So, as promised, I gifted this work to James (KingdomHeartsNerd) because you wanted me to gift one of the chapters in this series to you. I apologise for the fact that a certain Lady Catherine took over what was supposed to be AOC's story...

1510

"I fail to see why we are discussing this, My Lords. I thought I had made my position perfectly clear. If England needs foreign alliances, which I do not deny it does, then I have two sisters, a daughter and a son living. Find them as many prospective spouses as you wish, but not seek to find me a bride."

Henry swung away from his councillors, striding to the window. He stood before it, hands clenched on the edge of the window seat. For several long moments, he was silent, and his Council looked at one another, worried. They'd not expected the King to be so against marrying. After all, he was young, virile and the most glittering catch in Christendom. Any other man of nineteen would have been champing at the bit to marry again.

Not so Henry. When he spoke again, his voice was still as raw with grief as it had been that black day in Sandal Castle three years earlier, "Kate should have been my Queen. I'll not do her the disservice of having another woman crowned at my side in her stead."

"Sire!" The protest was immediate and unanimous.

Henry swung around to glare at them all, but heedless, the bolder among them kept speaking, "It is not that we deny that the Duchess of York was an exemplary woman or seek to dishonour her memory, but Your Majesty must consider the Succession. It is a matter of urgency that you provide England with more heirs."

"Might I remind you, my Lords, that I have a son?" Henry's hackles were up now. So. They weren't content with striving to have him dishonour Kate's memory, were they not? They had to ignore her greatest gift to him and to England into the bargain. How dare they!

"Your father, My Lord, had three."

The implication was clear and Henry flushed with fury. William was as sturdy a three-year-old as you could ever hope to meet. How dare these upstarts ill-wish his precious boy?

Before he could retort, however, his oldest friend Charles Brandon stepped in, hands held up in a gesture of goodwill.

"No one is denying the Prince's health, Your Grace," he soothed, "Nor are we seeking to deny the depth of your grief for the Duchess of York. But the fact of the matter is that she's been dead three years. You've been crowned over a year. You can't waste your youth pining for her. It's unhealthy and besides, Kate wouldn't want you to."

That got Henry's attention.

"Are you sure?"

The question was piercing. Brandon almost flinched at it but nodded, "Kate loved you, Henry. And you loved her. I'm not denying that. But that doesn't mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Kate would want you to be happy."

"And you think I could be happy within an arranged marriage?"

"Your marriage to Kate was arranged, was it not?"

It was as if the rest of the Council were no longer there. Brandon and Henry faced one another across the table, each intent upon the other. Gone were the King and his subject. In their place were two young men, one desperately trying to help the other out of the rut he'd dug himself into.

For a few moments, Henry said nothing, then he spun on his heel.

"Fine. Do as you wish. Speak to the Ambassadors if you must. I only ask two things."

"Name them and they shall be yours, Your Majesty," Sir John Gage, who had served Henry since he had been given a household of his own with Katherine, promised.

"Do not neglect the Prince and Princesses' marital prospects in favour of my own."

"Of course we would not. Upon the Council's collective honour, I swear we will not, Sire."

"And promise me that, whichever courts you treat with on my behalf, my bride's name will not be Katherine. I will not give England a Queen Katherine. Not yet. Not with my Kate's memory still so raw in my heart."

The Council exchanged glances. Well. If that wasn't the oddest request they'd ever heard. But if it was truly what His Majesty wanted…

"You have our word, Sire," Sir John Gage bowed. Henry sighed and nodded.

"Very well. Since I cannot dissuade you, gentlemen, I give you free rein. But by God, take care. These are matters of the heart you deal with, not just those of politics."

Before anyone could respond, Henry had stridden to the double doors of the Privy Chamber and vanished through them, still too wound up by what they had been discussing to consider continuing the meeting.

Fearing the King would change his mind about giving consent if they dawdled too long, the Privy Council wasted no time in choosing their widowed King a bride. Several young ladies were discussed, but their final choice lay with Anne, the fifteen-year-old daughter of the Duke of Cleves. Cleves was no large state, but it was in a key position as far as trading routes with the Holy Roman Empire were concerned. Moreover, the young Lady clearly came from a fertile family, which boded well for the Succession. Indeed, her father's 63 illegitimate children, all fathered before his marriage to her mother, were almost the stuff of legend. She would be dowered well enough, given her status, and, perhaps most importantly, her name was not Katherine.

So it came to be that, in the spring of 1511, Sir David Owen, the King's great-uncle, the Earl of Shrewsbury and Lord Edward Stanley, Baron Mounteagle, who was also related to the King by virtue of His Majesty's grandmother's third marriage to the late Earl of Derby, were sent to Calais to collect their new Queen and bring her home to England.

What met them there shocked them all, though they were all polite enough to at least make a stab at hiding it.

Oh, it wasn't the new Queen's looks. They were fair enough, her face being round and warm, her waist small and her hips pleasingly wide, while her hair fell down her back in a wave of glowing honey-blonde. It was the fact that her father had clearly never bothered to educate her past the basics. Her grasp of French was rudimentary, her Latin worse and her English non-existent. And this in the consort of a King who liked to consider himself the best-educated man in Christendom, save the professional scholars themselves. Her only saving grace was that she could at least ride and dance, so at least Their Majesties would be able to share pastimes, if not conversation.

Nonetheless, the English entourage held a very anxious conference the night before they sailed for Dover.

"We'll have to teach her enough to allow her to cope with a formal welcome at the very least," Edward Stanley exclaimed, "His Majesty was reluctant enough to wed her in the first place. When he discovers he can't even talk to her…"? He trailed off. There was no need to finish his sentence. They all knew what he was thinking. This was not going to go well.

Sir David spread his hands, his blood tie to the King making him a little franker than his companions, "I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies, sirs. At least they don't need to be able to talk to each other to conceive a Duke of York."

Kathie stood impatiently, fighting the urge to hop from foot to foot. She couldn't do that. She was a Princess of England, she wasn't allowed to fidget. Not on a day as important as this. Her new mother was coming to England and Papa had been generous enough to let her take part in the ceremony to greet her, just the same way Aunt Mary and Aunt Katherine were. Will was part of it too, Aunt Mary was holding him by the hand the same way Aunt Katherine and she were hand in hand, but his role was nowhere near as important as hers. He was too young for an important role. She got to give their new mother some flowers. He just had to stand there.

Suddenly, trumpets blared, making her jump. Aunt Mary glanced across at her.

"You've still got your flowers, Kathie?"

Kathie bobbed her head eagerly and Aunt Mary smiled, "Good."

And then she was there. Their new mother. She was curtsying to Papa and saying something that Kathie couldn't hear. Papa was smiling, but standing oddly, as though he wasn't really happy. Kathie pulled a face at not understanding why, but then Papa had taken the lady's hand in his and turned her towards them and she had to smile very quickly or risk getting into trouble.

"My son, the Prince of Wales and my sister, the Princess Mary," Papa waved at Will and Aunt Mary, who both smiled at the lady on his arm. Will managed a wobbly bow – her curtsy was much better! – and Aunt Mary said, "Welcome to England, My Lady."

Their new mother said nothing, which Kathie thought was very rude. Aunt Mary was being nice! But she was old enough now to know not to say so out loud, so said nothing as Papa turned towards her and Aunt Katherine.

"My daughter and my youngest sister, the Princesses Katherine."

As always, Kathie had to fight down giggles when she heard Papa introduce her and Aunt Katherine like that. Everyone always called them 'The Princesses Katherine' and it was always funny, because if you said it quickly enough, as the heralds often did, they sounded like they were one person. And that was just silly! They weren't one person, they were two!

They curtsied side by side and then Aunt Katherine let go of Kathie's hand so she could walk up to Papa and her new mother and hold out the bunch of flowers she'd picked from the gardens that morning.

"For you, Madam," she said carefully, smiling her prettiest smile, "I think they are pretty."

There was an awful moment of silence. Kathie looked up at her new mother hopefully, wondering why she didn't take the flowers. At last, one of the men hovering behind Papa came up and whispered in her new mother's ear. Then she smiled and bent to take the flowers. She kissed Kathie and hugged her. Surprised, Kathie stood still as her new mother looked back up at Papa.

"Ein wunderschönes Mädchen, Majestät. Ich werde sie lieben. Ich werde sie alle lieben."

Now it was Kathie's turn not to understand, until the same man who had whispered in her new mother's ear turned to Papa.

"The Lady Anne says the Princess Katherine is a wonderful girl, Sire. She promises to love her, to love them all."

And then everyone was smiling and laughing and clapping and Papa was lifting Kathie high in the air, "Of course she's a wonderful girl. She's my daughter. My little white rose."

Kathie beamed. She loved it when Papa called her his white rose like that. It was his name for her and he only called her by it when she'd made him especially happy.

In that moment, Kathie decided the whole ceremony had been worth it. It had made Papa happy, so it had been worth it.

Henry might have been capable of acting the delighted groom in front of his little daughter and younger sisters, but in the privacy of his own chambers, with just his closest friends in attendance, was a whole other story.

"Did you see her? She can't understand a word anyone says! Kathie would have burst into tears if she hadn't taken the flowers and had it not been for the interpreter… How am I supposed to live with her if I can't talk to her?"

"You don't need to talk to her to sire a son on her," Brandon pointed out acidly. Henry rounded on him, "Well, excuse me for wanting more from my Queen than a glorified brood mare. Kate would have helped me rule England. This girl won't even be able to give her own household orders!"

Realising he had overstepped, Brandon sprang backwards, holding up his hands in surrender, "I didn't mean it like that, Henry. You know I didn't. But you know it's too late to do anything about it now. Or will you send her back to her father with some fabricated excuse as to why the marriage isn't valid?"

As he had expected, the knight errant in Henry flared up at that suggestion.

"No! Of course I wouldn't do that to the poor girl. Never let it be said that England does not honour her promises. No, I'll wed her and bed her and hope she gives me a squalling son soon enough. But that doesn't mean I have to like the bed I'm lying in."

"You're the King. You don't have to stay in one bed," Brandon pointed out, knowing that he could only say such things because the woman he was suggesting Henry stray from wasn't his beloved Kate. Nonetheless, Henry looked almost scandalised by the suggestion and Brandon shrugged, "As long as you do your duty by the Queen and treat her with respect…" he trailed off and then excused himself hastily. This was not the kind of topic to press Henry on. He'd planted the seed. That would do for now.

The new Queen's coronation festivities the following month ended with a masked ball. Anne herself did not dance, but no one could have kept the King from the dance floor. Indeed, no one wanted to. He was widely acknowledged as the finest dancer in England.

Of course, no young lady gave away the fact that they knew exactly which of the dozens of young men partnering them was the King. They weren't such fools as to ruin His Majesty's fun that easily. But honestly, who else was as tall and golden as their twenty-year-old sovereign?

Henry, for his part was being careful. He wasn't yet prepared to spend more time with his new Queen than ceremony demanded, but neither was he going to rub her nose in that fact at her own coronation masquerade. Rather than dance with the scores of young women who wished to be his partner therefore, he gravitated mainly to dancing with his younger sister, the Princess Mary. No one could complain if he danced with his own sister, after all.

Or at least, he thought he was being careful. If he hadn't been quite so intent on making merry, quite so flushed with wine, he might have noticed that there were two young women clad in cloth-of-silver on the dance floor that night. He might have noticed that his partner, though a good dancer, lacked the finesse that came with being trained in grace since before she could walk. He might have noticed that the eyes glinting at him from behind his chosen partner's mask were a dark, gleaming sapphire, rather than his sister's aquamarine.

But he didn't. Instead, all he noticed was that his sister was being rather unusually quiet that night.

"You're somewhat coy tonight, sister Mary," he commented, "Are you not enjoying having to yield to your new sister?"

He was careful to keep his voice light and teasing, but his partner didn't reply, only laughed lightly as she spun away from him as the dance demanded. Curiosity now piqued – it was unlike Mary to have secrets from him – he made sure he was partnering the same lady at the end of the evening when the cry came for them to unmask.

Whipping his own mask off, he turned to his partner. He was so sure he knew who it would be that he couldn't help but stagger back a step when she untied her mask and shook out a wave of auburn rather than the cloud of red-gold he had been expecting.

"You're not my sister," he blurted.

"Ah, but Sire, did I ever say I was?" The young woman laughed louder this time and curtsied to him, but boldly. Unlike most women, she locked eyes with him as she sank to the floor, refusing to release him from her gaze until she had risen once more. He raised an eyebrow.

"You think it funny to try to deceive your King, do you, Mistress?"

"Ah, but no, Sire. I did not seek to deceive, merely to amuse. I undertook this role with the full complicity of Her Highness. She thought Your Majesty might enjoy the joke. Besides, it is not as if I lied to you, Your Grace. Had you asked my name, I would have given it to you. But you did not."

There were gasps around the room at her audacity, but Henry found himself liking the challenge she presented. No one had challenged him like that since Kate had died. No woman at least. He threw back his head, roaring with laughter.

"You've some spirit, Mistress. I like that. Might I trouble you for your name? I'd like to know the name of one of the prettiest and boldest girls in England."

"Certainly, Sire. I am Catherine. Catherine Howard. Lady Catherine Howard, to be precise."

December 1512

Catherine bit back a sigh as the priest droned on and on. It seemed to her he was taking forever to finish the final prayers and dismiss them. Mass was never one of her favourite things, but today, with the urgent message she had for the King burning in her heart, it seemed interminable. Were it any other day, she'd risk slipping away early, knowing His Majesty would shield her from the consequences. He'd always shield his darling Kitten from any consequences. He'd protected her from anything and everything that could hurt her since she'd become his mistress over a year earlier.

Oh, it had been a golden year! Dancing with the King till she dropped, riding out with Their Majesties at the head of the progress that past summer, all the trinkets and gowns she could have asked for – and as the youngest daughter in a disgraced noble family, a sudden access to finery didn't mean nothing - the knowledge that, whatever she did, she wouldn't have to bear the consequences… Catherine had relished it. Every moment of it.

Except that last hadn't been true. Somewhere in all of her joyous relish of the King's doting upon her, she'd forgotten that some of her actions at least, did carry with them the possibility of consequences, the heaviest consequences of all. And now all of her troubles had come home to roost. Well, at least, they might have done, depending upon how the King took the news that she was pregnant.

The Dean of Lincoln dismissed them at last and Catherine sprang to her feet, hurrying from the pew to waylay His Majesty as he left the chapel, the Queen on his arm, as she ever was, for he wouldn't disgrace her by escorting another woman to church. Surprise flickered across the Queen's face as Catherine threw herself at the King's feet, but she said nothing. Anne of Cleves rarely did. Catherine knew she should have felt guiltier about flaunting her relationship with the King so openly in front of such a patient woman, but with all the insensitive pride of any teenager, she scorned the quiet woman for being so accommodating. If she wanted the King to pay attention to her, she should show some spirit for a change! Everyone knew the King liked spirit in his women. It was how she held him, after all. That and dramatics, the latter of which she employed now.

"I beg Your Majesty for the honour of a word in private!" she cried, forcing her cheeks to flush and tears to threaten to pool in her eyes. As ever, the knight errant in the King rose to the fore and he signed to the Queen to go on ahead. Once everyone else had left, he bent and raised her to her feet.

"What's all this about, Cat? You know you needn't go to such lengths to attract my attention," he smiled, "You have it. You've had it since that very first night we met."

"Oh, I know, Sire, but I also know Your Grace has a flair for the dramatic. After all, was it not in costume that we met?" she teased back, before stepping into his arms and resting her head back against his chest.

"So it was, Kitten, so it was." He tightened his hold about her, thinking to himself as he did so that she seemed a little stouter than normal. She didn't feel quite as wraith-like in his arms as she usually did.

"Besides, I could think of no other way of clearing the halls and this is the kind of news that doesn't deserve an audience," Catherine smirked, watching the puzzlement cross his face.

"Oh? What could possibly be so important that you had to have me dismiss everyone, even though they all know the only living woman in my heart is you?"

Unable to keep it to herself any longer, she leaned up and whispered in his ear.

He swept her off her feet with a great bellow of joy, "My Kitten has become a Cat! I'm to be a father again! How on earth can I repay you for making me the happiest man alive?"

"Give my father and brother back their titles," The answer was on her lips before she had even thought about it. The King's face clouded and she rushed on, "I know your father was cautious of their power and he had every right to be, but my father only fought for the Yorkist usurper at Bosworth because Parliament had declared him King. In the eyes of the law, he would have been marked a traitor if he had not fought for him and he didn't want to risk that. Not with a young family to support. You have to remember that my mother was sister to the usurper. Can you imagine the marital discord if my father had refused to support him?"

"Your father doesn't strike me as a man to be led by a woman's apron strings." Henry scoffed and Catherine shrugged, "Is there a man on earth who isn't seduced by some hussy at some point in his life? Yes, my father made the wrong decision in 1485, but has he not served Your Majesty – and Your Majesty's honoured father - loyally since? Has he not done you the greatest of services both in Scotland and here at home? After all," she paused, laced her fingers with the King's and guided his hand down to her still-flat stomacher, "Is he not your child's grandfather?"

Henry bit the inside of his cheek. He had brought this one upon himself, really. He had asked her to name pretty much any boon she liked for making him so happy with her news. He'd expected her to choose a new horse or gown or maybe a manor if she was feeling particularly bold. But no. She had to go for something that carried political weight with it…and something he couldn't refuse, because she'd showed how kind she was by asking for something that wouldn't directly benefit her. He should have expected such a thing from a Howard girl, come to think of it…

Sighing, he smiled at her wryly, "I should know better than to underestimate you by now, shouldn't I, Kitten?"

Knowing his sudden lack of protest meant she was having her way, as usual, Catherine leapt up at him, throwing her arms exuberantly round his neck. Laughing despite himself, he kissed her. It was nice to know he could please the Queen of his heart at least, if not his Queen by law.

The revelry to see in the May was well underway when the Queen decided to retire. The King, already more than half drunk, bowed to her as she rose, but was more than usually blatant about pulling Catherine from her ladies as they formed up around her.

"Not tonight, Anne," he slurred, "Kitten stays with me tonight."

If hurt flared in the Queen's breast, she was too good-natured to show it. She held herself erect and swept down in a curtsy, "As you wish, My Lord. I wish you good night. Good night, Lady Catherine. You needn't wake early tomorrow if the celebration goes on late."

To her credit, Catherine had the decency to blush, at least a little, as the Queen toasted her with a goblet before walking from the room. She dipped a shallow curtsy to her mistress as the other woman passed her, but no sooner was the Queen gone from the room than Henry was pulling her up and shouting for a circlet to be put on her head.

"My Queen in law is gone! Let us crown the Queen of the May. Let us crown the Queen of the May who carries our future so clearly within her."

He spun her round to a heady mixture of ribald laughter and applause and Catherine laughed breathlessly, confidence soaring as someone found a silver chain to weave through her auburn hair in an approximation of a crown and then the whole room knelt to her, cheering their 'Queen Catherine of the May!'

She danced a pavane for them - all the bulging swell of her belly would allow - for them and curtsied, acknowledging their praise.

"Seat her on the throne!"

She never knew who shouted out the suggestion, but her heart went cold at the sound of it. It was one thing to be the King's favourite, to play the Queen in private with a group of favoured courtiers, but there were lines even she would never dream of crossing. Sitting on the Queen's ceremonial throne was one of them. But the King was entranced at the idea and would brook no protest.

"Yes! Yes! England was meant to have a Queen Catherine all along. Let us have one for tonight at least. Go on, darling, take your rightful place."

"Sire! It is not my rightful place and you know it!"

"Nonsense! It's a game, nothing more! Anne would understand if she knew. Now go on, you don't want to spoil our fun, do you?"

And because she didn't, and because, despite herself, she wanted to know what it would feel like to sit on so fine a throne, Catherine let the King urge her up the steps, seat her on the Queen's throne and kiss her hand.

"Long Live Queen Catherine!" he cried, but there was a distant note in his voice and a gleam in his eyes and those around him knew that he wasn't really acclaiming the girl who sat before them, but rather the girl he wished he'd been crowned with, the girl he had married at fourteen and never forgotten.

But Anne, not yet far enough away from the great hall not to hear the resounding roar with which the toast was roared back at His Majesty, knew none of this. All she heard were the words, "Long Live Queen Catherine" and they sent a spike of hurt through her heart.

Despite herself, she clenched a fist in her sleeves, though she fought to keep her face blank and refused to look at any of her ladies. She couldn't bear the thought of the subdued pity she knew she'd find in their gazes.

"You have his ring on your finger," she told herself, "You have his ring on your finger and a legitimate heir growing in your belly. Nothing Lady Catherine does will be able to compete with that. Nothing. So he'll come back to you. One day, one day soon, he'll come back to you. You just have to wait. After all, good things come to those who wait."

"How on earth is she with child? I thought you loved me!" Catherine was in tears, only the innate knowledge that raising a hand to her King was almost treason stopping her from throwing everything she could find at her lover.

He held up his hand, "I do! But that doesn't change the fact that Anne is my lawful Queen. I do have a duty to share her bed too."

Tired of her ranting, he drew himself up, "To put it bluntly, Lady Catherine, it is Queen Anne who will give me a Duke of York. The child in your belly might have been conceived in love, but it will never be any more than a bastard."

Catherine staggered back before the severity in his voice, and Henry softened at the sight of the pain in her eyes, "We had a good year, darling, but we both knew this could never last Queen Anne is my wife in law and I could never annul our marriage for your sake. In the eyes of the Court, you're the daughter of a traitor, for all I've pardoned your father. I have to stay true to the Queen, at least on paper, especially now that she's with child. I've waited over a year for a Duke of York. I will not jeopardise him by distressing her with your presence at Court any longer."

"I see," Catherine, realising that tears and temper had been a miscalculation, resorted to hiding her pain behind a wall of ice, as any good Howard girl would, "And our son, my Lord? Do you intend to discard him as easily as you're discarding me?"

"Don't be ridiculous! I would never ignore any child of mine. I'll acknowledge the child, boy or girl. You have my word. Their future will be secure, you may rest assured of that. And I'll find you a husband. I promise."

"Then, my Lord, I think we have no more to say to one another. I beg Your Majesty to excuse me."

Catherine swept down into a curtsy, determined to hang on to what little dignity she had left. Henry, realising in his own turn that he had handled this affair awfully, let her go without protest.

"As soon as my child is born, and I'm churched, I'm to marry the Earl of Desmond and be a Countess," Catherine crowed to her older sister, Lady Boleyn, when she came to visit her in her confinement that July, "An Earldom is more than your dashing knight of a husband will ever amount to."

"Only of Ireland," the older woman rejoined, "I think I'd rather keep my Knight Ambassador, thank you. At least I get to be at Court whilst he's away in France. Besides, the children keep me busy. You'll understand when you're a mother."

Catherine grimaced as her eldest sister pierced the golden bubble of her future importance so skilfully. Her pride in her future rank was going a long way to ease her hurt at how easily the King had cast her aside, or had been, at least. She scowled in response, a catty remark already forming on her lips, but at that moment, the child in her turned and what she was going to say was lost in a groan of pain. Elizabeth, for her part, was instantly solicitous, helping her younger sister settle back on to the mound of pillows she had behind her, but her attentions did nothing to help Catherine's mood. Nine months was far too long to carry a child! She just wanted the little one out of her. Now!

January 1514

"Her Majesty has given birth to a beautiful healthy girl."

Disappointment flickered in Henry at the midwife's words. He'd done his duty and wedded and bedded the Lady of Cleves despite his reluctance. Couldn't she do hers and provide him with a Duke of York?

Still, he reminded himself quickly, Kate had given him Kathie before William and his mother had been the first of three girls before her brothers made their way into the world. Maybe the York and Tudor women just liked to start their families with girls. There was nothing wrong with that. Girls were useful for alliances, even if they couldn't inherit thrones themselves. With that thought in mind, he mustered a smile.

"Thank you, Mistress. Is the Queen well?"

"Tired, but as well as can be expected, Your Majesty. And the little Princess is thriving. She wouldn't stop screaming until we put her to the wet nurse's breast. She's now suckling as lustily as anyone could hope for."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I'll come straight through and visit Her Majesty."

"Sire," The midwife curtsied, and Henry followed her through into Anne's lying-in chamber. Anne, fair hair still dark with damp, welcomed him with a tired smile, "Husband. You are welcome here."

"My Lady Queen," he saluted her fingers with the lightest of kisses, "I hear we have a daughter."

"Yes. I'm sorry. I prayed for a son."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. A girl will be useful for alliances in the future. And she's healthy, they tell me. That bodes well for the future. We'll give Her Highness a brother next year, hmm?"

There was nothing Anne could say to that other than to nod, "What will we call her?" she asked, her English even more heavily accented than normal due to her exhaustion.

"Mary. I promised my sister Mary I'd name my second daughter for her years ago."

Anne considered for a moment, then nodded again, "Maria. It's my mother's name too. I like it."

"Good," Henry smiled down at her, filled with a surprising tenderness for her. In that moment, he had a blinding realisation as to just how much the woman had given him and how shamefully little he'd given her in return.

"I've not been the knight errant I always promised Mother I would be to my wife. Not to Anne. Not at all. Mother would be tearing her hair out if she could see me now. What a relief she retired to Greenwich after my coronation. Yet Anne's never once begrudged me my mistress; never complained of my treatment of her. Not once. Never mind. Mary's birth can be a fresh start between us. It willbe a fresh start between us."

He stooped over the bed and kissed her temple, "You've done well, sweetheart," he praised, "Very well indeed. Now, what do you say we see if our little daughter has sated her hunger yet and will deign to be introduced to her Papa?"

When Henry returned to his own rooms, however, there was a letter with the scarlet Desmond saltire sealing it lying on his desk. He winced at the very sight of it. Catherine was a lovely girl, but she was a bit too keen to keep their son on his mind. It was as though she didn't trust him not to forget the boy now that they were both in Ireland.

He pushed the letter aside and paced the room, unable to stop the jolt of regret that filled him. Edmund was a lusty boy, if the reports were true. Five months old and growing like a weed with every day that passed. It was just a pity he hadn't been born to the Queen.

Yet he had to do something for the boy. If he didn't, he'd never be able to draw a line under his affair with Catherine and give his full attention to the fresh start he was determined to have with Anne.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Calling for pen, ink and parchment, he began to draw up a grant:

Appointment, on this the twenty-first day of January in the Year of Our Lord MDXIV: Of our most-beloved son, the Lord Edmund Fitzroy, and his heirs male forever, to the post of the Lieutenancy of Ireland, with the governance of its inhabitants and tenants, with a fee of 600 marks a year…"

1520

Anne's bedchamber was shuttered, admitted neither light nor cheer. He waved a hand and behind him, a torch flared into life. Anne didn't stir as he approached the bed. Long, loose hair trailed limply over a bared shoulder. It was uncombed, dulled to a lifeless brittle honey-brown. Her face was pinched and bloodless, as white as the sheets upon which she lay; her eyes were closed, but the lids looked bruised and inflamed.

"Anne?"

She rolled over towards him, though she didn't open her eyes, "Husband."

"They told me you lost the child," Henry kept his voice gentle, despite his own frustration. There was no point taking it out on her now, not while she was still this fragile. She nodded, "Again."

He reached for her hand, "Is there anything I can say, sweetheart?"

"No," she shook her head, "What is there to say? God takes these children from me, from us, for reasons we cannot understand. That's all there is to it."

The finality in her voice forbade any response. They sat in silence, holding hands, for several long moments.

"Perhaps you should annul our marriage, Your Majesty," Anne said at last.

"What?!" Henry was taken aback, "Sweetheart, no! I would never do that to you. This is a run of bad luck, that's all. We're still young. We'll have a son yet. After all, isn't our Mary the most glorious of little girls? Clearly, there's nothing wrong with either of us, if she's so bonny!"

"You need a Duke of York, Sire, and I don't believe God will give us one. You see, I'm beginning to wonder whether we were ever truly married at all."

"What? Don't be a fool. Of course we were!" Henry gripped her hand, "If this is about Lady Catherine, I know I hurt you badly over her, but I was young and the rights of kingship were heady and she seduced me. I haven't strayed since Mary was born, I vow it on the Holy Book. And I swear I never even promised her marriage. I was no Edward IV and she was not my Lady Butler. The only Queen I've ever had is you, Anne. Can't we put the memory of Lady Catherine behind us? I've forgotten her, I promise."

"Oh, my sweet husband," Anne chuckled despite herself, reaching up to stroke his cheek, "I forgave you Lady Catherine long ago. And I'm not such a fool as to think I come even close to being the true Queen of your heart. That role was given to another long before our paths even crossed."

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but knew he couldn't, in all honesty, deny that. Anne scoffed lightly, "You see? You can't even bring yourself to lie to me about that. And I love you for your honesty. But anyway, this isn't about you. I was betrothed before I met you, you see. If I hadn't been Queen of England, I'd have been Duchess of Bavaria. My father swore to your ambassadors he'd dissolved my precontract to William of Bavaria, but seeing the way God won't grant us a son to secure the Succession, I'm beginning to wonder. Won't you ask Wolsey to investigate the matter? Please? For me?"

"Why would you want to drag yourself through that?" Henry was nonplussed, "We've been man and wife for nine years, Anne, can't we just behave as if all is well? Do you not want to be married to me, is that it?"

"No, Your Majesty! That is not it at all! I love you, I have always loved you. But you need a second son and I do not seem to be able to give you one. There has to be a reason for that. Have Wolsey investigate the matter of my precontract. If he finds it is not binding, then there is nothing I would rather do than return in triumph to Your Grace's side as your rightful Queen, but if it is, if I should really be Duchess of Bavaria, then I will gladly step aside and leave Your Majesty free to marry again. You have my word."

Anne's eyes and voice were so candid, so pleading, that Henry couldn't find it in him to refuse her. Throat suddenly thick, he forced himself to nod. He slipped his hand from hers and went from the room, pleading a headache. In the privacy of his own apartments, lying in a darkened room, he allowed himself the rare luxury of tears. What had he done to deserve such a wonderful, generous, self-deprecating wife?

1521

"It appears the Queen was correct. Her Majesty's precontract to William of Bavaria was never truly dissolved. In the eyes of God, she is his wife and not yours, Sire. I am sorry," Wolsey's voice was smooth and grave. Anne looked across at Henry, who suddenly looked a beaten man.

"This is for the best, My Lord. At least we know where we stand."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, sweetheart? You don't have to. No one else need ever know. We can cover it up, go on as if nothing is wrong."

Henry reached for her hand, but she pulled back, just slightly, "And deny England the chance of a Duke of York?"

"William is strong! There's no reason to fear for his health!"

"No, not at the moment. But fevers can come at any time. And he's growing up. It won't be long before he wants to take his place in the army and then what? Are you going to forbid him from doing that, just because there's no one who can take his place if he died? He'd hate you for it and we both know that."

A long silence stretched between them. At last, Anne stepped back, fearing her resolve would break if she delayed any longer, "Promise me one thing."

"Anything!" The exclamation was one of the most fervent Henry had ever uttered.

"We entered into the marriage in good faith. Let Mary stay a Princess."

"I wouldn't dream of anything else! And if you insist on stepping back from this marriage, then you won't go empty-handed either. Never let it be said I don't provide for my women. You'll be my beloved sister from now on, the same way the Dowager Princess of Wales is. I'll grant you the full extent of the southern St Leger lands and the Welsh lordships of Thornbury and Scales and Glamorgan as well."

"Your Majesty is more than generous."

Anne curtsied and, with a heavy heart, Henry signed to Wolsey.

Within a matter of hours, acting in his capacity as papal legate, he had drawn up the agreement annulling their marriage.

Henry reached for a quill and signed in a hand that shook so much it was scarcely recognisable as his. He passed the implement to Anne and she followed suit, signing her name, "Anna Regina", for the final time.

As she laid the quill down, she looked up at the King and their eyes met. After all the months of stress and anxiety, the actual event seemed almost anticlimactic. All it had taken were a few strokes of a pen. A few strokes of a pen and they were no longer married. They were no longer married and Henry was free to marry where he willed.