but something cold, heavy, and suffocating, promising to bury me alive. It's French silk, the finest my mother could procure, a pearly white that clashes horribly with the turmoil churning within me. Today, at the tender age of twelve, I, Caitrìona Bête, bastard daughter of the late King James IV and the French witch, Rosetta, become the wife of King Henry VIII of England.

Five months. It has been a mere five months since his eyes, those intense, possessive eyes, first locked onto mine. He was visiting Scotland, ostensibly to discuss trade agreements, but I knew, even then, there was another purpose drawing him north. My mother, ever attuned to the whispers of fate and the shifting tides of power, had foreseen it. Had, in truth, perhaps orchestrated it.

I am a pawn, a prize, a symbol. I understand that much, even with the naive tendrils of childhood still clinging to my soul. Henry, a man nearly three times my age, claims he is smitten. He calls me his "Scottish Rose," whispers of my otherworldly beauty and the intoxicating allure of my… unique heritage. He believes my mother's blood grants me a connection to the old ways, a touch of magic that can secure his dynasty, bless him with a male heir after so many years of Catherine's miscarriages and stillbirths.

Catherine. The name hangs in the air, a ghost at this feast. Four months. It has only been four months since the annulment, since the whispers turned to shouts, the scandal echoing through the courts of Europe. He discarded a queen who had served him faithfully for years, a woman of dignity and grace, for me. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant, unwelcome companion. I see her face in my dreams, etched with sorrow and betrayal.

My mother insists I must embrace this destiny. She speaks of the power I will wield, the influence I will command. "A Queen of England, Caitrìona!" she exclaims, her eyes gleaming with ambition. "You will shape history! You will protect us, your bloodline, from the fires of persecution."

But what of me? What of the girl who still longs for the windswept hills of Scotland, the scent of heather and peat smoke, the freedom to run wild with the village children? What of the girl who pores over her mother's books of herbs and incantations, yearning to understand the secrets whispered in the rustling leaves and the bubbling cauldrons?

Those dreams feel distant now, shrouded in the heavy silk of my wedding gown. The reality is stark: I am to be wife to a king, a man I barely know, a man who sees me as a vessel, a means to an end.

The ceremony is a blur of pomp and circumstance. The Archbishop's droning voice, the hushed gasps of the onlookers, the weight of the crown pressing down on my head – it all feels surreal, as if I am watching a play unfold, a tragedy where I am both actor and audience.

Henry's hand, when he takes mine, is surprisingly gentle. His smile, though, does not reach his eyes. They remain guarded, calculating. He is a king accustomed to command, a man used to taking what he desires. And now, he desires me.

The feast is a cacophony of noise and colour. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine fills the air, but my stomach churns with nausea. I pick at the food on my plate, forcing down small bites, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

I steal glances at the courtiers, their faces a mixture of curiosity, envy, and disdain. They whisper behind their hands, their eyes dissecting me, judging me. I am an outsider, a foreigner, a child thrust onto a stage far too grand for my abilities.

The day stretches on, an agonizing eternity. As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the castle walls, a wave of dread washes over me. The consummation. The word echoes in my mind, a chilling reminder of the duty I must perform, the price I must pay for this crown.

My mother's words ring in my ears: "You must be strong, Caitrìona. You must endure. This is your destiny."

But strength feels like a distant shore, a place I can no longer reach. I am a ship caught in a storm, tossed and battered by forces beyond my control.

Later, I am led to the royal bedchamber. The room is vast and opulent, draped in velvet and gold. The bed itself is enormous, a daunting symbol of the night to come.

Henry enters, his expression unreadable. He dismisses the attendants with a curt nod, and we are left alone. The silence in the room is thick, heavy with unspoken expectations.

He approaches me, his movements deliberate, measured. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is strangely impersonal, clinical.

"Are you afraid, Caitrìona?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

I cannot meet his gaze. I cannot articulate the fear that consumes me. Instead, I simply nod, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of his own burdens, his own ambitions. "I will not hurt you," he says, but the words ring hollow.

The night unfolds. It is a blur of pain and confusion, a violation that leaves me feeling empty and hollowed out. I cling to the image of my mother's face, her words of encouragement, her promise of power.

But in the darkness of that chamber, surrounded by the trappings of royalty, I feel utterly alone. I am a girl lost in a world of men, a pawn in a game I do not understand.

As dawn breaks, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, I lie in the king's bed, a queen in name only. The silk no longer feels like a shroud, but like chains, binding me to a destiny I never chose.

I am Caitrìona Bête, Queen of England. And my reign, I fear, has only just begun. The magic within me stirs, a flicker of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps, just perhaps, I can find a way to navigate these treacherous waters, to carve out a place for myself in this court of vipers. Perhaps, one day, I can even find a way to reclaim the girl I once was, the girl who dreamed of magic and freedom. But for now, all I can do is survive. And pray.