The Princess Mary comported herself with all dignity and composure when she arrived at his home.

She was dressed in dark velvets, unseasonably warm considering it was not yet even October, but Charles supposed that that was only to be expected from a daughter of Henry's - he dressed too warmly in all but the finest of weather, just as the Lady was despite it being a bright day, and not as cool as it might have been for late September. No doubt she was as terrified of catching cold as her father, as paranoid of illness as ever he had been, which was a vice more permissible in a young woman than any other she might have inherited from Henry.

She seemed pale, all the same, and tired, but Charles supposed that that was only to be expected - her whole world had been turned on its head, after all, and she was not the most robust of young women. She never had been, even with the obsessive precautions Henry and Queen Katherine had taken with regards her health when she was a child, their only living child, and therefore the most valuable little girl in England. He would speak with the housekeeper and the cook, ask them to provide her with warm, bright chambers and a stout, healthy diet, and perhaps a physician could be found who might give her a tonic of the sort her father was so fond, to boost her health and put some colour in her cheeks.

It would not do for her to die in his care, when her father had trusted him above all others to mind his daughter. As well, both she and her mother had suffered enough hurts in recent years, and if one of them died, he thought the other would soon follow her into the grave. Henry would likely blame Charles if anything befell Mary, even if she caught the plague, so he thought it best to ensure she had the utmost care.

If nothing else, Margaret had always loved her niece, and to care for her might be a means of atoning for what hurts he had caused her.

"My lord Suffolk," she greeted him, one hand held out to him, and he wondered if she even realised how she trembled. She had never shown a moment's fear in all the time since Henry began proceedings against her mother and herself, not that Charles had ever seen. It was a talent she had inherited from her mother, one that he felt the new Queen might do well to cultivate - often, it seemed to Charles, Queen Anne was too open, risking not only people's opinions of herself but also of Henry. A Queen reflected on her King, after all, and Queen Katherine had never reflected anything but well on Henry. Anne was less mature than Katherine had been upon coming to the throne in years alone, but even without that, there was a lack of dignity in Henry's new wife that even her striking looks could not balance. "You have my great thanks for accepting me into your home."

"It is my honour to be your host, Your Highness," he assured her, kissing her hand before rising from his bow. She had taken badly to being named a bastard, and treated cruelly for being so stubborn about something that was understandably difficult for her - a girl who had been given Ludlow Castle as her own, a girl who had been beloved of her father until a woman who should have been nothing more than his mistress tore her life apart, expected to calmly accept that her adored father saw her as a bastard? Not bloody likely. It would not cost him much to ease her into answering to Lady Mary, rather than force it one her all at once as Boleyn or Norfolk might have. "Please, allow me to present my son, Edward - your cousin, my lady."

She smiled as she moved to greet Edward, and it transformed her whole face - he saw Margaret there, and Henry on a good day, and some of Queen Katherine, too - to the point where she seemed once more the beautiful girl who had been the pearl of her father's world. It would not take much to give her an easy life here in the countryside, to keep her away from court, and he knew that there were more men than Henry would suspect or the Boleyns might like who would be willing to marry her, in time, bastard or not - beautiful girls with wealthy fathers never had much trouble in finding husbands, after all.

Charles could not understand Henry, in this - getting rid of Katherine was one thing, and Charles would not in any way deny that Henry was right that it was best for the realm that he had a male heir to inherit his throne, but the cruelties he had planned for the Lady Mary seemed excessive. True, she could not remain as the Princess of Wales if the King wished to truly claim his marriage to Katherine was invalid, but that did not mean that she had to be so rudely treated - a duchy was something easily given, as Charles himself stood proof, and the Lady surely qualified as worthy by dint of her blood alone, legitimate or not.

By that token, it seemed absurd to Charles that Katherine would not bend her pride for Mary's sake. He would admit that he had not been a particularly good husband to Margaret, and he had been a largely absent father to Edward, it was true, but had Edward been in danger as Mary was because of Charles' own pigheadedness, he would have given in. He understood Katherine's pride, her reluctance to give up her station, but she claimed to love her daughter before all things - surely she would care to see Mary well cared for, and recognised as the King's daughter?

Better for Mary that she take the Oath when the time came, and that she recognised that she was never going to take the throne - Henry would never allow it, not after going to such lengths to remove her from the succession, not after breaking from the Church.

He watched her greet Edward, and hoped that Henry would be more inclined to treat the Lady more kindly if the Queen succeeded in giving him the son he craved regardless of how her mother behaved. One could only hope.

The harlot had given birth to a girl, Mary knew, and she was both relieved - surely this was a sign from God that her father had been wrong to attempt to set her and her mother aside! - and afraid. A princess had greater need of ladies-in-waiting than a prince, and since Mary's father was trying to convince everyone that his newest bastard was a princess, doubtless she would have an excessive entourage wherever her household was set up, be it at Whitehall or in one of the crown's manors or castles outside of London.

The Duke of Suffolk had a great number of gossipy maids, and Mary had overheard them whispering that there was talk that she was to be sent to wait on the new baby princess. Mary was certain that her father would never force such an indignity on her, even under the harlot's influence as he currently was, but she feared that the harlot, working behind his back, might place her with her half-sister as a maid.

The Baroness Willoughby de Eresby, the Duke's other ward, who insisted that Mary call her Cathy, did not think that Mary needed to worry one way or the other. Cathy was only fourteen, though, and half in love with the Duke, who she considered to be the most valiant champion Mary could hope for, and she believed that Mary had no reason to fear being taken away and shamed so long as she remained a member of Lord Suffolk's household.

"I'll wager," Cathy said as they walked together in the gardens, "that His Grace has insisted that you remain here, as his ward, to be companion to Edward and I."

Cathy was betrothed to Mary's cousin Edward, who was only a boy of ten, which was part of why Mary found Cathy's fancy for the Duke unseemly. It was completely obscene, for one thing, considering it would only be a few years before Cathy and Edward married, and the Duke would be Cathy's father-in-law. For another, Mary knew well enough that the way Cathy's cheeks pinked whenever the Duke was about meant her thoughts were far from pure, and such things were sinful.

Mary did not deny that God had made the Duke well - he was a handsome man, of strong build and excellent health, and kept himself exceedingly fit. Neither that nor the heat Mary sometimes saw in his eyes when he looked at a pretty maid at mealtimes could excuse such lewd thoughts as Cathy entertained, though, and so Mary tried to encourage her companion into joining her in extra prayers every morning, as penance.

Mary did enjoy Cathy's company - Cathy's mother had been one of Mary's own mother's Spanish ladies, and Maria de Salinas raised Cathy with the same Spanish influence as the Queen had Mary. They enjoyed many of the same songs and dances, and had similar tastes in books and entertainments, even if Cathy's tastes were sometimes a little frivolous, in Mary's opinion.

Edward, too, was more entertaining company than Mary had expected - he was a bright, intelligent boy, especially for just ten years of age, with much of her aunt in him. Mary knew that her mother had often disapproved of Margaret's sometimes fiery temper, of her public excesses, but Mary always liked her aunt, and never doubted Margaret's regard for her, as she sometimes now doubted her father's. Edward had never, in the month or so Mary had resided at Westhorpe, shown that temper that his mother had shared with Mary's father, which could only be for the good, especially since Mary sometimes feared that she felt it rising in herself, whenever some of the maids were particularly careful to show deference to Edward or to Cathy over Mary herself.

Her cousin, though, was a good companion - Mary had never been able to spend as much time out of doors as she might have liked, when she was fully recognised as heir to the throne, and the new freedom to more or less chose her own diversions was terribly exciting. She took full advantage of it, riding out with cousin Edward and Cathy whenever they could persuade their tutors to release them, and even making a pet of one of the smaller, slower of Lord Suffolk's hunting dogs, simply because she could. Edward then announced that he and Cathy must also have hunting dogs, and that he would ask his father if he might send one to his sister, Frances, who was living in far-away Scotland with their aunt - also Mary's aunt - Lady Methvin, who had once been Margaret, Queen of Scots.

Mary did not wholly understand why Frances Brandon was in Scotland with their aunt, but she suspected it had been a plot of her father's, or possibly of Cardinal Wolsey's, in hopes that Lady Methvin would see fit to betroth Frances to her son, the Scottish King, and tie the Stewarts tighter to the Tudors. Mary did not think such a thing would happen - Frances was a girl of eight, and Mary knew from bitter experience that grown men, such as her cousin the Emperor, did not like to wait for girls to grow into women when there were women full-grown to be had. Cousin James was older than Mary, never mind than Frances, and betrothed to a Princess of France, or so Mary had heard.

No matter. Edward was a sweet boy, and from what Mary had seen, the Duke was an indulgent father, so doubtless it would be arranged that Frances Brandon, far away in Scotland, would receive a pet dog of her own.

Charles was at Whitehall while Mary befriended his son and his ward, kept up to date by helpful missives from Edward's tutor, who noted the Lady Mary to be a quiet, polite girl, who spends a great deal of time in prayer and quiet reflection, but who smiles readily when in the company of Lord Edward or the Baroness Willoughby de Eresby.

That was good, at least - while he suspected Henry did not give a damn either way, he preferred to think that she was, if not happy, at least not unhappy under his care. He said something to that effect to Tony, who laughed as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"You've never liked disappointing a lady, have you, Charles?" he said, shaking his head and smiling. Tony was always smiling, or at least so it seemed to Charles. Had he not known Tony as well as he did, he might have thought the other man a fool, as he knew many of their fellow courtiers did, but he did know Tony, and he knew that there was little enough that his smiling, sharp-eyed friend missed.

Which meant Tony knew that the Boleyn men were standing across the hall, watching Brandon as if he were a particular source of amusement to them. He supposed he was - he had offered to take in the King's currently hated bastard, after all, risking royal suspicion as few would dare, and was treating it as though Mary were any other ward. In truth, there was no other way to treat her, not without risking Henry's displeasure, or without drawing suspicion of conspiring on her behalf upon himself. He had to behave as though Mary Tudor were no more important or dangerous than Cathy Willoughby was, and in doing so, he would render her thus.

Or so he hoped. Who truly knew, at court?

"They say she's a good looking girl," Tony said, leaning against the pillar behind them and nodding when George Boleyn's staring became obvious. "The Lady, that is."

"She's my wife's niece," Charles said, knowing that by doing anything other than claiming Mary to be ugly, he was only confirming Tony's suspicions. "And my ward."

"If her last name were anything but Tudor, I can't see that that would make any difference to you," Tony said, and Charles had no reply to that - Mary was a beautiful girl, and she had always shown both her parents' sharp intelligence combined with her mother's dignity, even as a little girl. It was an enticing combination, but more enticing yet was the prospect of keeping his head. Charles had a reputation for plucking more than one flower just newly in bloom, but this flower was not worth the risk.

"She is the King's daughter," he said at last. "To disrespect her would be to disrespect the King."

Even if it wouldn't, not really - Henry had made it perfectly clear that he cared little and less for Mary, and would probably laugh along with any insult shown to her at court - Charles knew better than to think that indifference would extend to such a thing as his taking Mary to bed. The King's reaction would be a thousand times worse than when Charles married Margaret, he knew that, at least.

"Not everyone thinks that way," Tony said, tilting his head ever so slightly towards the Boleyns. "Our friends think the King ought to order that you arrange for the Lady to marry one of your stableboys, to keep her out of the Princess' way."

"You can't be serious," Charles said, genuinely surprised - he knew the Boleyns were brazen, but surely even they knew better than to insult anyone of Tudor blood to Henry?

"They've even offered to find a husband for her, if you won't," Tony said, biting into an apple he'd produced from somewhere. "Seems they weren't happy when you interfered in their plan to bring her low by forcing her to serve in the Princess' household."

Charles hadn't meant to interfere in any plans, but Thomas More had come to him, asking him to intercede. Charles didn't know how More knew of the King's plan - supposedly the Boleyns' plan - but apparently he had heard of it, and did not wish to see his beloved Queen Katherine's daughter treated so ill. He had thought that Charles' friendship with Henry might be enough to convince Henry to be kinder, and while Charles had doubted it at the time, More had been right, as he was in so many things.

"Who was saying this?" he asked Tony. For better or worse, he was Mary's guardian now, and he had the final say in who she wed... Unless Henry chose for her. The Boleyns had his ear now, and if they decided they wanted her wed to some blackguard from the depths of Wales, well, it would be a small matter for them to convince the King, and there would be nothing Charles could do. Best to intercede now, carefully, and hope to spare Mary that. "Was it Wiltshire himself?"

"Rochford," Tony said, nodding again when George Boleyn's watching became obvious once more. "The other night, during the revels."

Well, that was something, at least - George was never in control of the Boleyns' plots, and if he had said all this during the revels, he had said it while drunk out of his mind, in all likelihood. It could be that there was no Boleyn plot to see Mary married off at all.

She was well out of the way at Westhorpe, after all. She could remain there, unmarried, as a companion to little Cathy when she and Edward married, and become nurse and tutor to their children. There was honour in it, after all, so Henry ought not be offended by the notion. Or Charles could find a husband for her - he had cousins who would gladly take her to wife, if only for the dowry Henry would likely offer.

It just all seemed badly done.

"She was a sweet little girl," Tony said. "It wouldn't do to see her ruined."

"How very sentimental," Charles said dryly, but he couldn't help agreeing. Mary had been a very sweet child, and had seemed sweet enough still, during the few days Charles had spent at Westhorpe after her arrival. Edward certainly seemed to like her well enough, although Charles had to admit that his son took to anyone who spoke to him kindly, so that was no true indication. That there were no bad reports of her at all, though... "Excuse me, Sir Anthony," he said. "I must seek out the King."

"Your Grace," Tony said, bowing his head more in surprise than anything. "Don't do anything rash, Charles - you know how well he likes being told what to do."

Henry, when Charles found him, seemed in excellent spirits, and guided Charles outside into the gardens. It was a brisk day, bright and sharp, and Charles smiled when Henry huddled deeper into his cloak - it was good that some things never changed. So much had changed in just the short time since Henry had named him a duke that the world before seemed like a foreign country, and to know that some things were the same was almost a comfort.

"May I speak freely, Your Majesty?" he asked, thinking carefully how to phrase this - Mary was such a volatile topic with Henry that it was dangerous to mention her, more often than not, so Charles knew better than to bring her up without due cause. "It is with regard to some rumours that have been brought to my attention."

Henry motioned for him to continue, one eyebrow quirked in interest.

"I am told," Charles began, "that there has been some discussion of finding a husband for the Lady Mary?"

Henry looked so surprised that Charles regretted bringing it up, now - clearly it had just been George Boleyn in one of his drunken stupors, and Charles had likely made a target of himself for Henry's abundant temper. He could only hope that Henry would not think that he had brought this up as a means of forwarding Mary's interests, and thereby committing bloody treason. He wouldn't be much good to Edward, or to Cathy or Mary, if he was short a head. At least Frances would have her aunt's protection, up in Scotland, but the others would be at Henry's dubious mercy.

"Where did you hear that?" the King demanded, taking Charles by the front of his doublet and drawing them both to a halt. "Who told you this?"

"It is but a rumour," Charles assured him, "Henry, it's only a rumour - she is my ward, though, and I thought it best to be certain."

Henry released him, laughing as though at some great jest, but Charles knew him well enough to see the gleam of worry in his eyes. Despite Henry's pretended confidence in parting with Rome, Charles knew that he still feared what the Emperor might do in Mary's name, especially now that Henry's battle to marry Anne had yielded only another daughter.

"It has been brought to my attention that there are some among you who would concern yourselves with the well-being of my eldest daughter, the Lady Mary," the King said, leaning over the table and staring them all hard in the eye. Charles knew that look - it meant Henry had devised some grand scheme, and Charles loathed that he had been party to its conception. "My lord Suffolk, of whose household she is currently a member, has shared with me rumours of her marrying. Can any of you corroborate these rumours, my lords?"

Charles ignored the way Norfolk and Wiltshire looked at him, choosing instead to look to George Boleyn, his primary source for these rumours. To his relief, Boleyn had gone pale, and was looking to his father and Norfolk with something between embarrassment and worry there in his eyes. For a man who usually seemed in such perfect control of himself, it seemed odd that he should be so openly upset over the disruption of his family's plans for the Lady Mary.

"No?" Henry pressed. "None of you have anything to say? None of you have heard these rumours?"

Charles watched Henry watch his councillors, waiting for him to notice the queer look on George Boleyn's face, and was startled when Norfolk was the first to break the silence.

"Since, Your Majesty, not one of the rest of us have heard these… Rumours of Lord Suffolk's," he said, "could it be that he himself is the source?"

Charles laughed, expecting Henry to do the same, and felt his stomach twist when he saw how intently Henry was staring at him across the table. Surely he didn't believe that Charles had started these rumours? What possible purpose could he have in doing so?

"Surely Your Majesty does not think-"

"It had occurred to me," the King said quietly, "and some of my councillors agree, that you might have brought these supposed rumours to my attention because you seek the Lady Mary's hand for yourself."

Norfolk was smiling, and Wiltshire's face had twisted into that smug approximation of a smile that had always so discomfited Margaret. Damn them for getting to Henry, and damn Henry for telling that woman's family absolutely bloody everything! Mary was his daughter just as much as Elizabeth, how could he care so little for her that he would discuss her with people who patently did not have her best interests in mind?

"The Lady Mary is my ward," Charles said firmly. "She is also Your Majesty's daughter, and her welfare is my only concern."

"You do not think she would make a good wife, Lord Suffolk?" Wiltshire asked, as if offended on the Lady's behalf. Charles clenched his fist under the table, the better to give at least the appearance of control, and wondered how to insist that, however pleasing a wife the Lady Mary might make to other men, Charles was not currently looking for a wife.

Which was true - Margaret's death was not even a year past, and while Charles knew that he had hardly been an ideal husband, that he had not treated her as well as he ought to have done, he had loved her. If he wed again, it would not be for some time, and it would not be to Margaret's niece.

"Do you not think she is an ideal bride for one such as yourself, my lord?" Norfolk said, smiling at some grand joke that he had obviously shared already with Wiltshire and Rochford. "A royal bastard for a common duke - fitting, is it not?"

And yes, Charles knew that to them, it was perfect - had it not been for his friendship with Henry, and Henry's eventual acceptance of his and Margaret's marriage, Charles knew that he would never have been accepted by the peerage, and to wed Mary to him would be an excellent means of reducing her in the eyes of those monarchs in Europe who might otherwise have supported her claim. None of the great powers on the continent would want to see a throne pass into the hands of a king with the blood of a commoner, even if that king's mother had one of the finest pedigrees in Christendom.

One look at Henry was all it took to confirm that Norfolk and the Boleyns had already let him in on their joke.

"The Lady Mary would be a fine wife for any man," he said, letting his shoulders drop as he acknowledged his defeat. "She is a clever, accomplished young woman, and a credit to Your Majesty."

And that was that.

Mary had spent the time since the Duke had departed for the bastard's christening as she had spent the time before, in Cathy and Edward's company, determinedly not thinking about her father.

She truly enjoyed the time spent with Cathy, she playing the virginals while Cathy read or sometimes sang. Edward had longer hours to spend with his tutor than Cathy, and Mary was too old for lessons, which meant that it was often just the two of them together. Cathy had a good ear for music, and enjoyed speaking of religion almost as much as Mary did - even though she was rather less strict in her adherence to doctrine than Mary might have liked, she was still as engaging a companion as Mary could wish for.

So it was in the library with Cathy that Edward found her when Sir Anthony Knivert came calling from London, drenched to the skin and red in the face.

"Look, cousin Mary!" Edward said. "Uncle Tony has come to visit!"

Edward's smile reminded Mary uncomfortably of her father's, so she gladly turned to greet Sir Anthony rather than return her cousin's delight.

"Welcome to Westhorpe, Sir Anthony," she said. "I'm afraid the Duke is absent-"

"I know, my lady," he broke in. "It's Charles- that is, the Duke that sent me. I was in London with him, my lady, and he sent me with a message for you. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?"

"You can use Father's study," Edward chirped from his perch on the edge of the nearest table. "He shan't mind, Uncle, I'm sure of it."

Mary motioned for Cathy to remain where she was, with Edward, and followed Sir Anthony out of the room and up the stairs. Had her father decided to place her in the- in his new daughter's household after all? Was she to be escorted like a criminal to wherever the false Princess of Wales' household was to be established? Was that why Sir Anthony was here - the mighty Charles Brandon, too ashamed to have broken his promise of care to her?

She near jumped out of her skin when Sir Anthony closed the door behind her. She hadn't even noticed their entering the Duke's study, but they were here, and the side door was firmly closed, which meant Edward and Cathy hadn't even scurried up the back stairs to listen in.

"Charles asked that I give you this," he said, handing her a letter with Lord Suffolk's seal. "I am sorry for this, my lady. None of us would wish you any harm, you must know that."

That was a strange sentiment to express, but one Mary trusted all the same - Anthony Knivert, Charles Brandon, and poor dead William Compton had been as much a part of her life as her mother's ladies when she was a child, and they had always spoiled her in the way childless men spoiled their friends' children. Sir Anthony had never looked so uncomfortable in her presence before, she thought as she broke the seal on the letter, and almost immediately, she knew why.

Lady Mary,

I write to share with you the glad news that your father the King has in his most gracious kindness arranged for you and I to marry. I ride now for the More to share our happy tidings with your lady mother, Her Highness the Dowager Princess of Wales. We will wed within a month of my return to Westhorpe Hall.

Sincerely yours,

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk

Mary looked up at Sir Anthony, leaning against the edge of the massive desk with his arms folded, and tried to force words past the knot of panic in her throat.

"He had no choice," Sir Anthony said quietly. "George Boleyn was talking nonsense about marrying you off, and Charles didn't want to risk the Boleyns convincing the King to send you off to who knows where just to be rid of you-"

"My father would not-"

"Your father would do anything to ensure the Princess Elizabeth's place, my lady," Sir Anthony said, and Mary felt very small. "Charles brought Boleyn's talk to the King as a rumour, and it seems that the King raised the subject with the Boleyns, and they convinced him that Charles was an ideal suitor."

The room seemed to be spinning, and Mary almost didn't notice how weak her knees had become until Sir Anthony had helped her into the nearest chair.

"I cannot marry Lord Suffolk," she said. "He- he was married to my aunt! We-"

"He has spoken to Ambassador Chapuys, my lady. Charles couldn't be seen to write to Rome himself, but the ambassador is going to obtain a dispensation for you." He moved towards the door, looking once more uncomfortable and unsure. "I'll leave you to gather your thoughts, my lady," Sir Anthony said gently. She watched the door close before pressing her hands over her face, as if to hold back her tears.

All was lost, then. It seemed so terribly unfair that Mary's father should take her whole life from her and still think it his place to arrange her marriage, all without letting her see her mother even once.

Charles pushed his hair back from his face as neatly as he could, knowing that it was likely pointless. Lady Darrell had gone to announce him to the Queen- that is, to the Princess Dowager, and he was only glad that he was clearly the first to have arrived. He had barely set out an hour before Thomas Boleyn from Whitehall, and had feared that he would be overtaken at some point along the way.

Not so, he was glad to find, and even gladder for the Princess Dowager's sake than for his own. Her household was meagre at best, her circumstances appalling, and from Lady Darrell's face, it didn't seem that her health was much better.

Indeed, she was sitting by the fire, dressed warmly against any chill, and seemed frailer than Charles could ever remember her being, even during her spells of ill health after her miscarriages, or her son's death.

"Lord Brandon," she said, smiling even though he knew she had little reason to regard him with any warmth. "You are most welcome. Lady Darrell tells me you have news of my Mary?"

He chose to stand, even when she waved him into the seat opposite her, feeling more awkward than he could ever remember being. This was somehow just as bad as kneeling and begging Henry's forgiveness so he could return to court.

"His Majesty has found a husband for the Lady Mary," he said, guilt surging up his throat when the Princess Dowager's face paled. "I begged permission to be the one to tell you the news of her upcoming marriage."

"She is your ward," Katherine said, sounding miles away. "Who is it that my husband has found to wed our daughter? Is he French?"

"No, madam," Charles said uneasily, thinking that likely that was the only mark in his favour - at least he was not a Valois. "The King has decreed that the Lady Mary should marry- that she and I are to wed, and before Christmas."

He watched as she rose, very, very slowly, and crossed the room to stand before him.

"You are telling me," she said, her voice quiet and polite and viciously, bitterly cold, "that the King of England, my husband, has decreed that our daughter, a young lady of peerless royal heritage - on her mother's side, at least - should marry an up-jumped commoner?"

"Well, madam," Charles managed, "at least I am not French."

She laughed at that, shrill and hysterical, and walked slowly back to her warm seat by the fire.

"You cannot marry her without a Papal dispensation," she said. "Regardless of what Henry has decided for himself, I will find some way to stop this marriage if you try to force my daughter to live in sin with you."

"Ambassador Chapuys is writing already to His Holiness on my behalf," he promised her, finally taking the seat on the other side of the hearth. "I understand that Lady Mary is as devout as you, madam, and I would not ask it of her to live in sin even without your insistence."

She seemed to consider this, and took a long while in doing so. Then she nodded, just once, and looked him in the eye.

"You are to be my son-in-law, then," she said. "And also the son-in-law of the King. Has he written to our daughter, do you know? Or has he left her care solely in your hands?"

"The King is very busy-"

"So in your hands, then," she said, nodding again. "Very well - as my son-in-law, or very nearly, will you do a great favour for me? Will you carry a letter to my Mary? It has been so long since we were allowed to write to one another-"

"Of course, madam," he said. "I know that it would mean a great deal to her, as well as to you."

He slipped Katherine's letter into his doublet, hidden away from view, just as Thomas Boleyn swept in, without having waited to be announced.

Mary had dutifully sent for a dressmaker the day after Sir Anthony had brought her the news. The woman had come that afternoon, with a veritable army of helpers, who spread bolts of silk and satin and damask out across the whole of the library for Mary and Cathy to peruse. Edward assured her that money was no object, for his father was a very wealthy man, but Mary was painfully aware of her own poor state, and did not wish to impose on the Duke for something so simple as her wedding dress.

If right was right - if that woman hadn't meddled - Mary's father would be paying for not only her dress, but the wedding feast, and any entertainments he thought suitable for the occasion. As it was, Mary supposed that it would be herself, Cathy, Edward, Lord Brandon, and maybe Sir Anthony and Lady Salisbury. She did not imagine her father would give permission for her mother to come even for this, and she did not know anyone else she might wish to be present, except for maybe Ambassador Chapuys, who had always been so kind to both her and her mother.

The fabrics were all in shades of white and cream, highlighted in gold. Mary would have liked a touch of silver, as was traditional for a royal bride, but did not quite know how to ask - was it inappropriate? She was still a Tudor, was she not? Did she not bear her father's name, even if he might wish otherwise? Did her royal blood make her a royal bride, or did her father taking her title away from her render her a commoner?

"I should go with something in the gold, Mary," Cathy said quietly, taking Mary's hand away from a lovely light cream satin threaded ever-so-lightly with pale silver. "It would be lovely against your hair, and a deeper cream would add a touch of colour to your cheeks. Look, there's a very nice damask just over here I think you might like."

In the end, Mary chose a plain white satin, thinking that it would be easily dyed to be made more practical, and because it was less expensive than any of the richer materials. She could just about afford it on her tiny allowance, as well, which meant she would not need to rely on Lord Brandon for anything but the absolute minimum.

Cathy was in charge of the arrangements, such as they were, and Mary was more than happy to let her have her way on everything from the flowers to what might be served at dinner that night - for Mary knew that there would not be enough guests to rightly call it a feast - and chose to spend her days in the chapel in the village. It was a pretty building, with some beautiful windows and a lovely fresco behind the altar, and Mary found great peace there.

It would be there, in just a few more days or weeks or whenever Lord Brandon thought to return, at that lovely altar, that Mary would become the Duchess of Suffolk, and effectively acknowledge the lesser status her father and his whore had forced upon her before all those who might support her, from her cousin the Emperor to the Holy Father himself. It made her sick with anger, and something that felt dangerously close to hatred, too, which she tried her best to keep from tainting her feelings for her father.

It was hard, though - it was desperately hard to not at least resent him for reducing her to this, for taking her from the most eligible bride in all of Europe to the bride of the least noble peer in all her father's domain. It was impossible not to resent him for how he treated her lady mother, too, and for how easily he had tossed them both aside, and for how he kept them apart just because they would not bend to his will.

It was hard not to hate that he had so readily cast her aside for even just the hope of a son.

She was startled out of her considerations by someone sitting in the pew beside her, and didn't know quite how to react when she lifted her head to find Ambassador Chapuys, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his gaze focused on the altar.

"Excellency," she said, pushing herself to her feet and attempting to straighten her skirts. "I- I was not expecting to see you."

"I arrived with the Duke," he said, rising and bowing to her. "And also with Sir Anthony Knivert, and the Lady Salisbury. I had hoped that the King might allow your mother to come, but alas, it seems he still fears that she might convince you to stage a coup on her behalf."

There was the faintest hint of a smile on the Ambassador's face, but Mary saw no reason to laugh. Her father very likely did not trust her not to rise up against him and the harlot, and that was the most probable cause of his having arranged for this marriage.

"I have with me something that will hopefully offer you some comfort in these strange days," Chapuys said gently. "On Lord Suffolk's request, I wrote to His Holiness the Pope to request a papal dispensation on your behalf - the Holy Father acquiesced gladly, and also sends his regards and his assurances that you have his utmost support against the Boleyn woman and her bastard."

Mary smiled, or at least, she tried to, but it all seemed so pointless. Her father had robbed her of her means of being taken seriously, of her chances of finding real support in among the Catholic monarchs on the continent. The Pope's moral support was welcome, and she was grateful for it, but she did not see that it would do her any good, no more than the Emperor's promises of loyalty and support would.

She had no choice but to marry Lord Brandon, a man who was widowed less than a year, a man who was her father's closest friend and loyalist supporter, a man who had been married to her aunt. In doing so, she would sign away her own legitimacy, for a royal princess who was heiress apparent to the throne of England would never wed a mere duke.

She had been so happy when Lord Brandon had taken her as his ward. She had thought that his loyalty to her aunt's memory, his being father to her cousins, she had thought that those things might make him treat her with kindness. She felt a fool, now, and wondered how much it had taken for him to convince her father to give her to him as his new bride.

Suddenly, brilliantly, she was angry with him, this man who had treated her with the benevolence of an uncle, who was now going to claim her as a prize, who had spent time making certain that she was at her ease in his home only to maneuver her into his bed. God in Heaven, had he decided to marry her when she arrived here at Westhorpe, because of some resemblance she bore to her aunt? Was he some sort of depraved deviant, to take a woman who looked so much like his son, like the miniature Edward had of little Frances, to bed?

She hardly even realised she was crying until Chapuys guided her close, pressing her into his arms and petting her hair. She had vague memories of her father doing something similar when she had gone to him, terribly upset, when it was announced that Aunt Margaret was leaving for Portugal, and that made it all so much worse, for if Margaret had never gone to Portugal, Lord Brandon would still be Sir Charles at best, and Mary would not…

Mary would likely be serving in her half-sister's household if Lord Brandon hadn't taken her on. She would likely be festering away under the rule of whatever Howard or half-Howard had been placed in charge of the princess' household. She would not know Edward, or have Cathy's friendship.

But she would have the support of the Catholic monarchs of Europe, she reminded herself. She would still stand a chance of reclaiming her place in the succession, no matter what the harlot convinced her father to do. To wed the Duke with so small a struggle was to give in, and accept that the harlot had won.

And Charles Brandon was the instrument of Mary's surrender, and for that, she hated him.

Charles had left word with Edward and Cathy that they were to send Mary to him as soon as she returned from the chapel. He knew that Ambassador Chapuys had gone to her, to tell her of the dispensation, just as he knew Tony would likely drag Edward out to the gardens or the stables, demanding to know of all Edward's misadventures since last Tony had visited, and just as he knew Cathy would capably keep Lady Salisbury entertained in the library until Charles had dealt with Mary. She looked enough like Henry and Margaret both that he had no reason to doubt that she shared their temper, and could only hope that she had enough of her mother's reserve to hold back the often physical violence to which Henry was so prone.

Margaret had been prone to it, too, when in a true temper. She had never been so beautiful as she was when caught up in a passion - anger and lust and the joy he had only ever truly seen in her when she was with Edward and Frances - but she had never been so dangerous, either. His jaw still smarted to remember the strength in her slender hands.

He couldn't help but smile, all the same. They'd fucked on this very desk more than once after a fight, and Margaret had always insisted that they'd conceived Frances on the hearthrug in the library.

He was still smiling when Mary slammed her way into his study, thinking of Margaret and barely remembering that he had set Tony and Cathy to distract Edward and Lady Salisbury solely because he had anticipated that Mary would be in a temper when she arrived.

And what a temper.

She was red in the face, and red-eyed, too, as though she had been weeping. She looked so much like Henry that, for a moment, it was wholly disconcerting. He had never truly noticed how much like her father she looked, always seeing more of Margaret, or even Prince Arthur, of whom he had dim recollections. Now, though, all he could see was a Henry who had flown into a rage when Francis Valois defeated him in a wrestling match.

He waited a moment to allow the echoes of the slamming door to fade, then rose to his feet.

"Lady Mary."

She stood there, too angry to speak, and he waited for her to calm down. He had fought often enough with Margaret to know that he would only lose his own temper if he attempted to confront her before hers had cooled, after all.

"I trust you received my note? Sir Anthony assured me that he had put it in your hand himself, but if he did not-"

"I received your note," she said, and he thought she might have even stamped her foot. "And Sir Anthony's excuses for your seeking my hand-"

"I did not seek your hand," he said firmly, coming around the desk to better look her in the eye. "I sought to save you from a Boleyn marriage, and your father was the one who sought our marriage - I am sure that you, like your mother, do not think me a worthy match-"

"I am the rightful heir to the English throne!" she shrieked, and God above but she had never looked as much like Margaret as she did in that moment. "I am the sole legitimate child of the King of England! I should be marrying, I should be betrothed to the Dauphin, or to the Prince of Asturias! I am worth more than some backwater commoner duke!"

"Well, Ave bloody Maria, then!" he snapped. "I shall ride for Whitehall immediately and tell the King of his error, and while I am there, I shall negotiate a marriage contract with Ambassador Chapuys and you will marry the Prince of Asturias as soon as he is old enough to come here and fuck you!"

He stood straight, sure that she was finished, or at least that her temper was broken - she had all of Henry's stubbornness, but none of his confidence, and Charles knew that he had shouted. Surely that would have at least startled her out of her tantrum!

He hardly had time to finish that thought before her hand caught him smack on the cheek, a vicious whip-crack that took him utterly by surprise.

He took a moment to test his jaw - to test his teeth! - before turning back to her. She seemed shocked by what her hand had done, and was watching him in something that looked terribly close to fear.

Margaret had never feared him, not even when their arguments had turned into battles, and it was a sharp reminder that Mary was still so very young, that she had been treated so ill these past years. He would have to treat her more gently than he ever had her aunt.

"I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean that - but please, my lady, you must understand that whatever your feelings or mine might be regarding this marriage, it must happen. The King has commanded that we wed, and neither one of us can afford to anger him by refusing."

She still looked angry, but less so with him than with their situation.

"I have a letter for you from your mother," he said. "She was… Less than pleased about this arrangement, but she did seem relieved that I am at least not a Frenchman."

She smiled just a bit at that, a small, tight smile that reminded him of Margaret, but at least it was a smile. That was good - it meant she did not entirely hate him, he supposed.

"That does sound like something she would say," she admitted. "I have not had a letter from her in- in such a long time. May I…?"

"Of course!" he said, reaching into his doublet to retrieve Lady Katherine's note. It was a little rumpled, and doubtless didn't smell as sweet as it had when it left Mary's mother's hand, but Mary took it as though it were a jewel without price.

"You are not the man I would have chosen as my husband," she said, her voice unsteady and uncertain, "but that you defy my father in this, that you would bring me a letter from my mother… Thank you."

She was at the door when she paused, one hand on the doorframe, and looked back over her shoulder, smiling that small smile again.

"I am sorry," she said, "for slapping you, Your Grace."

He laughed - he couldn't help it.

"I have had worse, my lady," he assured her, and he sat at his desk when she closed the door behind her, trying to wonder which of his sins had earned him a second wife with a Tudor temper.

Mary let Cathy lace her into her gown and sat as quietly as she could while her maids set her veil in place. Lady Salisbury, too, was helping her ready herself, and had offered to give her away in her mother's name - but that as not to be, because His Majesty the King had in fact sent Sir Anthony Knivert to do just that, in his name.

Sir Anthony was waiting outside her bedchamber door, dressed in fine deep blue that suited him better than Mary's pale white suited her, and he looked almost apologetic - doubtless he had planned on telling her that had it not been for affairs of state, her father would have given her away himself, but Mary knew that was not so. She was only a bastard marrying a duke, after all, not his beloved Elizabeth.

"Sir Anthony," she said, taking his proffered arm. "Thank you."

"If I may, my lady," he said, leading her down the stairs, "there are worse men to be married to than Charles. At least you can be sure he will never strike you."

No, he would not hit her, but she had hit him - it all felt entirely surreal, and had done so from the moment Sir Anthony had arrived with that blasted note from Lord Suffolk.

Charles, she reminded herself. I ought to call him Charles, now, for he will be my husband within the hour.

The walk to the chapel seemed endless and altogether too short, all at once. Mary's head was spinning so much that, just outside the doors, Sir Anthony and Cathy each took one of her elbow's to keep her from swooning. There did not seem to be enough air, and her gown seemed too tight, and it was terribly, terribly warm considering it was November.

"Mary? Mary, are you quite well?"

Edward, dear, sweet Edward, was on his knees before her - oh, when had she sat down? Was her gown muddied? - and his face was pale with concern.

"Father would have come himself," he said, "but I think he feels that you are frightened of him, Mary - will you come? He seems terribly anxious."

Mary laughed at that, leaning eagerly against Cathy, desperately trying to catch her breath, terrified, so afraid she could not breathe could not think-

Strong hands caught her shoulders from behind, gently guiding her to sit straight and then, oh, oh, thumbs digging into the tight-pulled muscle of her neck and easing the tension that held her arms rigid by her sides, easing the ache in her head.

"Slow," Lord Suffolk said quietly. "Breathe slowly, my lady. Keep your eyes closed, and take deep, slow, breaths."

It helped, and even eased the shaking of her hands, and by the time she opened her eyes, Edward and Cathy and Lady Salisbury were gone, as was Sir Anthony, but Ambassador Chapuys was standing before her with his hands folded inside his sleeves. His face was perfectly smooth, but his eyes were bright with sympathy - Mary felt almost distracted by the warmth of Lord Suffolk's hands on her shoulders, though, and the warmth of him behind her. He seemed terribly large, but also oddly gentle, with his thumbs still smoothing over and back across her nape.

"If I may, Lord Suffolk," the Ambassador said, "I believe you are supposed to be at the altar?"

Mary gasped at the rush of cold against the back of her neck when Lord Brandon removed his hands, shivering when he adjusted her veil so it fell down her back once more, and smiled uncertainly when he bowed and slipped through the doors into the chapel.

"If it is your desire," Ambassador Chapuys said quietly, "I will object to this marriage and see to it that you have safe passage to anywhere within the Empire that you would like to go."

Mary smiled and tucked her hand into his arm.

"No, Ambassador," she said, thinking of her mother's letter - He is not a man I would have chosen for you, but there are worse men to whom your father might have wed you - and shaking her head. "I will not dishonour my father like that. Come," she said, "I am supposed to be married today."

The chapel had been bare even just last night, when Mary had come back after dinner to pray for solace, for strength, but now, someone had bedecked the altar and the railings all in sprays of berry-heavy hollies and sprigs of bright heathers.

Cathy and Edward, clearly, for they both were smiling as if they had conspired in some grand scheme, and they had spent near the whole day outside the day before yesterday. She was touched that they would go to so much trouble for her sake, and somehow, that calmed her mounting nerves just as easily as Lord Suffolk's big hands on her shoulders had.

Ambassador Chapuys laid her hand in one of Lord Suffolk's, startling her out of her revery, and then it was a matter of a simple, short ceremony all in Latin, which was a comfort, and the brush of his mouth to hers. She was surprised by how gentle he was, and was surprised to find that that, too, was a comfort to her.

The day passed in a daze, after that kiss. It was her first, and she found herself disappointed that it had come on the day of her wedding. As a girl, she had dreamed of being wooed by her betrothed, of exchanging letters and miniatures and, yes, kisses, of knowing one another before wedding. She knew that it was silly, girlish thing to wish, but wish it she had, just as she wished, just a little, that Lord Suffolk's kindness and gentleness today meant that he might try to woo her, at least a little. Her aunt Margaret, before she went to Portugal, when Mary was just a little girl, had told her of how her father had wooed her mother, and how he had continued to do so even past their wedding, and Mary hoped, well, she hoped that she might have some of the happiness her parents had shared in the early days of their marriage.

Lady Salisbury and Cathy both helped her dress for bed, much later that night, Cathy putting away Mary's meagre jewels in their little casket while Lady Salisbury brushed out her hair.

"I am sure Lord Brandon will treat you most graciously, Mary," Cathy said softly, sitting by Mary's side and taking her hand. "He is a kind man, Mary, even if he is sometimes uncouth."

"He has certainly had enough practice that he ought know how to make the act comfortable," Lady Salisbury said, setting aside the brush and gesturing for Mary to rise. "Come, my lady - the priest will bless the marriage bed, and then you will truly become Lord Suffolk's wife."

Mary awoke in the morning with the heavy weight of her new husband's arm across her waist, his thigh pressed between hers, and squirmed in embarrassment to remember what she had done the night before.

He had been more than gentle and gracious, and she had cried out so lewdly, and more than once at that - but he had not seemed to take offence or think her sluttish, had rather seemed to like it, honestly, and when the time had come for him to make a woman of her in truth, he had been careful of her, and had not rushed her when she winced in pain.

But even so - to cry out as she had! How was she to look him in the eye, when he awoke? Surely by light of day he would think her behaviour slatternly, wouldn't he?

She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and winced at the tenderness between her legs - it was not so painful as she had been taught it would be, but she supposed she ought to sit carefully for a time, until the ache passed. She could bend to fetch her nightgown and her robe easily enough, and had little difficulty or discomfort when she used the water in the ewer to clean the stickiness from her sex and thighs.

So, that was what it was to share a bed with a man. Sluttish and slatternly or not, she had… Well, she had rather liked it, although she would never admit such a thing to any other person, except for her confessor.

A maid was waiting for her in the outer chamber, and shepherded her back to her own rooms for a bath and to dress. She supposed Lord Br- no, he had asked her to call him by his name, she supposed that Charles would have been woken by his man by now, and that he would join her downstairs for the morning meal. She presumed that their guests would also be present for the meal, and realised with a sharp sort of surprise that she was now their hostess.

Oh, this was all so terribly strange!

Stranger still was that her maid, a small, plain girl of about her own age, had dressed her in a gown of rich, deep blue silk, trimmed with soft white fur at the cuffs. It was a beautiful gown, and fit her well, but she did not recognise it as her own.

"His Grace ordered many gowns for you," the girl said quietly, "and had the dressmaker model them on the measurements for your wedding gown, my lady."

It was the sort of gesture she had not expected, but one that was welcome all the same - Mary's income had been so reduced in the past two years or so that she had scarce been able to clothe herself, and had arrived with only heavy winter gowns, for it had been a choice between enough warm gowns to see her through the winter or a few prettier ones for the autumn and no furs.

This… This was beautiful. She did not doubt that the others Lord- that the other gowns that Charles had ordered for her were just as lovely.

She found all the household already in attendance when she arrived for the meal. Ambassador Chapuys and Lady salisbury were deep in serious conversation - doubtless of matters theological - at the end of the table nearest the door. Her husband and Sir Anthony, meanwhile, were entertaining Edward and Cathy with some energetic tale or other - Mary remembered them often doing the same while she was still at court, they and William Compton japing and jesting and making fun of one another, making her laugh more gaily than any masque or play ever had. The three of them together had had a gift for storytelling, and while she missed poor William, who had been kind, if a touch austere, she could see that his absence made little difference to Edward and Cathy's enjoyment.

"My lady," Charles hailed her, rising before the rest and crossing the room to offer her his arm. "Did you sleep well? You were gone before I woke."

"I am quite well, my lord," she assured him, hoping that he would not notice the blush she could feel rising in her cheeks for being so close to him, now that she knew what lay underneath his fine clothes. "And you?"

"Very well," he said, smiling brightly as he guided her into the seat between his own and Edward's at the table. "In fact, I have some… Interesting news for you, my lady."

"My lord?"

He beckoned one of the servers, who brought forward a letter on a small silver platter, one bearing a seal that looked almost familiar to Mary, but not quite.

"It comes from the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Lord Henry Fitzroy," Charles said, leaning against the arm of his chair and reading the letter over her shoulder. "He is your brother, my lady, and would visit you, if you permit it."

Mary was on the verge of pointing out that it was highly improper for a bastard to request to visit her, but then, was she not a bastard, too?

"I do not believe I have ever met my brother," she said quietly, finding it in herself to meet her husband's eyes as she had doubted should would be able. "With my lord's permission, I should like to host him here, before Christmas."