Chapter 1: Victory in Death
Summary:
Queen Anne gives birth to her son.
Chapter Text
April 9, 1535
After the birth of their daughter, or perhaps even before that if rumors could be trusted, Henry was pulling away from Anne. Their once loving relationship had become strained and fractured as the king grew increasingly impatient for a son. He had once waited seven years to have her. Now he could not even wait for a few months as she lay pregnant, instead seeking out other women to give him the pleasure and intimacy she could not give him.
Eleanor Luke had been his mistress while she was pregnant with Elizabeth and for some time afterwards. For her second pregnancy, it was Katherine Basset (the irony was not lost on her that her husband was cheating on her with someone named Katherine) after a brief affair with Anne's cousin Madge Shelton.
And it was not just the mistresses who threatened her marriage. Once Henry loved to hear her opinions, and they would debate for hours at a time on many topics. Once he had given her leave to speak openly and honestly. Now he felt that she spoke too brazenly, and he would prefer that she remained silent.
Sometimes Anne was convinced that he hated her, but she knew it mattered not if he did despise her. Her only hope of winning back her husband's love, not to mention keeping herself and her daughter safe, was to give birth to a healthy son.
Her boy was supposed to be born in early May and yet her water broke on a rainy day in April. Anne was afraid that it was too soon and that if the babe were a son, he would either be born dead, or he would not survive long.
The last time she had miscarried, Henry had been angry at her, and her enemies had been hopeful that he would discard her and return to his forsaken wife and daughter. God only knew how Henry would react if she lost this baby after carrying it for nearly nine months. The only thing she was sure of was that he wouldn't annul their marriage as long as the Dowager Princess Katherine lived.
However, that did not ensure that she and Elizabeth would be safe from losing favor. A second healthy daughter might buy her some time, but even that was not a guarantee, and it would only serve to push Henry further away from her.
Anne winced in as the pain tore through her body. Was it her imagination or was the pain even worse than it had been when she was in labor the first time? Even her miscarriage had hurt less.
"Fetch Dr. Butts!" Mistress Jones commanded, trying, and failing to keep the fear off her visage.
That was enough to convince Anne that something was terribly wrong.
Please God help me preserve my prince, the queen prayed, tears stinging her eyes. I cannot lose him. If I am being punished for my crimes, take me and not my children.
Outside Anne's rooms, the physician took a few moments to inform the king of the condition of his wife and child as he waited for the royal surgeon to arrive.
"According to Mistress Jones, the baby seems to be stuck in her womb. It is my opinion that we must do an emergency c-section," reported Dr. Butts, looking rather apprehensive.
"Will the baby live through the procedure?" Henry demanded, fear chilling his veins. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw outrage on George's countenance, clearly believing that he should have asked after Anne's health as well.
Anne is strong, I have no doubt that she will survive, he defended himself.
"He might. But we must act quickly, or we shall lose them both," Dr. Butts replied.
"Do what you must to save my queen and my son," commanded the monarch before the doctor ran to his consort’s side. He closed his eyes when he heard another bloodcurdling scream coming from inside the birth chambers.
Hour after hour passed as the physicians worked to help Anne through her difficult labor. Henry forced himself to stay in the chamber instead of either rushing to his wife's side or fleeing to his own apartments.
Finally, Jane Boleyn stepped out of the chambers, her eyes rimmed with tears as she struggled to smile.
"Her Majesty has given birth to a boy," she announced, looking as though the birth of the long-waited Prince of Wales was the worst thing that could have happened.
"What of Anne? How is she?" interrogated George, his hands clutched tightly around the goblet that he had refilled so many times in the past five hours.
King Henry's heart hammered against his chest as he realized the harsh new reality that was happening. The joy of knowing that he finally had a healthy son was overpowered by dread as fresh tears dripped down Lady Rochford's face. Surely God would not reward him with his long sought for heir and then punish him by taking his wife.
"She has lost a lot of blood. The physicians are trying to save her, but they fear that it might already be too late," Jane answered once she had composed herself.
No. This could not be happening. He could not lose Anne after she had done all she had promised. With a son, all of Europe had to realize that Anne was his true queen and that the children he had with her were legitimate. Now all those who wrongfully supported his brother's widow would have to concede defeat. Perhaps even Katherine and Mary would see the truth of the matter.
Anne should be here to witness their victory. After all that they had been through, she should live to watch their children grow into a fine princess and a fine prince. After all, the disappointments, the cruelties, and humiliations she suffered, Anne deserved to see her victory.
Now that he was fearing that she would die, Henry could see just how unfair he had been to her. She was not to blame for King François' duplicity, the emperor’s disdain, the Pope's cowardice, the stubbornness of Katherine or blindness of More and Fisher. And their daughter, Elizabeth, was not a failure but proof that she could birth a healthy child. He had been blind and unkind to her and now he might not have a chance to make it up to her.
"MURDERER!" George roared, causing Henry to nearly jump out of his skin. He whirled around and was relieved when he realized that his brother-in-law was not accusing him. Instead, he was glaring at his father and uncle. "YOU DID THIS! YOU DANGLED HER IN FRONT OF THE KING TO FEED YOUR OWN AMBITION! FIRST YOU SACRIFICED MARY'S MAIDENHEAD AND NOW YOU HAVE SACRIFICED ANNE'S LIFE! I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT FOR AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED YOU HAVE NO MORE CHILDREN TO USE!"
With that, the Viscount of Rochford stormed out of the queen's apartment with Lady Rochford close on his heels.
Although he didn't follow his son and instead just continued talking to the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Wiltshire still looked pretty shaken up by George's rant.
"Henry, are you well?" Charles Brandon asked, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, noting that the king looked as white as a sheet.
"I thought he was talking to me," Henry whispered. He knew that even if George thought he was to blame, his brother-in-law would never have dared to say so no matter how drunk he was.
And yet, even though the word murderer had not been meant for him, Henry could not help but wonder if he had somehow caused Anne's critical condition to happen. "Charles, I need you to ride with all haste to where Mary Boleyn resides and tell her that she needs to come to court immediately, that her sister needs her. Her husband and children can be sent for later but right now, she needs to be at court right away."
Whether Anne lived or died, she would want her sister to be here.
Charles nodded and immediately left the queen's apartments, calling for his horse to made ready for him as he rushed to put on his riding attire.
Henry barely heard Norfolk ask for permission to go and inform his family on what was happening, and Wiltshire wishing to go the chapel and pray. He absentmindedly nodded, granting both men's requests, not tearing his eyes away from the doorway where the physician would soon appear with news.
Anne survived the sweat despite the odds against her. Dr. Linacre had declared her a living miracle. Surely, she could recover from this as well.
But as soon as he saw Dr. Butts' desolate expression when the royal physician reentered the room, Henry knew that there was no hope for his wife.
"She's asking for you," the man informed him gently, knowing that there were no words he could say that would cushion the blow for the red-haired monarch.
King Henry did not say a word before he made a beeline for Anne's bedchamber, sprinting past the sobbing ladies-in-waiting. When he arrived, Elizabeth Boleyn was clutching her daughter's hand in hers, whispering a prayer.
"Anne," Henry breathed, shocked at how frail and weak she looked.
"Henry, how is our son?" inquired Anne, wanting to know all about the baby she would never see grow up. She knew that she was to die, but at least her blood would be well spent on a son who would one day be the King of England. "What does he look like?"
Her husband blinked. The news of his son had come along with the news that Anne was barely clinging to life between that and George's outburst, no one had given any thought to the Prince of Wales. To Henry's growing horror, he realized that no one had even bothered to send an order for the bells to be rung.
"I have not seen him," he admitted, slightly embarrassed.
"Why not? What's wrong with him?" Anne demanded, hysteria in her voice, thinking that her baby was either deformed, or he was too weak to live.
Her mother stood up and let Henry take her place at Anne's side, clasping her hand and kissing it.
"Anne, please, you have to get better so we can see our boy together,” implored Henry, pressing her hand to his face so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. “I can never stop thanking you enough for what you've done for me,"
To his shock, his wife scoffed. "Would you be saying so if I had given birth to a daughter?" she hissed. "Would you be so sad to see me go if I had given birth to another princess instead of a prince? Or would you be pleased that I was dead, so you were free to marry again?"
"Sweetheart…" Henry trailed off, horrified by her angry words.
"I was such a fool to believe that you loved me,” Anne continued, her dark orbs filled with anger and devastation. Katherine had been right that he would tire of her like all the others. “I fell in love with your letters, blinded to the truth that you would tire of me once I failed you. I was attracted to you like a moth to a flame. Your fire engulfed me, leaving my burnt as so many women were before,"
"No, sweetheart, please, I love you, I do. How can I make you see that?" beseeched Henry, tears falling down his cheeks and wetting his beard.
"Love your daughters as much as you will love our son," Anne pleaded, cupping his cheek in her hands. "Kiss me goodbye, Henry. Even after all we've been through, I still love you and I want one last kiss before I leave this world."
"Please don't go, Anne. Whatever you may think, I love you more than anyone I have ever loved or will love. You are the light in my dark world," Henry sobbed, kissing her lips.
He continued to beg her to stay with him as she closed her eyes and took her last breath before becoming still.
Queen Anne Boleyn was dead, leaving her two children orphans, her family devastated and her husband broken-hearted and guilty.
April 10, 1535
The Spanish Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys had waited until he could be sure that the harlot was really and truly dead before he raced to the More to share this good news. There had been no talk of the babe she had died giving birth as well, but Chapuys believed that the lack of news or merriment was because the King's newest bastard was either born deformed or dead.
Queen Katherine was thankfully already awake despite the earliness of the hour, and she was sitting in a chair, reading the bible when her remaining lady-in-waiting ushered the Spanish Ambassador inside. The true queen of England extended her hand for him to kiss and gave him a rather sad smile.
"Your Majesty, I bring good tidings: the whore has died in childbed," Chapuys told her joyfully.
Katherine frowned at his delight, for all the trouble she caused, not even Anne's death deserved to be celebrated. "Then we should pray for her soul," she said firmly, although she was certain that as a heretic and an adulteress, Anne would not be allowed to go to heaven, which didn't mean she wouldn't pray that she would receive mercy. "What of her children?"
The ambassador had the good grace to appear abashed, but his tone betrayed his excitement, "I have it on good authority that in the past six hours since its birth, the king has not laid eyes on his newest bastard which leads me to conclude that the child must have followed its mother to the grave.”
“Poor thing,” Katherine murmured, remembering her own boys who spent a few precious moments of the earth before God called them to heaven again.
“As for the daughter, I have no news, but surely now that the witch is dead and gone, King Henry will realize his folly and restore you and Princess Mary to your rightful positions," Chapuys predicted, a grimace on his face as he realized that there was a slim chance that the king, prideful as he was, might continue to declare the brat as a princess, continuing to ignore his true daughter and wife.
"I expect that Henry will mourn his mistress, but in time, he will send for me, and Mary and we can put all of this behind us," Katherine remarked, her tone slightly cheerier than it had been in months.
She crossed herself, knowing that now was not the time to be happy and she would go to the chapel later and pray for the poor woman's soul. Her daughter's sister had just lost her mother and despite Katherine's feelings about Anne, she would be sure to be kind to little Elizabeth Tudor. Perhaps when she was reinstated, she would take care of Elizabeth, keeping her away from her mother's family's influence and raising her to be a good Catholic lady.
"The witch is dead, my queen, so I know that her evil will fade as she can no longer bewitch the King," Chapuys assured her, smiling widely.
Surely now King Henry would see the error of his ways. He would beg for forgiveness from His Holiness. He would expel the Boleyns from court, sending the whore's spawn with them. He would declare that he had been wrong to ever doubt that Queen Katherine was his true wife and Princess Mary was his true heir.
All would be well. He could feel it.
Meanwhile, Mary Boleyn had ridden through the night to get to court, only to find out that she was too late. She cried in her mother's arms, devastated that her sister was dead. George remained in his own apartments, unwilling to come out and grieve with anyone but his wife.
King Henry stood in the nursery where his newborn son was sleeping. He looked so tiny. Dr. Butts assured him that despite the complications of the birth, he was healthy and yet the same had been said about the Duke of Cornwell. As he stared down at his son, he remembered a conversation he had with Anne months ago.
They had been talking about baby names just as they had when she had been pregnant with Elizabeth. He had brought up Henry as potential name and unlike the last time, Anne seemed dead set against it.
"Does the name Henry not please you, Madame?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Of course, it please me, but the name has already been used," Anne pointed out, either referring to his bastard son or the dead boys of Katherine. "I think our son is so special that he should have a unique name. One that will never be forgotten."
The red-haired monarch stroked his chin, intrigued by Anne's words, liking the idea that that their son would stand out in the midst of all the Henrys and Edwards. His first thought was Arthur, but that might be tempting fate. "Do you have any suggestions?" he questioned curiously.
"In France, I read about St. Ambrose of Milan, his name means immortal and that's what I want, our son's legacy to be immortal," explained Anne, her eyes lighting up as she touched her belly.
Henry smiled thinly. If Anne could give him a healthy son, the Tudor dynasty would no longer be in danger of dying out and they would continue to thrive for centuries to come. "If it is a healthy boy, you may name him whatever you want," he declared, a note of warning in his voice.
"Your Majesty," Cromwell spoke apprehensively as he entered the room. Shaken from his memories, Henry signaled that he should spoke his piece. "There have been some distressing rumors circling London about the new prince. I fear if the bells aren't rung and there isn't some announcement, people will think that you are planning on returning to Princess Katherine, forsaking the queen's son and daughter."
It was rather a large gamble mentioning the queen after she had so recently died, but Cromwell feared if they let the rumors persist, people might believe that the Prince of Wales was really a common baby used to replace the "real" prince who died along with his mother.
The secretary would never think of himself as a sentimental man. However, Queen Anne had been a friend and ally of his and losing her was about as painful as it was when he had lost his daughters.
It was a tragedy that the world would never truly know what a clever and bright woman Anne was. All the good he would do, healing England from the corruption of the Catholic Church would be because of her. Cromwell would never stop working until her dream of the reformation was completed.
"Make the announcement that good Queen Anne has given England it's much desired Prince of Wales at the cost of her life,” Henry declared, not even glancing in his councilor’s direction. His gaze stayed transfixed on the babe in the crib. “I want there to be celebrations, but the joust will be cancelled.”
"And what will the prince's name be?" Cromwell inquired.
"Ambrose," Henry replied, causing Cromwell to look at him in surprise, not expecting such an unusual name. "It means immortal."
His son's legacy would be immortal, and Anne's sacrifice would never be forgotten.
As if he knew he was being talked about, Prince Ambrose opened his eyes and began to start crying. Henry waved his hand to dismiss Cromwell before he scooped the baby out of the crib, hugging him tightly.
"It's all right, my son, your mother has gone to heaven now, but I'm still here, I promise," Henry murmured soothingly, kissing the dower head. Then an idea formed in his head. "I shall go fetch your sister, my boy and we can all be a family."
Anne had wanted him to love their daughter as much as he loved their son. He had been so disappointed with Elizabeth's birth something that he had unfairly taken out on her mother. If he could not make it up to Anne, he would do so with his jewel. She would never think for a moment that he loved her less than he loved his precious heir.
Placing his son in the arms of the nursemaid, Henry walked down the corridors, telling his groom to get a carriage ready and to send a message to Hatfield that his daughter's things were to be packed.
Mary woke up to the news that Anne Boleyn was dead, and she wept with joy. The witch was finally gone, and her father was free from her wicked spell. He would rescue her mother and she from their prisons.
At last, my prayers have been answered, Mary proclaimed. The whore now burns in hell and her victims will finally receive justice.
Instead of getting ready for the day as Elizabeth's ladies did, the young lady stayed in her room fully expecting her father or at the very least a messenger from court to arrive and inform the household at Hatfield that Mary was the Princess of Wales and Lady Elizabeth was no longer to be called a princess.
Of course, Mary felt a sliver of pity for Elizabeth who would lose her status after already losing her mother. But the toddler, not yet two, would not even remember being falsely hailed as a princess and thankfully would have no memories of her dreadful mother, allowing her not to be tainted by the vileness of the Boleyns.
It was nearly ten o'clock in the morning when the royal carriage arrived, and Mary could hear Lady Bryan shouting at various servants that the king would be here momentarily.
Deciding that she wanted to make a grand entrance, Mary went to the main hall, but stayed behind the doors, waiting for her father to demand to see her. Perhaps he would make it plain to the servants who had treated her so shabbily that it was not Elizabeth who he wanted to see, but instead his true daughter.
"Your Majesty," Lady Bryan greeted him, making a sweeping curtsy. "Everything has been packed and ready to move the princess to court."
Mary frowned when she heard this. That sounded as if her father had sent instructions and yet she was not told that she was expected to be at court. Perhaps her father had wanted to surprise her. Yes, that must be it.
"Good. After her mother's death, her brother and I will need her at our side," professed Henry.
Mary's eyes widened and a gasp escaped her lips. She knew that the whore was pregnant, but she had assumed that her newest half-sibling had died with its mother.
Instead, it lived and worse it was a boy. What was truly chilling was how sad her father sounded. Instead of being happy that he finally had his son (one he wouldn't admit was a bastard anyway), he sounded like he was grieving.
Even in death, her father's concubine had her claws in him. Of course, if her son lived, there would be no ridding of her poison that was destroying England. Even in death, her stepmother would be able to destroy Mary.
Feeling she might start weeping if she listened any longer, Mary fled to her room and kneeled down at the alter in her tiny chamber, reciting the comforting Latin words, hoping to keep her tears at bay.
As Henry swung her poor motherless princess around, Anne's words kept resounding in his head. "Love your daughters as much as you will love our son."
Your daughters. Not our daughter. She meant Mary as well, he realized.
The red-haired monarch sighed heavily as he sat down on the rocking chair, rocking Elizabeth back and forth as she fell back asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. Her eyes looked just like her mother's, something that made Henry feel both happy and sad whenever he saw them.
Anne and Mary had not gotten along and yet she wanted Henry to love his stubborn daughter who would not submit to her father as he did her half-siblings.
She knew of his hardships with Mary, of how the girl had stubbornly insisted Anne not the queen and Elizabeth was nothing more than a bastard. How she refused to swear the oath when other men had died for refusing to do so. Of how Mary had often pretended to be ill, just to manipulate Henry into releasing her from the punishment she deserved for her obstinacy.
But how could he deny Anne's dying wish? Besides if he was honest with himself, he wanted to be able to reconcile with Mary. He missed his pearl and would love to bring her to court. Perhaps he could invite Hal Fitzroy as well and then all four of his children could be together.
With that thought in mind, Henry handed his sleeping daughter to Lady Bryan, giving orders that the carriage was to travel to court and he and his entourage would follow on horseback.
Then he walked to his daughter's room where he found her kneeling in front of her altar. When she saw him, she curtsied and remained on her knees.
"Your Majesty," she greeted him graciously and Henry marveled at how much she had grown since he had last seen her. She was a child no longer, but now a woman, almost twenty-years-old.
"Mary, my pearl, I am happy to see you," he said, placing his hands on her shoulder so he could lift her up and get a better look at her. "I have missed you so."
"I have missed you also, Father," Mary replied sweetly, hope shining on her face. "I have also missed my mother."
Henry frowned slightly, wondering why Mary had to bring her up at that moment, but he reasoned that with the news of Anne's death, perhaps his daughter worried that her time with her mother was running out.
"I'm sorry, Mary, I know that I have been keeping you two apart for some time now. I think I could arrange for you to visit the Princess Dowager," Henry assured her, pretending that he had not seen the slight flinch of his daughter when he mentioned her mother's true title. "In the meantime, I had hoped you would return with me to court so you may meet the Prince of Wales."
"How can you still say that? The witch is dead! She should have no more power over you!" Mary cried, suddenly feeling hysterical.
That bitch would be buried as the Queen of England while her father would still insist her mother was the Princess Dowager of Wales and he would probably bury her as such, forcing her to be accept the title in death that she had refused to be called in life.
"How dare you speak of Anne like that! She has saved England by giving birth to a son. God has smiled on her womb twice something He only did to your mother once out of seven times," Henry pointed out, trying to control his temper as he was desperate to make his daughter see reason.
"Saved England?" Mary sneered. Her hatred of Anne had officially reached a boiling point. "She has been destroying England just like she destroyed our family. She is nothing but a heretical whore who used witchcraft to turn you against your true family and the true faith. She will be burning in hell for her sins!"
Fury overcame Henry and he lashed out, his hand connecting with Mary's face with a sickening crack, knocking her to the floor.
"ENOUGH! YOU ARE AN UNGRATEFUL BASTARD AND I WILL NOT LISTEN TO ANYMORE OF YOUR CRUEL WORDS!" Henry roared, storming out of the room, not caring when he heard his daughter crying.
He would not let Mary stay at Hatfield where she could fill her siblings' heads with untruths about their mother. She was a fool if she thought that Anne had forced him to do anything.
In fact, he would turn the monasteries that were being closed into schools or hospitals or poorhouses like Anne suggested and make it clear that it was all her idea. He would make sure that both Elizabeth and Ambrose were adored and loved by their people who would never make the mistake of thinking that Mary was legitimate or that he would return to his brother's wife just because his true queen had died.
As he walked down the hall, he made a vow, I promise, Anne, that I will protect our children from those who foolishly believe that they are bastards for they will be your legacy as well as mine.
Chapter 2: Greatest Sacrifice
Summary:
The Tudors and the Boleyns try to deal with the harshness of their new reality.
Chapter Text
April 23, 1535
Lady Mary Boleyn was chosen to be the chief mourner at her sister's funeral. She stood with thirty-four other mourners (one for each year of Anne's life) as Archbishop Cranmer performed the funeral service. The Archbishop of Canterbury looked close to tears himself.
"She who has been the Queen of England on Earth has become a Queen in Heaven," Thomas Cranmer proclaimed, a sad smile on his face as he pressed his hands on the effigy of Anne on top of her casket.
It warmed Mary's heart to know that her sister had a true friend in the court who was not among her ladies. Even Cromwell did not seem to have the same level of devotion towards Anne that Cranmer did.
"Amen," the people in the chapel chorused.
Despite her unpopularity, the chapel was filled with both commoners and courtiers alike, all of them looked saddened as the casket carrying the dead queen out of the chapel to make one last procession through London before being laid to rest in St. George's chapel in at Windsor Castle.
Her mother sat with her father. Their appearances seemed to have aged ten years in the past week. Jane was sitting with George, whispering comforting words in his ears. Mary's husband comforting Cathy and Hal as they both looked as though they were struggling not to cry. Mary bit her lip as she realized her younger daughter, Annie, would never meet her namesake.
Thomas Cromwell and Thomas Howard kept their composure but they both bowed their heads as the casket passed them, a moment of quiet grief.
The Spanish Ambassador grimaced when Anne's casket passed, and Mary was sure he was upset, just not at her passing itself. Instead, he was displeased that her death was not followed by the demise of the crown prince, her marriage being posthumously annulled, and the princess being disinherited. All so his master's aunt and her daughter could be restored to their positions as Queen of England and Princess of Wales respectfully.
Mary could not help but feel hatred towards that bastard and the Holy Roman Emperor. According to her father, while other monarchs had sent their condolences-even Pope Paul had the decency to send the king a message of condolence even though he called her the Lady Anne instead of her proper title-Emperor Charles had the gall to try and ask that his aunt and cousin be returned to their "rightful places".
Mary not often the vindictive type but she was beginning to agree with Anne's wish that all Spaniards would drop dead at the bottom of the sea.
King Henry was not in attendance but that was to be expected as it was custom for rulers to send a proxy in their stead. Besides Mary knew that her brother-in-law had barely left his own apartments since Anne's death, only coming outside after Ambrose's christening so his people could see their crown prince.
As Mary followed the procession out of the chapel, she could have sworn she saw a familiar figure standing by the queen's closet but when she looked back, there was nothing.
Be at peace, my sweet sister, your children will be safe and loved as you enjoy your eternal rest, Mary prayed, almost positive that she had glimpsed her sister’s shade.
April 30, 1535
It had been twenty days since his wife died. The entire court was dressed in black, and it was raining so much that the devastated monarch was half convinced that the heavens were crying over the death of the true queen of England.
King Henry sat on his throne, deep in thought. Had Katherine Tudor, his youngest sister, lived, would he have been able to look at her without being reminded that his mother died after giving birth to her?
It was a sad thing that he could barely focus on the joy of the celebrations of his son's birth as he was too busy grieving over his wife. His son's birthday would be forever marred by Anne's death.
"Your Majesty? Henry?" Charles Brandon called, worried about his friend's demeanor. He was brooding there was no doubt about it. Once Henry turned to look at him, Suffolk spoke carefully, not wanting to upset him. "Her Majesty would not want you dwelling on her death. She would want you to celebrate your son instead of mourning her."
"That is true," Henry agreed, remembering how upset Anne had been when she learned that her husband had not laid eyes on their son despite it being hours after his birth. "It's just that he looks so much like her, and Elizabeth has her eyes. How can I look at them without remembering that I killed their mother?"
Charles's eyebrow rose, shocked at his friend's words. He knew that Henry had thought George Boleyn's angry accusation was meant for him, but he didn't realize that his friend actually believed that he was at fault.
Then he remembered when Elizabeth of York had died, how Henry had ranted that it was his father's fault because he had been so desperate to have another son after Arthur's death that he had pressured his wife into conceiving again for fear that his dynasty would end after him.
It was nothing more than the ramblings of a grieving son, but Charles guessed that there was a part of Henry which really did hold his father responsible for his mother's death and that small bit of resentment had turned into guilt once he had lost Anne in a similar fashion. The fact that Henry had become increasingly desperate for a son over the past two years probably did not help matters.
"Can you not look at it in a different way? Anne wanted to give you a son and was willing to sacrifice her life in order to give you what you needed," Charles pointed out, grimacing at how awkward and rather callous his words sounded.
But there was a rumor that Anne upon learning she was close to death had declared that her son would be king, and her blood would be well spent.
And if the Duke of Suffolk were to be perfectly honest, perhaps it would be a good thing that she was dead. Although he knew that Henry would never recant his decisions especially now that he had a son, at least now England could get a new queen who would not be so cruel to her stepdaughter and who would try to be a peacemaker during these troubled times.
"You never liked her," Henry growled, his eyes glinting dangerously. "You tried to plant seeds of doubt about her in my mind before she died. You have slandered and undermined her. I'm sure you and that shrew of a wife of yours are celebrating her death."
"No, Your Majesty, I would never-" Charles stuttered, ice chilling his veins.
"God, I have been blind to her pain, and you dare to remind me of how I acted towards her," snarled Henry, his temper flaring.
He should have stood by Anne when she gave birth to Elizabeth as a healthy daughter in one year of marriage was a good omen instead of shunning her. Perhaps if he had not taken mistresses and if he had not fought with her, she would not have lost their second child.
He had blamed her for Elizabeth's sex, for King François ' duplicity, for More's death, telling her cruel things and getting a sick pleasure at hurting her.
Have I made you unhappy?
I will only be unhappy if you ever stopped loving me.
London will have to melt into the Thames first.
She had died believing that he had stopped loving her. She had died giving birth to his son, perhaps thinking he would not grieve her. There was nothing he could do to convince her otherwise. It was too late now to make amends for all the pain her had caused her.
And here Brandon was, telling him that Anne's death was a good thing. It took all his willpower not to strangle the duke.
"I want you and your wife to leave court by the end of the day," Henry commanded before adding with an afterthought. "After you have told your servants to pack your household's things and prepare to leave, I want you to tell Lord Rochford and Lady Mary that I need to speak with them at their earliest convenience."
Charles looked as though wanted to protest but it was clear from Henry's expression that he was struggling to control his temper and if the Duke of Suffolk lingered, he could receive more than what was hopefully a temporary banishment.
With a bow, the duke meekly slinked away, leaving the king alone with his anger and despair.
The red-haired monarch gripped the armrests of his throne tightly before heaving a great big sigh and rising from his seat, he walked over to his desk, writing some instructions down on a piece of parchment before commanding a page bring it to Cromwell who he would speak to later.
Nearly twenty minutes passed before the heard announced George and Mary Boleyn ushering them inside.
Seeing Anne's beloved siblings brought a melancholy smile to his face as they bowed and curtsied to him.
"Rise both of you," Henry commanded, not wanting to waste their time on such courtesies. "I hope both of you know that despite our hardships, I truly did love your sister and I wish that she could be here again so I could prove my love to her. I also hope that the two of you will help me keep Anne alive in spirit for Ambrose and Elizabeth's sake."
Nan Seville was now Elizabeth's governess and Henry had no doubt that Anne's closest friend would be telling the royal children’s countless stories of their mother when they grew older.
However, as Anne's siblings, George and Mary could do more than that. They could keep Anne's memory alive throughout England.
"Of course, we will, Your Majesty," George assured him, a slight edge to his tone and he swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Lady Mary, in Anne's will she requested that your husband be knighted, and your son be given a title of peerage. In addition to this, I would like to offer you Anne's old title: Marquess of Pembroke," Henry suggested, looking fondly at the older sister he knew Anne regretted reconciling with before she died.
Before Henry had come in to say goodbye to his dying wife, she had told her mother of her wishes for her oldest sister and once Elizabeth Boleyn had informed the king, he had been sure to tell Cromwell to add that to her will.
Mary gaped at him for moment before regaining the use of her tongue. "Your Majesty, I am touched by such an honor, but I would rather my niece get the Marquess of Pembroke as she is Anne's daughter.” Her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Realizing that was indeed a perfect way to honor Anne's firstborn, Henry nodded, deciding right then and there, to reward Mary's husband with a title of his own along with a knighthood.
"A splendid idea that I'm sure Anne would have loved. Thank you for suggesting it," Henry complimented graciously before turning back to George. "I know that Anne had different ideas for the monasteries than Cromwell does. I want to discuss them with you and together we can create plans for schools in her name so the people can see the good she wanted to achieve."
“Of course, Your Majesty.” For the first time since his sister’s death, George smiled.
Meanwhile Lady Mary Tudor was in carriage, heading to her new residence with just a bit of apprehension and despair.
She had genuinely thought that with Anne Boleyn's death, her troubles would be over. That the spell the Boleyn sorceress had cast over her father would be broken, and he would see his actions as the travesty that they were.
Instead, thanks to Anne giving birth to a son, she was buried as the Queen of England and her bastards were hailed as the king's true heirs. If anyone had any doubts that Mary would not be reinstated as the Princess of Wales, they would vanish when her father made the announcement that Prince Ambrose's ceremony, where he would be officially declared Prince of Wales, would take place in May.
Although it had been weeks since her disastrous meeting with her father, Mary could still feel the stinging slap. Furthermore, his angry words were still ringing in her ears. After their fight, her father had left her behind in Hatfield, taking his chosen daughter with him. The next time he acknowledged her with through Sir Francis Bryan, Lady Bryan's son and Anne's cousin.
Her father had decreed that Mary was to have a small household of her own instead of remaining at Hatfield. Had he not made it clear that he simply didn't want her to be around her siblings and for the fact that her new chamberlain was clearly a supporter of Anne, she might have thought that her father was softening towards her.
Instead of rescuing her from the humiliation of being a servant to her half-sister and deciding if he must insist on calling her a bastard that he would at least give her a household and estates all her own, he was simply exiling her in all but name.
She had asked Sir Francis where her father was sending her, but the knight was under strict orders not to tell her. He also, rather ominously, told her that once they arrived at her new home, he would inform her of the strict stipulations her father had created to make sure that she did not plot any treason against Prince Ambrose.
What did her father have in store for her? Was her life going to be even worse than it was when she was at Hatfield? Would she be a prisoner, forced to live the rest of her days under house arrest, unable to have guests or even go outside?
Years ago, she had been convinced that her father could never be so cruel to her-and it was only because of Anne that he was-now she was not so sure.
They arrived at a shabby looking manor which looked gloomy even in the daylight. Sir Francis opened the carriage door and helped Lady Mary out, his expression bland.
"Lady Mary, His Majesty, in his great kindness, has decreed that you are to share your household with the Dowager Princess of Wales," he recited, not even reacting when Mary gasped upon realizing that her father had sent her to live with her mother. "All of the servants will be calling you both by your proper titles, you may only receive visitors when I am there as well, you may not leave the More's grounds without the king's permission and every letter being sent or received will be read by myself. If you or the Princess Dowager disobeys these rules or tries to get around them, your households will be separated immediately. Do you understand?"
Sir Francis spoke without malice or sympathy. Mary had no doubt he had been chosen to enforce the king's commands because her father trusted that he would not turn a blind eye if one of the rules were broken.
She could guess that Lady Elizabeth Darnell had been dismissed as her father was well aware that her mother would rather have servants referring to her as the Princess Dowager rather than losing Mary again.
Part of Mary wanted to believe that her father was softening towards her and her mother and that in time he would return to them. But deep down she knew there was only one reason why he decided to reunite his daughter with her mother after keeping them apart for the past five years.
Anne had died, leaving her two children without their mother and despite clearly not trusting them, he had opted to allow Mary to be with Katherine again a chance his younger children would never get.
When Sir Francis led Mary into the manor, she was not expecting to see Sir Henry Norris nor Mistress Madge Shelton waiting for them. But then again, she supposed it was to be expected that her father would fill her mother's household with as many people he knew for a fact supported Anne instead of allowing it to be run by those who might sympathize with the former queen.
Despite being another cousin of Anne, Madge was rather sweet and polite, leading Mary to her chambers so her maid-in-waiting, Susan Clarenceux, could help her change out of her traveling clothes. Afterwards, she was brought back to Sir Bryan and Sir Norris so they could tell her exactly what her father expected of her.
"I would like to see my mother first. Does she not know I have arrived?" Mary wondered, feeling perplexed that her mother had not come out to greet her. She knew that Katherine was just as eager to see her as she was. She prayed that her mother was not ill.
"Well since His Majesty replaced Mistress Darrell with me as the Princess Katherine's lady-in-waiting, Her Highness has refused to hear what I had to say as she was determined not to let me speak while I used her correct title," Madge told her, avoiding Mary's eyes. Despite her loyalty to her cousin, she did not like upsetting either of the two ladies.
Francis Bryan on the other hand let out an exasperated sigh and he even rolled his eyes much to Mary's fury and the others in the room's discomfort.
"Well, that is ridiculous, I will explain the matter to her. If she will not listen to me then at least she will read the King's orders," he snapped.
"No, I will tell her,” Mary contradicted, giving Sir Bryan a fierce glare, which practically dared him to argue. "I assume that because I am living with my mother, I will be allowed to speak to her without your presence."
She did not bother giving them a chance to respond before she spun on her heels and walked towards her mother’s rooms.
The former princess did not want her reunion with her mother to be marred by the fact that they were living with servants who would treat them with disrespect or, to be fair, less respect than their true ranks deserved.
When Queen Katherine had learned that before dying, Anne Boleyn had given birth to a healthy son who her husband had named Ambrose and declared that this newborn was the Prince of Wales, she felt too devastated to even rise from her bed.
Part of her felt angry at Chapuys for giving her false hope even though she knew she had been far too quick to agree with him despite knowing that her husband was too stubborn to admit that he was wrong even if the boy hadn't lived.
Then her only remaining loyal lady was removed from her household and Sir Henry Norris and Lady Madge Shelton were sent to replace her steward and her lady-in-waiting. To both of their credit, they treated her politely despite their refusal to call her Your Majesty.
However, Katherine had always refused the service of those who called her by her false title and she would refuse theirs as well. Before Anne's death, Henry had not dared to leave her without attendants and allowed Darnell to be her lady perhaps out of fear of upsetting her nephew. Now he refused to budge, preemptively telling Norris that he would receive no letters from her.
Had Henry lost all sense of decency? How much more humiliation could she take before she broke completely?
She had not allowed Madge to dress her, so she stayed in her nightgown as she prayed to God to soften her husband's heart, to somehow break the hold Anne Boleyn had over him even from the grave.
Katherine heard footsteps entering the chapel, but she did not turn, expecting it to be a maid bringing her something to eat and drink.
"Mama?"
Eyes wide and her heart thudding in her chest, Kathrine rose from her knees and turned around slowly, wondering if she was in some sort of dream. Her daughter, now nineteen, stood in the chapel door, her expression filled with sorrow and pleasure.
Without a word, Katherine flew at Mary, embracing her, breathing in her scent. She was real. Her beloved daughter was back in her arms after six long years.
After holding her close, she held Mary at arms' length to studying her features.
"Mary, oh my sweet girl. Look at you, you've grown so much," Katherine murmured, unable to keep her tears at bay. "I can't believe you're really here."
"I'm here, Mother and I'm never leaving you again," Mary promised, her shoulders shaking in pure joy at being reunited with her mother.
There was so much Katherine wanted to say and ask but she realized that now was not the time. Now she just wanted to hold Mary in her arms and never let her go.
May 5, 1535
When he was a simple knight, who had just recently married the daughter of a disgraced earl. When he became an ambassador, he had hoped to make his name at court as a great diplomat.
As he grew older and he began to grow even more ambitious, he prayed to be an earl, if not a duke like his brother-in-law. He also saw his children as a way to gain more ties to the nobility.
Then King Henry began courting Anne and instead of making her his mistress, he chose to upheaval England by making her his queen. Thomas saw himself as the father of the queen and the grandfather of the future king and he nearly wept in joy.
He saw the future where the Boleyns would be the most powerful family in England for they would forever be bound by blood to the next generation of Tudor kings. History would not forget them.
When Elizabeth was born, Thomas had been afraid that his glorious future was in danger and he had railed at Anne for letting this happen and then when she miscarried her second child, he had accused her of causing it.
She fought with the king, making a nuisance of herself by getting so angry over trivial things. It was almost as though she didn't care that her position was so shaky that if she angered the king enough, she would find herself cast aside much like Katherine of Aragon. If only she had behaved sensibly and focused more on birthing a male heir rather than arguing with her husband about his mistresses or trying to speak to him about matters that did not concern her.
However as frustrated as he was at his daughter, Thomas had never wanted her dead. Although the pragmatic part of him knew that if it were Ambrose who died and Anne who lived, the king would not be so generous and loving towards the Boleyns, it still saddened him that he was to get all that he ever wanted with his daughter dying to achieve it.
Was his son right about him? Was he at fault for Anne's death? Would history remember Thomas Boleyn as the man who sacrificed his youngest daughter at the altar of ambition?
These questions plagued Thomas as he watched his grandson be declared the Prince of Wales. As he watched his older grandson be knighted and made the Baron of Hudson. Then William Stafford was knighted and made the Viscount of Bindon.
"Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire," Cromwell called.
The earl got up his expression somber as he walked towards the throne. He passed George who was scowling at him, his nose wrinkled in disdain. His son had not talked to him since Anne's death. Thomas wondered if George wanted him to refuse the king's wish to make him a duke.
His son didn't realize that Anne would have wanted her father to be made a duke, that she would have been overjoyed if she had been here, sitting on the empty throne beside her husband. He didn't realize that if Henry died during Ambrose's childhood that it would be important that the Lord Protector was a powerful duke so he could be sure to keep others from trying to control his grandson.
Despite how much he tried to feel happy as the king removed the earl's corset to place one of the duke’s on his head, Thomas could not help but glance mournfully at the throne beside Henry wishing his beloved daughter was there, longing to see the joy in her eyes and wishing he could thank her for all that she had done for him.
"By order of the king, you are henceforth to be known as Thomas Boleyn, the Duke of Kent," Henry commanded, giving the older man a rather sympathetic look.
Your sacrifice will not be in vain, Anne, your family will remain strong, and I will do everything in my power to make your son a good king, Thomas promised as he bowed deeply.
May 12, 1535
"His Majesty King François is thrilled that you have made him the godfather of Prince Ambrose," the French Ambassador began. He was not stretching the truth that much as King François, had feared that his earlier refusal to betroth his son with Elizabeth would make his English counterpart snub him for his sister's husband the King of Navarre. "He hopes you will be willing to open negotiations once again for a marriage agreement between the Duke of Angoulême and the Princess Elizabeth."
As Queen Anne had grown up in his court, François had a soft spot for the girl as did his sister Marguerite. Apparently, Queen Marguerite had broken down crying when she learned of her friend's death. Henry had made both of them godparents to Ambrose, knowing that Anne would have wanted them to be. She would also have loved to tie their daughter to France if not their son.
However, after what happened the last time, Henry was not so sure. After all, there were plenty of princes his precious jewel could marry, baring the spawn of Katherine's sisters. In fact, the King of Sweden, and the King of Denmark each had a crown prince Elizabeth's age and considering they were not controlled by the bishop of Rome, they would be more than willing to make her their future queen.
"As I recall the last time we had such negotiations, the French Admiral was a guest at our court,” remembered Henry with a black scowl. “He snubbed all the festivities my wife had planned in his honor, acted quite boorishly when he did grace us with his presence and then as if that wasn't enough humiliation, he told us that King François would not even consider agreeing to a marriage between the Duke of Orléans and a 'princess whose legitimacy ‘was in doubt' and then to make matters worse, he dared to suggest that my bastard daughter would make a better match for his second son.”
The king glared down at the envoy with enough poison to stop the man’s heart. “Do you think that I am willing to let my beloved jewel be insulted with another rejection, this time being told she isn't good enough for the third son?"
If François had kept his promise and had continued to support Anne and Henry, perhaps their marriage would not have been so strained. If he had not gone back on his word and made a statement that he viewed Elizabeth as a true princess, then the other monarchs of Europe would have been compelled to do the same.
Instead, he had insulted and embarrassed both Henry and Anne, utterly humiliating them by toying with them and then rejecting the prospect outright. Anne had been devastated especially when Henry had lost his temper, telling her harshly that no member of royalty would want a princess they viewed as a bastard for their sons. Of course, the fight they had moments before did not help.
"You always told me that we should be truthful with each other. You said it was the definition of love," she reminded after he demanded that she stop meddling in his affairs.
"Then here's the truth. You must shut your eyes and endure like your betters have done before you," he snarled, putting a vindictive stress on betters so his wife would know exactly who he meant by betters.
"How can you say that to me? Don't you know I love you a thousand times more than Katherine ever did?" Anne cried, hurt that he would say such a thing to her.
"And don't you know that I can drag you down as quickly as I raised you? 'Tis lucky you have your bed already, madam because if you did not, I would not give it to you again," he screamed at her.
"I can drag you down as quickly as I raised you."
He had said that only a few months before she discovered she was pregnant for the third time. Had she been thinking about what he had said when she was pregnant with Ambrose? Did she fear that he would make good on his threat if she did not have a son?
The reminder of their fight just made him even more irate at the French Ambassador. He would not have been so cruel if he had not just been slighted by the French Admiral. Of course, he would have gotten aggravated that Anne had assumed that an innocent conversation was flirtation, and she was once again insisting on meddling in his affairs, but he would not have been in such a foul mood already and he would have had more patience to calm down his jealous wife.
"Your Majesty, my master realizes that he was mistaken in thinking that the Princess Elizabeth was not legitimate and has no intention of letting his son marry the Lady Mary," professed Jean de Bellay, trying not to feel nervous as the English monarch continued to glower at him.
"Oh? Why now?" Henry shouted, not at all mollified by the ambassador's words. "Because my son suddenly proves to King François that what I've been saying all this time that my marriage to Katherine of Aragon was cursed and that my marriage to Queen Anne was true. Or is it that with Anne's death, King François thinks the emperor and the pope might be more willing to forgive him now that it's clear that I won't ever return to my accursed union?"
Charles had said that Anne had sacrificed her life in order to give Henry the son he craved. Apparently that knave was more correct than he had realized. Anne had died and suddenly their daughter was good enough for the pompous King of France either because Ambrose had been proof of God's favor or because the death of the woman many blamed for his Great Matter and the Oath of Supremacy made people realize that just maybe King Henry would not be undoing his decision.
"I-Your Majesty, I-" the ambassador stammered. If there was one thing worse than an angry, jilted king, it was a grieving, angry, jilted king.
"Enough. If King François wants his son to marry my daughter, it is up to him to make an offer. In writing," Henry demanded, having enough of this discussion which was only making him feel worse about Anne's death.
"Yes, Your Majesty, I will discuss it with King François right away," Bellay replied, bowing.
Henry waved his hand, indicating that the meeting was over, and Bellay quickly took his leave.
Once the French Ambassador had left, the red-haired monarch let loose his anger by throwing everything he could lift across the room. After letting out a cathartic scream, Henry sank to his knees, his rage bleeding out of him.
He had blamed her too. He had blamed her for the Great Matter, for his strained relationship with his daughter, for his lack of a son, for the duplicity of the French and for the death of Sir Thomas More.
All Anne had wanted was to be no man's mistress and then to be his loving wife, mother of his sons. She had never once told him what to do about Mary or More and yet as others had, he had blamed her for his own actions.
"I'm sorry, Anne," his whispered. "I'm so sorry, my love."
Ambassador Eustace Chapuys was disappointed. He had hoped that with the Boleyn whore dead, things would go back to the way it was before she bewitched the King of England.
Admittedly, he had jumped to conclusions, believing that the baby had died as well and he made the mistake of telling the king that the emperor would forgive all that had gone wrong between them if he restored Mary and Katherine to their rightful positions, something he most certainly should have discussed with his master first.
Lady Anne Boleyn might be dead, but it was clear that as long as her son was still alive, the king would continue to turn to heresy forsaking not only Rome but also his true wife and heir.
As much as he loathed to admit it and it disgusted him to be thinking this way, Anne Boleyn's bastards would have to die for her evil to be banished in its entirety and they could not wait and see if the children died naturally. Unfortunately, they would have to die by someone's hand.
Feeling rather despondent by these new obstacles and troubled by his thoughts, he went to speak to Sir William Brereton about it, hoping that he could do what Chapuys would not. Killing the whore was something Brereton viewed as his sacred duty given to him by God. He had no qualms trying to shoot her when she was pregnant with the bastard Elizabeth or trying to poison her which caused her miscarriage.
He had said killing an innocent life was a terrible thing but under the circumstances, it was for the greater good.
Chapuys hoped he would have the same opinion now even though the whore was already dead. There was some sort of dramatic irony that the king's concubine had died the one time Brereton had not tried to kill her.
When the Spaniard spoke to Brereton, he was pleasantly surprised that Brereton agreed to his plan at once.
"It is clear that the harlot used some sort of witchcraft to create that boy and perhaps she did the same for her daughter as well. Those children are the devil's spawn and are therefore as evil as their mother," Sir William Brereton agreed. "I know that they are both in the nursery so if I sneak in, I can smother them both."
"There will be guards in front of the nursery, how will you explain your presence without suspicion?" Chapuys challenged.
As King Henry's groom, Brereton would be expected to accompany the king when he visited his bastards but unless he had a specific reason for being there especially considering he would have to be there when there were no nursemaids or governesses in the nursery.
"I'll figure out a ruse to distract the guards and then slip out before they get back," Brereton decided. "If all goes well, the monarch will think the two brats simply died in their sleep."
After all, many children died of unknown illnesses before they turned five.
"And if it does not go well?" Chapuys inquired.
"God has already killed the whore for us. I am sure He wishes for the spawn of Satan to die as well. I won't fail this time, Your Excellency," vowed Brereton.
"You understand that if you are caught, that neither my master nor the pope can be blamed for this," Chapuys told him firmly.
"If I am caught, I will die a martyr's death. It will be an honor to have sacrificed my life to destroy the remains of the Boleyn whore's witchcraft," Brereton declared passionately, a fanatical gleam in his eyes.
"I pray that you will succeed." Chapuys was not entirely convinced that Brereton would be able to do it but he had no other options so he would have to trust this brute and hope that this time would not end in failure like the other times.
May 21, 1535
Brereton followed the nursemaid as she walked down the corridor, praying that she did not detect him. Luckily, it was late enough that most of the court was at supper and the woman seemed to be occupied with her own thoughts to sense that someone was following her.
Once they neared the nursery, Brereton stuck the nursemaid from behind, slamming her head against the wall, making sure she was unconscious before he dashed towards the nursery, trying to look as frantic as possible. "Help! There is a woman lying on the floor, I think someone might have attacked her!" he exclaimed, pointing to where he had just come from.
At once the two guards ran towards where he was pointing, not suspecting that the attacker would already be standing there with them.
Smirking, Brereton crept into the nursery, and grabbed a pillow from a nearby rocking chair, walking up to the two cradles.
Princess Elizabeth was nearing her second year of life and would soon be able to sleep in a bed but for now she slept soundly next to her month-old brother.
Both babies looked so peaceful and innocent, it almost gave Brereton pause but he was not about to let their sweet faces fool him and make him doubt that they should die like their mother. After all the devil was able to make himself look kind to mask his evil. It was time to send them both to hell so he could save England.
With that thought in mind, Brereton held the pillow over the cradle and poised it above the infant's face when someone grabbed him from behind, pulling him away before pressing what felt like a hot poker to his side.
"Get the hell away from my grandchildren," growled Elizabeth Boleyn.
Chapter 3: The Love of a Mother
Summary:
The aftermath of Chapuys and Brereton's plot has dire consequences for Mary and Katherine. As the Boleyns gain more power, their enemies become eager to take them down by making sure Henry gets a new queen who is a champion for Mary.
Chapter Text
May 21, 1535
Thomas Boleyn could not be described as the most loving of husbands or fathers, but when he heard that his wife had found one of the king's grooms trying to smother their grandson and that he would have stabbed her had the guards not intervened, the Duke of Kent rushed to her side, relieved that she was alive and unharmed.
"What were you thinking? You should have found a nearby guard instead of confronting the madman yourself. You could have gotten yourself killed," he admonished her sternly as he inspected her just in case the traitorous knave had managed to harm her in some way.
"Gotten myself killed? Goodness, Thomas, do you think I wanted him to attack me?" Elizabeth inquired in annoyance. "Besides there were no guards when I entered the nursery and I doubt I could have found any in time to save our grandson."
"You still should have been more careful. I have already lost my daughter. I would prefer not to lose my wife as well," her husband snapped.
"Careful, Thomas, someone might think you are going soft," Elizabeth giggled, kissing her husband's lips.
"Perish the thought," Thomas drawled, embracing her. "I can assure you that the King will be making sure that there will be extra guards at nursery so next time you won't be able to play hero."
"God willing there won't be a next time," she murmured as she buried her face in her husband's shoulder.
She shivered as she remembered rounding the corner just in time to see a man enter the unguarded nursery. With a feeling of foreboding, she had hurried inside and saw him raise a pillow over the cradle containing her grandson.
With adrenaline pumping in her veins, she grabbed a hot poker from the unlit fireplace before seizing the man's doublet, pulling him backwards and pressing the sharp edge of the poker at his side.
God must have been with her for when the man tried knocking the poker out of her hands, she had managed to keep a grip on it, and swung it at his face before he could grab his dagger.
As if she sensed her grandmother was in danger, Princess Elizabeth woke up and started wailing which caused her brother to do the same, alerting the servants nearby that something was amiss.
Elizabeth had no idea help was on the way, but her grandchildren's cries just made her keep swinging the poker at the groomsman, unwilling to give him the chance to attack her or her grandbabies.
Brereton had a bloody nose and a bruised face by the time the guards had arrived. If they had taken any longer, Elizabeth was certain that she would have successfully given him a concussion.
While the guards were detaining and taking the groomsman to the Tower, Elizabeth had comforted her grandchildren assuring them that they were safe and singing them a lullaby until they fell back asleep.
She refused to leave the nursery to be checked on by the royal physician and then tell Cromwell what happened until both the Princess and the Prince were sleeping peacefully under the watchful eyes of their governesses.
The ruler was angry-not unreasonably so under the circumstances, and yet Cromwell feared it would be his head on a spike if he did not get that impossibly tight-lipped fool to confess the names of those he was working for.
While it was clear that Sir William Brereton was a fanatical Catholic and his hatred for Anne Boleyn and her children was genuine enough that it was entirely possible that he had deluded himself into thinking that God wanted him to kill those he blamed for England's reformation, Cromwell doubted very much that he didn't at least have an ally who encouraged him to carry out his murderous intentions.
Brereton was stubborn, and he endured the torture that Cromwell inflicted on him, claiming that God had sent him every time the King's secretary demanded an answer from him.
But soon enough his resolve began to crack and finally he confessed to everything, detailing his previous attempts to kill Anne and more importantly the names of who he was working for.
As soon as he was satisfied that the groom had told him everything, Cromwell made haste back to the palace to give his report to the King who had summoned Norfolk and Kent to listen in.
"According to Brereton, he was first approached by the Spanish Ambassador in hopes of killing Queen Anne sometime before you were married," Cromwell began with a frown.
"Chapuys? Do you mean to tell me that the emperor is behind these underhanded attacks on my wife and true heirs?" King Henry demanded before telling Norfolk to put the ambassador under house arrest.
It was bad enough knowing that he had harbored a murderous maniac in his household for years, unknowingly giving the madman access to his wife and children, but the idea that Katherine's nephew was so determined to restore Mary as Princess of Wales that he would resort to murder was horrifying. If the plan had worked and both Elizabeth and Ambrose had died, would the emperor have tried to kill Henry next when it became clear that he would not return to Katherine and Mary?
"Brereton had no idea and considering the next name he uttered as his co-conspirator, I think it may be that the Holy Roman Emperor was truly in the dark," explained Cromwell. He had been hoping for an Imperial alliance and he was aware that, the king was unlikely to agree to any warm relationship with Emperor Charles if he thought that he was involved. "Brereton mentioned that he had gone to Rome and Pope Paul gave his blessing to kill Queen Anne."
"Do we have any evidence corroborating this?" the monarch inquired, shrewd enough to knew that Pope Paul would deny this completely and he would point out that this accusation could have simply been the ramblings of a man wishing to please his torturer.
Cromwell’s expression became apologetic. "Master Rich is thoroughly searching through Brereton's possessions for any evidence. Unfortunately, the only thing we have now is a request by Brereton to travel to Rome two years ago but nothing to say that the meeting with the Bishop of Rome happened. Before he mentioned meeting with the Pope, he said he tried to kill Queen Anne in France only to be stopped by the presence of Your Majesty. Afterwards he tried two more times, once at her coronation and then he slipped herbs in her drink when she was pregnant the second time."
Henry growled as he realized the significance of Anne's second pregnancy which had ended in a miscarriage. The Duke of Kent looked equally outraged and guilty at the realization that his daughter's miscarriage was the fault of Brereton. If it weren't for that black hearted cur, Anne would have given birth to a healthy child.
Although Henry would never wish that Ambrose wasn't born, if she had not miscarried, she wouldn't have had gotten pregnant with the baby whose difficult birth would tragically cause her to lose her life.
"And what of the Princess Dowager? Are we to believe that she had no knowledge of what her allies were up to?" Thomas interrogated. After all, Chapuys had been to visit the former queen after Anne's death. He had no doubt that Katherine of Aragon was overjoyed that her rival was dead, only to be devastated when she learned that the true queen had birth a healthy son.
Thomas had no doubt that Katherine of Aragon and perhaps even her dratted daughter had hoped that their assassin would succeed in his goal to murder Anne and her children, ridding themselves of their rivals, foolishly predicting that Henry would go back to them.
"Brereton did in fact say that he was doing this for the true Queen of England and the Princess of Wales, but when I asked him if they knew, he denied it," reported Cromwell coolly, directing his answer to Henry even though it had been Boleyn who asked the question. "In my opinion, Your Majesty, it is entirely probable that Ambassador Chapuys did not tell his master, the Princess Dowager nor Lady Mary in fear that they would order him not to go through with it."
"Why wouldn't they approve of his actions? Anne's death is what they wanted," snarled the Duke of Kent. He would not let the people involved in a plot against his daughter and grandchildren go unpunished simply because of politics. The emperor and the pope were sadly out of his reach, but the Spanish bitch and her bastard daughter were not. "Katherine of Aragon and Lady Mary believe that Anne, Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth are the only ones standing in their way. Of course, they would be willing to work with bloodthirsty knaves to kill their rivals."
"That is enough!" Henry barked.
While Thomas Boleyn's anger was understandable, he would not allow anyone call his daughter a murderer. Even if he were to believe that Katherine would be willing to allow Anne to be murdered, he knew his former wife enough to know that she would never allow an innocent child to be harmed.
He continued speaking in a firm tone, leaving no room for arguments. "Brereton and Chapuys were no doubt working for my sister-in-law's cause, but it is clear that only one person knew of their plans and unfortunately we don't even have any concrete proof or even the means to bring the Pope to justice. Until we have more evidence that says otherwise, it will be only Chapuys and Brereton who will be executed for treason."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The Duke of Kent did not look happy about this, but he nodded his head deferentially.
"I shall write to the emperor of our findings. I think it would be best if we had a trial for at least the ambassador while Brereton can be executed privately if that pleases you," Cromwell suggested, his manner bland as he ignored the tension in the room.
"Let it be done."
With that, the three men parted, filled with relief that they did not loose the Prince of Wales and his sister, determined that they would never allow such a close call to happen ever again.
May 20, 1535
Try as he might, Henry could not shake off his father-in-law's words. Therefore, he decided that he needed to at the very least make sure that they had no knowledge of Chapuys' plans. He sent a letter to the More, instructing Bryan and Norris to question the two ladies before finally putting this matter to bed.
Although Sir Norris had not told Katherine what was going on, his nervous demeanor was enough to put her on edge.
He questioned her about the conversations she had with the Spanish ambassador, asking her what, if anything, he said about the king's marriage and the birth of Prince Ambrose. This line of discussion made it clear to Katherine that her ally had done something treasonous, and she was suspected of helping him.
"Has he ever spoken to you about Sir William Brereton?" Norris asked, as he read off the list of questions Cromwell had sent.
"No, he's never mentioned the man. I only have heard of Sir Brereton being my husband's groomsman," she replied, her brow furrowing in concern. What in God's name had Chapuys done?
"When he visited you after Queen Anne's death, what did you two speak about?" her integrator continued, as his gaze swept over the paper on the desk.
"He simply told me that Lady Anne and her son had died," Katherine replied truthfully. She would not reveal how delighted Chapuys was to tell her of Anne's death. She did not make matters worse for her old friend. "Or at least he thought that her son had died with her."
"You mean that he had no idea that her son lived when he spoke to you and neither of you were aware of the fact that Prince Ambrose was alive and well," Norris prompted, a thoughtful look on his face as he jotted down her answer. Any other man would probably be trying to twist her words to make her sound guilty, but it was clear that Norris simply wanted to get the facts correct. "Your Highness, for my last question, I must ask if you would be willing to swear the Oath of Supremacy."
"It pains me to disobey my husband, but I cannot swear to such a thing." The former queen gave the man in front of her a sympathetic look. He was just doing his job and she knew that he might be on the receiving end of the king's wrath when he was forced to inform him that once again Katherine defied him.
"Your Highness, Sir William Brereton acting on the orders of Ambassador Eustace Chapuys tried to smother Prince Ambrose to death yesterday,” divulged Norris. “After being captured and interrogated, the groomsmen admitted to conspiring with the Spanish Ambassador numerous times to kill the late Queen Anne, Princess Elizabeth and now Prince Ambrose.”
The former queen gasped, shocked to the core. “Merciful Jesus,” she uttered.
Norris’s manner was grave as he continued. “The king believes that if you and your daughter do not sign the oath, your daughter will have to be moved to a more permanent residence and kept under house arrest until she relents. He notes that if someone else tries to plot against his true heirs, he might have to take drastic measures to ensure that Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth are not in danger from those who support their half-sister."
Katherine's eyes widened in horror as her husband's hidden meaning dawned on her. He wasn't just prepared to separate her and Mary if they did not relent, he was planning to make his own daughter a prisoner in order to protect his son.
Part of her wanted to believe that this was just a bluff to force her hand and that her husband would never be so cruel to even think of executing their daughter. But if Henry could convince himself that he had to make her a bastard just to get a legitimate son what would stop him from convincing himself that she had to die in order to make England safe.
He would sign her death warrant with a heavy heart, but he would sign it, allowing a swordsman to cut off the head of his once beloved pearl.
"I must speak to my daughter," Katherine declared, getting up and hurrying out of the room before Norris could say anything.
He caught up with her when she reached the chambers Sir Francis Bryan was interrogating Mary in, but he did not stop her from throwing open the doors.
"If you were my daughter, I would smash your head against the wall until it was as soft as an apple!" Francis shouted, towering over Mary who looked quite pale.
"GET AWAY FROM HER!" Katherine roared, furious that any man would dare to yell at her daughter like that. At once she stood between Francis and Mary, her eyes flashing dangerously. "I know you do not see me as a queen or my daughter as a princess, but we are still royalty, and you will show us respect!"
"Madam, I have no respect for women who would collaborate with such evil men who sought to kill my cousin and her innocent children," Sir Francis spat, his lip curling in disgust. "I should think you would be grateful for the king's generosity and take the oath, for it might be the only thing that will keep you both from becoming prisoners in the Tower of London."
Mary let out a sob and Katherine quickly embraced her, glaring daggers at the knight.
"That's enough, Sir Francis, let's just give them so time to talk it over," Norris ordered, grabbing the other man by the arm. Sir Francis shook him off. However he took a step backwards.
"One hour," Francis snarled before spinning on his heels and storming out, not even bowing to either of them. Sir Norris on the other hand bowed deeply to both of them before leaving with pity in his eyes.
"Father would never let us be arrested, would he?" Mary cried as her mother, and she sat down on the window seat.
"I wish I could be sure of that but I'm not," admitted Katherine. "Your father loves you very much, but I think that he fears that there will be men who will continue to try to kill your brother in our name if we don't sign the oath."
There was some irony in the fact that Chapuys' efforts to reinstate Mary and Katherine had made their positions worse.
"Surely God is just testing us. He wants you to be Queen and me to be Father's heir. If we keep holding out…" Mary trailed off, guessing what would happen if they did so and she shuddered at the thought. "Can't Emperor Charles send help? Or perhaps we could incite a rebellion? Father would see reason if enough we had an army backing us."
"That would just lead to blood and misery.” Her mother shook her head, kissing her forehead. "There will not be many people who would revolt against a Prince of Wales, whatever his legitimacy. As for my nephew, if you seek the aid of foreign monarch, the people of England might see you as a traitor instead of their queen. Mary, it breaks my heart, but I think we should take the oath."
As much as it hurt her to think this, Katherine was afraid that they had no options left. Fisher and More were dead. With his ongoing feud with France and the treason of Chapuys, Emperor Charles might not be able to continue to support his aunt and cousin especially not when the people of England adored their new prince and had all but forgotten about Katherine and Mary.
Mary was running out of allies and Katherine was unsure of how much longer she had left in this world. She had to protect her daughter even if it meant denying her birthright and allowing herself to be called a whore.
"Are you sure?" Mary asked, looking up her mother's desolate face.
"It's the only way to protect ourselves," Katherine half-lied.
Henry would never force her to sign the oath. After all, a barren and sickly old woman was no danger to the young Prince of Wales. But if she didn't do it, she knew Mary never would and they would be separated again with Mary being locked up either in the tower or put under house arrest.
She had fought the Great Matter for her reputation and Mary's birthright. Now she would forsake both if it meant that her daughter could be reconciled with her father, protected by royal favor.
Katherine's vision blurred as tears rolled down her face, dripping onto her daughter's head.
At least there was one bright spot in all of this. They would always be together, facing whatever trouble that was thrust their way.
With that thought in mind, Katherine untangled herself from Mary and went over to where a bible laid. Unfortunately, it was in English, but she had memorized the prayer she was thinking of enough times to recite it in Latin.
She recited it while clasping her daughter's hand in hers, squeezing it gently.
September 7, 1535
"To the Princess Elizabeth, Marquess of Pembroke and the Princess Royal!" Henry toasted even though his daughter was not at the festivities held in her honor. She was only two years old and had long been sent to her bed after spending a few hours being admired by her father's courtiers.
"Hear, hear!"
"Your Majesty, the King of Denmark wishes for me to present a gift for the little Princess," the Danish ambassador announced.
Henry smiled at the man. Negotiations for Elizabeth to be married to Prince Fredrick of Denmark and Norway were underway.
King Christian III was new to the throne, but he was for the reformation, and he was eager for some allies who were not under the thumb of Rome. After his son reached his first birthday, he had sent his ambassador to England to discuss a marriage betrothal between Fredrick and Elizabeth.
If it all worked out, his daughter would be the queen of two countries. Henry was certain that Anne would be thrilled to know that her precious daughter wouldn't be a mere duchess even if she preferred a French match.
He hoped she would also be happy that not only had he given their daughter the title of Marquess of Pembroke but a new title that highlighted how she was his oldest legitimate daughter, one that no other princess had before: the title of Princess Royal.
As for Ambrose, it seemed that after the death of his ambassador does not mention the fact that both Mary and Katherine had finally relented, the emperor was now eager to marry his younger daughter, Joanna to the Prince of Wales.
The new ambassador, he had sent to England, had made it clear that he had never given any orders to Chapuys after Queen Anne's death and before that, he never even hinted that she should be disposed of along with the babes she carried.
He fully condemned Chapuys' actions, not even attempting to beg for mercy on his servant's behalf. With his consent, both Chapuys and his accomplice Brereton were executed in July.
Henry would not think about marrying his son to neither the emperor’s daughters nor nieces just yet. Charles had been a thorn in his and Anne's side for years so he would let the man sweat for a little while.
"Your Grace, I see that you have been welcomed back," George Boleyn greeted Charles Brandon coldly. "Alas not to your spot on the council but I suppose after what you said about my sister, you are lucky the king invited you back at all."
Charles tried to suppress the surge of anger he felt at the younger man.
Ever since Anne died, the Boleyns had become untouchable. As the relatives of the future king and the mother of that boy, they had the king's ear and there was no doubt that they would use his favor to their advantage.
Thomas Boleyn, the Duke of Kent, was now the president of the council with the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde had been made the Lord Protector of Ireland. The vacant position of keeper of the Privy Seal was given to Sir Henry Norris who was engaged to Anne's cousin Madge Shelton.
Mary Stafford nee Boleyn was now a countess with her son a baron. Her husband had become the steward of Ludlow with her cousin the Earl of Surrey was the de facto head of the council of the Welsh marshes.
It seemed that nearly all positions of power were being held by Boleyn relatives while the few that weren't were held by allies of Anne.
Catherine had just given birth to their son and that boy would become a courtier in a court run by Boleyns with a Boleyn king leading it. Charles prayed he would not live to see that day.
"I never meant to insult Queen Anne and I grieve her death," Charles said through gritted teeth, a strained smile on his face.
King Henry might have forgiven him, but the Duke of Suffolk was aware that one wrong word would be enough to send exile him once again.
"We all do," George agreed, his eye still narrowed. "You come on a glorious day for not only is my niece two-years-old but today is the first day the Lady Mary has returned to court."
Charles nodded, knowing that the Boleyns weren't happy that Mary was back because it meant she could finally reconcile with her father. No, they were happy that she and her mother had relented and signed the oath. Now she was back at court where her father declared her hated stepmother as his true queen and wife and her half-siblings were his true heir.
She might not have to acknowledge Anne as queen thankfully, but she was expected to call her half-siblings by the titles they had unknowingly stolen from her: Prince Ambrose of Wales and Princess Royal Elizabeth.
There had never been a Princess Royal before and Charles couldn't help but wonder if like her mother's Marquess of Pembroke title, one of the Boleyns suggested giving it to Elizabeth, making sure that no one could say she was less important than her older sister just on the off-chance Henry chose to reinstate her as a princess as she was born of a marriage made in good faith as he had heard the former Spanish Ambassador once suggest.
Queen Katherine would never return to court, to be restored to her former place as King Henry's wife but at least Mary had a chance to be a princess again. Unfortunately, with the Boleyns in power, which would never happen.
Charles could only hope that a woman would catch Henry's eyes eventually and she would become Mary's new champion. Even better perhaps she could turn the king back to the true faith and stop the Boleyns from corrupting the minds of the little prince and princess.
Then Anne Boleyn would truly be dead and forgotten as she deserved.
When Mary was allowed to come to court, she had been brought to her father's private audience chamber so they could talk alone before she reentered court. He made no mention of their previous fight, treating her kindly after she swore the oath in front of him, Cromwell, Rich, and Audley.
As the festivities carried on, Mary found herself standing alone until her father beckoned her over, getting up from his throne.
"Forgive me, daughter, but it has just occurred to me that there is a family member you have yet to meet. I think it's high time you met your baby brother," he remarked, smiling encouragingly at her. Honestly, Mary would rather never lay her eyes on Anne Boleyn's son, but she knew she would have to act like she couldn't wait to meet her new brother. Extending his arm for her to take, King Henry turned to the other courtiers, making an announcement: "Lady Mary and I shall go visit her siblings. Please continue your merriment without us in the meantime."
Lady Bryan and Mistress Seville greeted them when they arrived at the nursery which Mary noted had double the amount of guards-considering what had happened months earlier she wasn't surprised that her father had chosen to post extra protection to avoid another would be assassin sneaking into the nursery.
"This is your brother, Ambrose, Mary," Henry introduced to her in a whisper so not to wake the sleeping baby. Elizabeth had been moved into a bed in a different chamber as she was becoming a big girl now and had outgrown sleeping in a crib.
Mary peered down at the baby, studying his features. He looked so much like Anne, for a fleeting moment, Mary wondered if Anne had not slept with a different man and was only passing the child off as her father's son as it was rumored, she had done with Elizabeth. She wouldn't put it past the harlot make a cuckold out of her father.
But then, as if he had sensed her gaze and her doubt of his paternity, the little Prince of Wales opened his eyes and Mary could not deny those eyes were the shape and color of their father's eyes.
It was strange how Elizabeth looked so much like their father with her golden-red hair and yet had her mother's eyes. And yet Ambrose looked so much like his mother with their father's eyes.
Both of Anne's children took after her and yet at the same they both had something of Henry, not allowing Mary to say they were anything but her flesh and blood.
Her mother was right. It was over. Ambrose would be king one day and there was nothing she could do about it.
"He's a handsome boy, Papa," Mary said softly, a tearful smile on her face.
"Thank you, I know that you will be a good big sister to both him and Elizabeth, won't you sweetheart?"
"Yes, I will," Mary agreed firmly. She would not let her anger at Anne Boleyn stop her from loving her siblings. That was a promise she had made when she had first gone to Hatfield to wait on baby Elizabeth, and she was not going to break that promise just because Ambrose had destroyed her chances for the throne. "They are my siblings just like Hal is and I love them for it."
"It makes me so pleased to hear that, my pearl," Henry told her gratefully, kissing the top of her head as he hugged her with one arm.
Mary smiled. At least now she had her father and mother back again and there was no chance she would be separated by either of them ever again.
January 30, 1536
Queen Anne Boleyn had been dead for more than six months and Katherine of Aragon had just been buried (as the Dowager Princess of Wales of course).
Cromwell had thought now would be a good time to suggest a new bride for the king. After all, with both Queen Anne and Katherine of Aragon dead, the new queen could be a member of royalty without anyone being able to dispute their marriage.
Of course, it might be more prudent to search for a wife among the Protestant Princes of Germany instead of a Catholic Princess who might try to influence her husband and stepchildren to return to the old faith.
However, if he hoped that he could persuade the king to marry again easily, he soon found out that he was very much mistaken.
"Anne has not even been dead a year and you dare ask me to marry again," Henry snapped. "Why would I need to marry again when I already have a healthy heir? Prince Ambrose will be a year old soon and he is as healthy as his sister is."
"That might very well be, Your Majesty but I think that it might not be wise to leave the prince as your only heir. If you will forgive me, you are no longer a young man and I do not think it will be wise to wait a long time to sire a Duke of York," Cromwell said calmly.
He did not remind Henry of how his older brother Arthur had been a healthy child and then died when he was just a teenager. He also didn't point out that most children died in the early years of their life. Judging by Henry's expression, there was no need.
"I shall think about it," Henry decided with a sigh. Truthfully, he had missed the companionship of a sweet lady. But he still would not let anyone think that he was forgetting about Anne. "When the next monastery is closed down, I want it to be turned into a school named after Queen Anne."
"Of course, Your Majesty.” Cromwell wore a sad smile on his face. "But I don't think we need her works of charity to remind ourselves of her. All we have to do is look at Prince Ambrose and into the eyes of the Princess Elizabeth and it is as if she is alive again."
Henry grinned at him. "Well said, old friend."
He would have to marry again that was true especially when his two young children needed a mother, but Anne would remain the queen of his heart.
January 31, 1536
It was not a cold day in January, so Henry decided to go hunting with a few of his friends. Unfortunately, it started drizzling and they had to seek shelter. The closest estate they could use for shelter was Wolf Hall.
"Sir John Seymour, my retinue and I thank you for letting us stay here for the time being," Henry said gratefully, clapping the older man on the back.
"Your Majesty, it is an honor to have you come into our humble home. I hope you will make yourself comfortable. If it pleases you to stay for supper, I shall see to it that the cooks prepare the finest meal they had ever made," Sir John proclaimed, flustered at the king being in his home.
"Certainly. But first please introduce me to your lovely family," Henry commanded with good cheer.
His eye roamed over the people standing just a few feet behind Sir John still bowing and curtsying. But when his eyes landed on a petite blonde lady, he found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from her.
He only listened as his host introduced his wife and sons with half an ear.
"…And my oldest daughter Jane Seymour," continued John, seemingly unaware that the king was staring at his daughter.
"Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you," the angel murmured, looking up at him through her eyelashes, sounding as though she was full of awe.
Henry could not help but smile at her, thinking how lovely and sweet she seemed.
"Lady Jane, I look forward to spending time with you.” The monarch kissed her hand chastely.
Delight sparkled in Jane's blue eyes and Henry could not help but think she looked like a picture of feminine modesty like the ones in the old tales of chivalric romance. A Queen Guinevere he could act like Sir Lancelot to.
Had he looked away from Jane Seymour, he would have seen the pleasure of the Seymours' faces as they began to hope that like the Boleyns their daughter would become England's next queen and cause their family to gain much.
His companions, Charles Brandon and Nicholas Carew exchanged a meaningful look with Edward Seymour. They were hoping that one of the Seymour sisters would catch the king's eyes and it seemed one of them had much she, their delight.
Jane Seymour had grasped the king's attention and now she only needed to pull it away from the Boleyns. Above all, she needed to keep it long enough to sit on the throne and give birth to a legitimate heir.
Chapter 4: Still Missing Her
Summary:
Despite being dead for over a year, Anne Boleyn is still there in more ways than one.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 19, 1536
Five months had passed since Lady Jane Seymour had met the King of England. Within the weeks of meeting her, King Henry had invited her family to court, sending her gifts as he did whenever he courted a mistress.
As Anne Boleyn did before her, Jane sent him those gifts back, refusing to lose her maidenhead to anyone but the man she married. And while her attitude endeared and excited the king, the nobles at court scorned her, accusing her of acting like Anne in hopes of becoming the next queen.
While it was true that her family especially her oldest brother often gave her instructions on the best course of actions and they certainly were eager for the royal favor that would come with being the next queen’s relatives, Jane admired King Henry and the thought of being his wife thrilled her.
She also wanted to reach out to the poor Princess Mary who despite being back in her father’s good graces was still called a bastard while everyone continued to pretend that her siblings were legitimate.
Jane was nothing like Anne Boleyn who had so cruelly bewitched the king into tearing his family apart. She had seduced him away from his true queen and poisoned his mind against the true faith. Poor Queen Katherine had died in exile while her rival was hailed a hero for giving birth to a boy. It was so unfair, and Jane hoped that she could set things right once she had married King Henry.
Even if she could not convince Henry that Ambrose and Elizabeth were bastards, at least she could raise them to be good Catholics, steering England back to the Flock of Rome. She would be a good stepmother to both of them as well as Mary.
All she needed was a chance to prove that she would be a better queen than Anne Boleyn could ever hope to be.
The Duke of Kent grimaced as he watched the king ride over to Mistress Seymour, requesting to wear her favor on his lance. A request that the little mouse was more than pleased to comply with.
He couldn’t help but sneer at the plain girl who could barely read or write. Compared to Anne, she was nothing more than a country bumpkin and yet this was the lady the king was so enamored with.
Then again, perhaps it would be a good thing if King Henry chose a wife who was less than Anne in every way. After all, it would not do Ambrose any good if his stepmother gave birth to strong heirs with royal blood which could be used to turn the English people against Ambrose.
According to Cromwell, the Seymours had signed the oath, but they sympathized with the Lady Mary and the Catholic faction. While that was slightly unnerving, Mistress Jane Seymour was far too meek and uneducated to succeed in changing the King’s mind about the religious reform let alone the idea that the late Princess Dowager was his true wife, and his daughter was truly the Princess of Wales. Despite the fact that Jane was not much of a threat, it still galled Thomas that his daughter would have such an unworthy successor and he was suspicious of the ambitious Seymour brothers. He would make sure to keep an eye on them just in case there was any danger to his grandson.
Thomas turned back to the joust watching as King Henry and his opponent rode towards each other. Then to the horror of those watching, when the rival jouster’s lance hit the red-haired monarch’s shield, he fell off his house and onto the divider, hitting his head as he crashed to the ground.
For a moment everyone stood frozen in horror, unable to process what they had just seen. Then shocked gasps rippled through the crowd as men rushed towards their unmoving king.
“Is he dead?” Suffolk demanded kneeling at his friend’s side and removing his helmet to get a better look at him.
The king was pale and there was blood gushing from a cut on his forehead. He was so very still but when Boleyn put two fingers to his neck, he could feel a weak pulse. The red-haired monarch still clangs to life, but God only knew if he would survive that nasty fall.
Dr. Butts pushed through the crowd before making orders for people to carry the monarch into the pavilion so he could make his examination in private.
Thomas Boleyn followed close behind the men carrying the unconscious king and Dr. Butts, his thoughts racing.
If Henry died, Ambrose would be declared king, despite only being a year old. His grandfather would be Lord Protector, fending off enemies that wanted to grab power from the Boleyns or worse wanted to put pretenders like the Lady Mary on throne, in hopes making England Catholic again.
No, it would be better for Prince Ambrose to grow past childhood before his father died, ensuring that the people of England loved him so much that they wouldn’t dream of accepting another ruler.
Of course, it mattered little what Thomas Boleyn wanted to happen. If King Henry died, he would have to be prepared for the worst. He would wait until Dr. Butts made his examination of the King and made a diagnosis about his health before deciding how to act but time was of the essence. When he it was time for him to act, he would have to act swiftly and decisively.
Anne was counting on him to protect her son and daughter and Thomas would die a thousand deaths before he let his daughter’s greatest sacrifice be in vain.
King Henry found himself in front of Hever. He barely had time to question how he had been transported from London to Kent when he spotted Anne standing on the balcony, looking every inch the queen, he remembered he as.
Filled with elation, Henry raced inside and up the stairs, shouting his wife’s name until he had reached her.
“Anne, my love, my queen,” he gushed, embracing her, and kissing her lips passionately, relishing the familiar fire that he felt when his hungry mouth covered hers.
“Henry,” Anne breathed once their lips had parted. Her forehead rested on his and her hands were around his neck. She closed her eyes as she practically melting into him. The moment only last for a few seconds. When she opened her eyes, they were as hard as ice and her next words were harsh and accusing. “I am truly still your love and queen when you have pledged yourself to another?”
That broke the spell between them, and Anne tore herself away from Henry’s arms, standing on the balcony again looking down below.
“Anne, please, she is not you,” protested Henry, reaching out to take her hand in his.
“Of course, she is not me, that’s why you chose her. She is such a meek and cautious creature. You’ll be tired of her within a week,” Anne spat cruelly.
Then her face softened as she continued to stare outside. Henry followed her gaze and saw Elizabeth playing with Ambrose. “It is so unfair that I cannot be there with them. I neglected Elizabeth and I wasn’t even able to hold my sweet boy. I left them with few true supporters who will not turn on them. I have left them to always be viewed as the witch Anne Boleyn’s children, my legacy will taint them.”
“No,” Henry contradicted, grabbing her chin, and forcibly turning her to look at him. “I promise you that our children will be protected by all who seek to harm them. Elizabeth is a true Princess, and she is the cleverest little girl in the world. As for Ambrose, every day, I see more and more of you in him, but he is a true Tudor Prince and someday he will be a king, I promise you, Anne. Ambrose and Elizabeth have the best parts of you. Your legacy did not taint them, it will make them strong.”
“Although it gladdens me to hear you says that my love, I still fear that those who are closet to you, who you trust will betray them,” whispered Anne ominously. “There are vipers in your court, despite their loyalty to you, hate me and have no wish to allow our son to be king.” Her eyes widened as dark shadows crept closer to her children.
“I won’t let them,” Henry growled, glaring down at the shadows, as if his gaze alone could paralyze them.
“And what if they present you with a new heir, whispering poison about me in your ear, hoping to turn you against our son and daughter?” Anne asked.
“Then they will die for being foolish enough to think that I would ever believe any lies about our children,” insisted the king, scowling darkly, wondering if Ambrose continued to look like Anne would people start insinuating that his wife was unfaithful. “I love you Anne and I swear that just like none of her children will ever replace yours, Jane shall not replace you in my heart.
Anne smiled, resting her head on Henry’s shoulder as they watched Elizabeth and Ambrose playing together.
Suddenly the scene melted away, and Henry was standing in the middle of a courtyard, watching two teenaged boys sparing. One had the dark auburn hair Anne had while the other had blondish-red hair.
At first the fight was friendly but then it became vicious and bloody.
“Will you yield, brother!” the auburn-haired boy demanded, his manner almost regretful.
“I will never yield to the son of a whore!” the other one declared. “I am the true King of England not you.”
“Then you leave me no choice,” his brother snarled, rising the sword above his head, and slicing the younger boy’s head off.
“NO!” Henry screamed as he woke up, horrified by his dream.
“Your Majesty, it’s all right. You’re alive.” The groom at his bedside sounded relieved. He shouted for the physician to be summoned.
Henry didn’t even acknowledge him, too frazzled by his dream and what it could possibly mean.
It was obvious that the auburn-haired son was Ambrose which meant the younger boy could only be the future Duke of York, hopefully the son Jane would give birth to.
Was his dream an omen, warning him against marrying Jane? No, surely not. Anne was just warning him that there were enemies at court, plotting to undermine Ambrose but there was no way Jane could possibly be one of them.
She was such a good-natured woman whose favor had clearly saved him from dying when he fell off his horse. She expressed hope that he would bring all his children to court so she could meet them, a sure sign that she would be a loving stepmother. She was so honest and humble that she never once expected for him to give her anything, showing unfeigned surprise and delight whenever he gave her the slightest bit of attention.
While he had not being lying to Anne when he said that Jane would never replace her in his heart, he could not help but think Jane was just the sweet and kind queen he needed. A woman who would never dream of pushing her stepchildren away in favor of her own children.
That nightmare of his two sons fighting would not come to pass. Henry would make sure of that.
It had been two hours since King Henry had fallen off his horse and yet still, he lay unconscious. Dr. Butts was unsure when he would wake up, although he remained hopeful that he would.
The Duke of Kent was already barking orders, commanding that his grandchildren be moved from Hatfield to Whitehall, and if the English ruler was still unconscious tomorrow morning that an emergency privy council meeting be convened.
Charles Brandon grimaced, Henry was not yet dead and yet Boleyn was acting as though his grandson was king already. He had not summoned Lady Mary to court despite it being her father who was so close to death, and the duke shuddered at the thought of what plans the loathsome devil must have for her.
Would she die just a few days after her father under suspicious circumstances? No. Not even Thomas Boleyn would be that obvious.
Still Charles shivered at the thought of Henry dying, leaving his country at the mercy of the Boleyns and Howards. He prayed that the king would not die, and he would marry Jane Seymour who hopefully would give him a trueborn son who one day would be king instead of his bastard half-brother.
“Brooding will do you no good,” Catherine Brandon pointed out, massaging his shoulders. “I doubt the Duke of Kent has any definite plans yet. If he did, I have no doubt that the Seymours would be sent packing. I think he’s simply making sure that his grandchildren are nearby so no one else can take them if the worst happens.”
“I know that he won’t do anything as long His Majesty lives but that’s just it,” Charles noted grimly. “Once King Henry dies and Prince Ambrose proclaimed his successor, the Boleyns will take over and I fear what will happen to Princess Mary.”
After her mother’s death, Princess Mary had few supporters willing to stand up for her. And while it was true that her father treated her kindly, he still was distant to her, something he was sure was caused by the Boleyns, and the Howards.
“The Seymours are on her side,” Catherine reminded. “Once Jane Seymour marries the King, she can remove the hooks the Boleyns, and Howards have in him and reconcile him and the Princess. Once she has a son, I’m sure King Henry will stop his insistence on honoring the harlot’s children.”
“Not with Prince Ambrose. As long as he lives---don’t look at me like that, I would never harm a child,” Charles quickly amended at Catherine’s scandalized face. He knew that the children were innocent even if their mother was not. “I’m just being a realist. If Ambrose continues to thrive, we will never be rid of her. He looks far too much like her for us for the ling or the court to forget.”
“He looks too much like her. After all, there are rumors that she has had lovers, perhaps he is the son of a musician or a poet,” Catherine suggested, her eyes lighting up in realization. She was honestly surprised that no one had thought of the possibility that Anne Boleyn had made King Henry a cockled before. But then again everyone was too wrapped up in the aftermath of her death.
There were rumors about Sir Thomas Wyatt, Henry Percy, and Mark Smeaton, that they might be the queen’s lover. It was known that the former two had courted Anne Boleyn and the latter spent far too much time in her rooms, hugging her, dancing with her, and flirting with her.
After all, why would God grant the concubine a son that he had denied good Queen Katherine. Clearly there was something more sinister going on.
“I’ve heard it suggested at one time that perhaps Ambrose is a full Boleyn,” Charles remarked, grimacing at the thought. Surely not even Anne could be so vile to sleep with her own brother. “Unfortunately, I am too fond of my head to even try and suggest that Ambrose is anything but the king’s son.”
It hurt that Henry seemed to be almost suspicious every time his old friend complimented Jane as though he was trying to figure out whether Suffolk was saying she was better than Anne.
Although Henry adored Jane, Anne was still the forefront of his mind and Charles knew that if he dared even suggest that perhaps Ambrose looked far too much like Anne than he would if he were truly Henry’s son, he would find himself in the Tower of London.
Anne Boleyn was dead and yet it seemed that her presence was still felt no matter how hard some people tried to forget her.
Catherine stroked his arm comfortingly. “It has only been a year, my love. In a few years, her brat’s resemblance to her will be even more profound, good Jane Seymour will have had her son and the Boleyn’s control will start slipping. Then perhaps he will be more inclined to listen to reason.”
Before Charles could reply, a page ran inside the Duke and Duchess’ apartment, looking out of breath but overjoyed. “The king is awake!” he announced.
The Duke of Suffolk beamed at the boy, kissing his wife’s cheek before he ran to his friend’s side.
As he hurried past the servants, he thanked God that the disaster he feared would happen was avoided. King Henry was alive and well. The Dukes of Kent and Norfolk would not be in power and if Charles could help it, they would never get the chance to put their relative on the throne.
Jane Seymour’s future son would save England from his half-brother eventually but for now Charles would just be happy that his friend had not died before his time, leaving a one-year-old bastard be hailed as a false king.
Meanwhile, miles away from court, unaware of the drama that was happening there, the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond sat in his childhood home, looking out at the meadow where he and his sisters used to play.
“We were so innocent,” George reminisced. “We were so carefree. We never knew what our future had in store for us.”
He often wondered if it was all his fault. If he should have done more to protect both Anne and Mary. After all, he was their brother, even if he was younger than both of them. He was supposed to be their knight, protecting them from harm even if it came from their own father and uncle.
At least, he still had Mary. She was happy, living in her own estates, thanks to her grieving brother-in-law. Thomas Boleyn had disowned her. and now she didn’t even need him to take care of her. Perhaps her dislike of the court life made her the smartest of them all.
Lately George had been spending more time away from court. Spending time in his childhood home was painful but less so then listening to people pretend to be grieving his sister not to mention the sight of King Henry courting a new woman.
To be fair to the king, it was clear that he still loved Anne. Nonetheless, George could not help but hate Jane Seymour for no other reason than the fact that she was to be his dear sister’s replacement.
Mary thought he was being petty. His father thought he should return to court as the king seemed more inclined to favor Anne’s siblings than her father and uncle. He was certain that George’s mere presence would stop Henry from favoring the Seymores if not Jane herself.
While it was true that King Henry always seemed to be filled with guilt whenever he spoke to Mary and George, neither of the Boleyn siblings were interested in using that to their advantage. They were too busy trying to pick up the pieces left behind by Anne’s death.
George heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He really needed to stop moping. Perhaps he should go back to court soon, before Elizabeth’s birthday at any rate. But for now, he would stay here with Jane and the newest addition to the Boleyn family.
It had come as a surprise when Jane found out she was pregnant. After Anne’s death, George had found himself visiting his wife’s bed, finding her embrace comforting. When he learned she was pregnant, he was overjoyed and prayed that they would have a daughter.
While most men wished for sons, George hoped to have a daughter and not just because he was eager to annoy his father. She would be Lady Anne Boleyn. Although her cousin was also named Anne, George refused to call his daughter anything else.
Anne Boleyn: his sweet sister’s name would never be forgotten but just in case her niece’s name would be a reminder to all.
“Your Grace? The countess has delivered,” a servant called.
George blinked, having gotten so caught up in his own thoughts that he had forgotten that Jane was in labor at that very moment, and he had only stepped outside, hoping that the cool and crisp spring air would soothe his nerves.
“And?” George prompted, eager to know if he had a daughter to honor his sweet sister.
“She has given birth to a son and a daughter, my lord,” the man replied, looking quite pleased to be giving this news.
The young earl’s entire face lit up and he practically sprinted towards his wife’s bedchambers. He had been so somber in the months following his sister’s death and it was only the news that he would be a father that had given him a little bit of his jovial personality back.
Jane Boleyn smiled as her husband entered her chambers, tired by her long hours of labor, but still just as happy as her husband was at their arrivals.
“It seems that the Lady Anne Boleyn has an older brother, husband.” There was no bitterness in her tone.
She had never hated Anne, although there were times when she envied the closeness the late queen had with George. However, she completely understood her husband’s wish to name his daughter after his sister.
“I suppose that because I named our daughter. It’s only right that you should name our dear son,” George decided as he studied the two bundles in Jane’s arms, not even daring to disturb them.
Jane knew better to suggest Thomas or Henry to her husband who still blamed his father, uncle, and brother-in-law for Anne’s death. Although her relationship with her husband had improved, she thought against naming him George, feeling that it would get rather confusing. However, giving him a unique name would make him stand out like his royal cousin.
“Why don’t we call him James?” Jane proposed, thinking that with his position as the Lord Steward of Ireland, it might be a good idea to remind everyone of her husband’s Irish heritage.
“Lord James Boleyn, Viscount of Rochford,” George remarked, beaming. “A good name. He will be his sister’s knight.”
“I’m sure he will be,” Jane agreed, hating the melancholy look on her husband’s face.
It wasn’t just Anne’s death; she knew that it was also what he perceived as failure to protect his sister.
May 30, 1536
It had been nearly a fortnight since the red-haired monarch had recovered and yet he had not sent for her. This worried Jane as she feared that he believed that her favor had cursed him, blaming her for him falling off his horse and getting hurt.
She had heard little about his health, although she was relieved when she learned that he was recovering well. Still, she feared that the next time she heard anything from him, it would be by messenger, informing her father that she was to be banished from court, forbidden to ever be in the king’s presence again.
Jane had barely left her family’s apartments, not wanting to be among the courtiers who were no doubt judging and gossiping about her. She relied on news from her father and brothers to learn what was going on.
Anne Boleyn’s bastards had arrived at court, having been sent for by the Duke of Kent while Henry was unconscious. According to Edward, while Henry recovered his strength, he had the children moved to a room in his apartments, spending most of his time with them away from the curious eyes of his courtiers. Very few people were allowed to see him during that time.
He had emerged from his apartments a few days ago, interacting with the court and walking in the gardens. But he still had yet to send for Jane, and it worried her that the king had simply forgotten about her.
Then just two hours ago, Jane received a royal summons requesting her to make haste to the royal gardens. Filled with apprehension and excitement, Jane put on her best dress and jewelry before she made her way through the corridors to Henry’s private gardens.
“Jane, oh my sweet Jane,” Henry gushed, kissing the palm of her hand chastely. “I wanted to thank you for surely your favor saved me from my death.”
“Your Majesty, I am so happy that you are alive and well. I was so afraid,” confessed Jane, feeling relieved that King Henry did not blame her.
“Nonsense, I am a still a strong man even if I am not as young as I used to be,” he told her, before frowning slightly at his own words, realizing his days of carefree youth were gone forever. But when he looked at Jane again, his expression lightened. “I have a question for you, Jane that I hope the answer will be yes. I have felt so alone since Anne died and my poor children need a mother. I wish to have another queen by my side, and I want no other woman but you to fill that role. So, my dearest Jane, will you become my wife?”
Jane trembled in anticipation. She had been hoping for this moment for some time and now she was so overcome with emotions, that she could barely speak.
“Your Majesty, I am in awe and humbled by you. I would be honored to become your wife,” Jane replied, sending a silent prayer to good Queen Katherine that although she knew that she could never hope to fill her shoes, she would do her best to undo the wrongs wrought by Anne Boleyn.
“May I kiss you, Jane?” Henry asked, enjoying playing knight to his soon-to-be Queen Guinevere.
“Aren’t you the King of England?” Jane teased him playfully, fluttering her eyelashes as he leaned in, pressing his mouth onto hers.
The kiss only lasted several seconds but Jane felt weak in the knees as they pulled apart, her cheeks now rosy and she felt she was floating on air. However, she was abruptly pulled back to reality by the king’s next words.
“Come, I want to introduce you to the Prince of Wales and my little Princess, your future stepchildren,” Henry proclaimed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they walked from the garden back inside the castle.
Jane felt extremely nervous as Lady Margaret Bryan and Lady Anne Seville brought out Anne’s children.
She had never met Anne Boleyn, but she heard that her eyes were like hooks for the soul. Elizabeth gazed at her with dark eyes that were almost clouded with suspicion. Jane wondered if Anne was gazing at her through her daughter.
Despite not yet turning three, Elizabeth had the gravity of a much older woman as she curtsied and greeted Jane politely. She was clearly an intelligent child and she seemed to almost know instinctively that Jane was going to become her new mother, a prospect with which she was not happy.
Ambrose barely looked like the king and Jane half-wondered if the gossip was true until she met the toddler’s eyes and recognized that they were Henry’s eyes. Unlike his sister, he was not fazed by Jane’s presence and simply called out to his father to pick him up, ignoring Jane completely.
Henry obeyed his son’s command at once, picking him up, taking Elizabeth’s hand in his, bringing them both over to Jane.
“Children, I am quite pleased to introduce to you, Lady Jane Seymour, she’s going to be your mama,” Henry told them. “We all are going to be a family.”
“Mama?” Ambrose asked, sounding confused, eyeing Jane curiously.
Just because Jane viewed Elizabeth and Ambrose as bastards, didn’t mean she couldn’t feel some sort of maternal love for her stepchildren. She took one of Ambrose’s hands and gently kissed it.
Perhaps she could be their mother, convincing them not to listen to the lies their Boleyn relatives would feed them, keep them away from following the dark path their mother followed. But they were not the only motherless children of King Henry’s, Jane hoped to reach out to.
“Your Majesty, when we are married, I hope that I can invite your daughter, Mary back to court so your whole family can be united,” Jane suggested, smiling sweetly.
She would not try to coax him to legitimize Mary yet. For now, she would work towards closing the gap between the king and his oldest daughter.
“Lady Mary?” Elizabeth inquired, her eyes lighting up at the mention of the sister she had once seen everyday but now she only saw her every so often. “Oh, can she come, Papa? I’ve missed her so and Ambrose barely even knows her.”
Henry gave his daughter an indulging smile, stroking her red curls. “How can I refuse such a sweet request from a precious girl,” he murmured before turning his attention to Ambrose. “What say you, my boy, would you like to see Lady Mary?” He wondered if his oldest daughter who was surprisingly loving to Elizabeth was the same way to the boy, she believed had stolen her title.
“Maree, Maree!” Ambrose exclaimed in delight, clapping his hands.
“Well, if my children insist, then I shall have a messenger be sent to Auckland Castle immediately,” Henry declared, before he started tickling Ambrose, causing the toddler to burst out in giggles while his sister “tried to help him” by trying to tickle their father.
The king pretended to collapse on the ground as he grabbed both his children in a bear hug.
Jane wondered if Henry had forgotten about her completely. Despite the adorableness of the scene, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy at how devoted King Henry was to them to the point where she wasn’t sure he would have agreed to bringing Mary to court if Elizabeth and Ambrose hadn’t made their feelings plain.
June 3, 1536
Lady Mary arrived at Whitehall and was greeted by the Duke of Suffolk who graciously led her to her apartments at court. She felt a small sense of melancholy as she walked down these halls, noticing not for the first time how the H&As were still chiseled onto the walls.
She wondered if after her father’s new marriage, would the As be replaced by Js just as her mother’s Ks were. After all, it was clear that King Henry still grieved Anne Boleyn and barely gave a second thought to Katherine of Aragon who was his wife for much longer than he pretended to be married to her stepmother.
After her mother’s death, Mary had been so despondent that she had not even wanted to leave the More and return to court, politely denying her father’s invitations, something that clearly irked him especially when her depression caused her to miss her brother’s first birthday celebration.
The next time he sent her a summons to court, he made it clear that he would not tolerate her refusal this time. He also stressed that he and her siblings missed her greatly and his fiancée wished to meet her.
“I’m glad that you are back at court, my lady, I hope you will join my wife and I when we sup sometime,” Charles told her kindly.
“I would like that,” agreed Mary. “Tell me, Uncle, what do you know of this Lady Jane Seymour?”
“I know that she is once served your mother and she have pity for your plight,” Charles explained, eyeing her ladies who were unpacking her things. Considering, her chief lady was the cousin of Anne Boleyn, it was only natural that he would suspect that she might be spying on Mary for her relatives.
Although Mary trusted Madge Norris completely, she was far too earnest to be a spy, she could understand Suffolk’s unease and decided to send her off on an errand.
“Madge, would you mind going to the nursery and finding out whether or not my siblings are currently napping,” Mary ordered, smiling at the woman who had been a comfort during the months after her mother’s death, even assuring the former princess that she would remain in her household despite pressure from her uncle to join the future queen’s household. “If they are not, I shall like to see them as soon as I change out of my traveling clothes.”
Lady Madge curtsied, before hurrying out of the chambers and towards the nursery. With that, Mary led Charles to two chairs, a few feet away from her ladies, hopefully out of earshot.
“From what I hear from her brothers, Lady Jane has Catholic sympathies and is eager to see you reinstated as Princess,” Charles continued in a low voice. “She hopes to convince your father not to exclude you from court.”
“Oh? Is that what people think? That my father has been shunning me?” Mary asked, her brow furrowed.
From the taken aback expression on the Duke of Suffolk’s face, it was clear that he believed it and Mary had no doubt that he assumed the Boleyns, and the Howards were responsible. It was understandable and quite honestly, Mary would have thought the same if she weren’t aware that the only reason, she hadn’t gone to court was because she could barely make an effort to get out of bed in the morning let alone be surrounded by people who cared more for Anne Boleyn than Katherine of Aragon.
Embarrassment painted on her visage, she divulged, “In truth, my father has invited me to court several times in the past few months, I have just not wanted to go.”
“Oh.” Charles was unsure what to say to that. He noticed that tears were welling up in her eyes and he realized instantly the truth of why Mary had not been coming to court. He felt a rush of annoyance that Henry had not told him---he might just be her uncle by marriage, but Mary was still his niece, and he had a right to know.
However, was just as likely that the former princess might not have explained why she refused her father's invitations and that was why Henry seemed to be growing distant towards his daughter, taking her refusal as a snub.
Nonetheless, if Charles’ daughters had refused to see him for their own birthday, nothing would have stopped the duke from riding to their sides especially if their birthday were a month after their mother’s death.
“I’m pleased that Lady Jane will be a good stepmother,” voiced Mary, delicately changing the subject. “I hope she knows that I’m just as eager to meet her as she is to meet me.”
“Of course, she will be,” Charles assured her before adding: “I hear that your sister and brother are equally excited to see you.”
He had spoken to Edward Seymour who had heard from Jane about the conversation in nursery. Jane had been a little upset because she felt that the King had only said yes to her suggestion because of Ambrose and Elizabeth.
While the lady was a little put out that her word did not seem to carry as much weight as two toddlers, Charles was pleased. His biggest fear was if Ambrose did ever become King, Mary would be killed either by poison or by the executioner’s blade. If her brother loved her then perhaps, he would keep her safe from whatever his grandfather and uncle plotted to do to her once King Henry died.
Meanwhile George Boleyn walked into his father’s study, his countenance betrayed his irritation.
“Why in hell is that silly chit asking my wife to be her lady-in-waiting?” he demanded.
Although Jane Seymour was only engaged to the king, he had wasted no time providing her with a household of her own.
“Because Margery Horseman spoke of how much you two fought,” Thomas replied, not even looking up from the papers he was signing. “I also have also repeated some of your old complaints about her in Thomas Seymour’s hearing.”
George sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, he agreed that they would need spies among Jane Seymour’s ladies.
Mary and Cousin Madge would have been too obvious. Margery Horseman at least was not known to be Anne’s friend and because she was in the Dowager Princess Katherine’s household until it was reestablished for Anne, she could lie and say that she never stopped being loyal to Katherine. As for Jane, despite giving birth to twins, it was not well known that she had grown closer to her husband during the dark months he had lost his sister.
“God, what was the king thinking? He wants to marry that pale wrench who is as dull as she is plain,” George jeered, pacing back and forth. “I hear she wants Ambrose and Elizabeth to call her Mama. How dare she try to replace Anne! She isn’t good enough to serve Anne let alone take her place.”
If Thomas noted the hypocrisy of George saying that when plenty of people said the same about Anne replacing Katherine, he said nothing. He just fixed his son with a rather nonplussed look.
“George, stop acting like a sulky child when there are more important matters,” he ordered sternly. “There is nothing we can do about Jane Seymour presently. Anne is dead. The king has chosen to take a new wife. All we can do is protect Elizabeth and Ambrose. We must do what’s best for their interests.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean your interests, Father,” he snarled.
The Duke of Kent kept his face completely measured, not taking the bait.
“I’m surprised that my grandson’s name is James. I expected you to name him Mark, William, or John just to spite me,” he remarked, grimacing. He was of course not at all surprised by the choice of his granddaughter’s name.
“Jane picked it.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Thomas’ lips twitching upwards before looking back down to his work, not even bothering to dismiss his son.
George was about to leave when he heard his father speak again: “This might surprise you, but I miss her as well.”
Notes:
Charles for all his faults, is more disliking how much power Thomas Boleyn has rather than him hating Ambrose and Elizabeth.
Mary is suffering from a bit of depression because it felt like she just got her mother back only to lose her again this time for good. However, only she, her household and Henry knew that he was inviting her to court, leaving everyone else to assume that Henry was excluding her.
I know my readers will disagree but I actually feel a little sorry for Jane. Henry is still in love with Anne and part of the reason he's marrying Jane is to give his children a mother and that's gotta sting a little.
Chapter 5: The Birth of a Rivalry
Summary:
Thomas Boleyn continues to muse on his life as he loses another family member. George continues to act childish until his father gives him a new directive. Mary comes to terms with her lot in life unknowingly around the same time her father decides to look into getting her a husband so she may start her own family. The Seymores gain an important chess piece in their battle against the Boleyns.
Notes:
Good God, guys, I am so sorry. I just couldn't get this chapter out. I was constantly deleting and rewriting and until finally I finished it. I am so sorry for the wait. I shall try my hardest never to take so long to update again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 18, 1537
Ursula Missledon was not at court long before she became a mistress to two men. Scarcely anyone but her fiancé cared about her tryst with Sir Francis Bryan. But nearly everyone was whispering about her affair with the King.
Some laughed at poor Queen Jane Seymour who had thought she would be different from his last two wives and Henry wouldn’t stray from her. Others wondered if King Henry was frustrated that she had not gotten pregnant yet and like that’s what drove him to seek pleasure elsewhere.
There were a few whispers that Ursula reminded the red-haired monarch of the late Anne Boleyn. The Earl of Ormond could barely hold back his scoff when he learned of that rumor.
“Aside from vaguely resembling her appearance, how does that slut remind anyone of my sister who would never be any man’s mistress,” George snarled. Anne had never laid with the king before their marriage, and it was an insult for her to be likened to the red-haired monarch’s current mistress. Perhaps he was being overly sensitive but now that Anne was gone, she could no longer defend herself, leaving her brother to protect her reputation.
“Careful cousin, that’s my future wife you are talking about,” Francis scolded lightly, sounding rather amused than offended. “And I will have you know that she does share a certain outspokenness with your late sister.”
“Your future wife,” George repeated with his eyebrow raised as he gave his cousin incredulous. “I thought she was engaged to Sir Taverstock.”
“She was. Alas he never learned how to share and therefore has decided to break things off with her. His loss, however, was my gain,” Francis replied with a wolfish grin, licking his lips as he was no doubt picturing his future wife.
George was rather unsure what to say to that, so he excused himself, deciding to seek out his wife instead listening to this bizarre situation.
He found her standing with a couple of Queen Jane’s ladies-in-waiting. He caught her eye before walking to their rooms where they could talk in private, knowing she would be close behind.
“Tell them I’ve gone to write a letter to my children’s governess,” Jane whispered to Margaery Horseman before she left the group of ladies to follow her husband to their chambers.
No excuse would have had to be made if George had just come up and demanded to speak to her in private as he was her husband, and no one would expect Jane to disobey him.
In truth this excuse was merely made just on the off chance that one of the Queen’s sisters got suspicious that she had disappeared minutes after her husband had left. Writing a letter to her children’s governess was plausible enough to avoid the interrogation that the two girls might have subjected her too otherwise.
Margery nodded and Jane left the group of gossiping woman, making her way through the corridors to the apartments, King Henry had personally given to the Boleyns, wanting to make sure the family of his beloved late queen were honored.
“How fares the queen?” George asked mockingly the minute she entered. “Is she pleased that the king has sent the Prince and Princess away?”
“Christmastide is over, George, and it was time for them to go to their own residence,” Jane reminded him, giving him a look of exasperation. “Princess Elizabeth and Prince Ambrose will be back at court in April just as they were last year.”
“And you don’t think it is a coincidence that their stepmother decided that they should not be at court for the Lady Mary’s birthday,” George snapped as he poured himself a glass of a wine.
“The queen thinks that it would be unpleasant for them to be moved around so much considering they just left to go back to Hatfield,” voiced Jane. “Besides, she wants her stepdaughter’s birthday to be just about the Lady Mary. His Majesty has obviously agreed with her.”
“Oh, whose side are you on?” George grumbled, throwing his wife a sulky look that she recognized as the same expression their son gave her when she refused to let him play with her necklace.
“Yours, you silly man. I am just keeping my ears open for the actual insults instead of your petty grievances,” admonished Jane, trying hard not roll her eyes in exasperation at her husband’s childish pouting.
While she had no doubt Queen Jane was trying to exclude Mary’s half-siblings, she knew there was not much they could do about it when the king had consented that the two toddlers should stay at Hatfield until April. It was better to keep her ear to the ground and wait until something less trivial was said. When treason was actually spoken, Jane would have no problem informing her husband so they could bring it to the king’s attention.
“Dear God, since when did I get turned on by your forked tongue,” George wondered.
Years ago, Jane had irritated him, and he thought she was a nagging shrew but ever since Anne died and his wife had comforted him, it was like he saw a different side to her. And now what he had once found annoying were now endearing and exciting.
“Perhaps since I found ways to use my tongue to pleasure you,” his wife laughed, giving him a sultry look.
But before her husband could throw her on their bed and ravish her, they were interrupted by a messenger saying that he had an urgent message from his cousin the Earl of Ossory. After dismissing the page rather heatedly, George tore open the envelope so he could read the contents quickly.
“Dammit all,” George growled, glaring down at the letter. “According to my cousin, there has been some civil unrest in Ireland, and they want the Lord Deputy of Ireland to intervene.”
“Well, that is your job, dear,” Jane reminded him dryly. A small part of her wanted to add that he was lucky than most Lord Deputies of Ireland as they lived in Ireland and could not pass their job off to their cousin. But then again King Henry had wanted to keep Anne’s siblings close by. Besides, she would rather not aggravate him and risk spoiling their moment. “Duty calls and you must answer.” She then stroked his cheek and added in a sultry voice: “Of course no one would blame you for tending to martial duties first.”
George licked his lips and smirked at her. “Of course, they would not.”
With that, they moved their conversation to their bed.
When the Lady Mary had returned to court all those months ago, King Henry had questioned Henry Norris about why his daughter had rejected his previous requests and upon learning about how depressed Mary had been after her mother died, the monarch decided that staying at the More was doing her more harm than good. He gave Mary permanent lodgings at court, something that thrilled the queen.
Despite being the cousin of the previous queen, Madge had no hard feelings towards Jane Seymour. However, she couldn’t help but marvel in the differences between Anne and the king’s new wife.
Anne adored French fashion and was quite a social butterfly, she liked to have a happy household, entertaining courtiers in her apartments, allowing her ladies freedom to flirt with handsome suitors. Jane, on the hand, had all her ladies dressed in demure English styled clothes, preferred the quieter activities like sewing and according to Margery, she preferred to spend time sewing and if she had gatherings, she would not dance unless the King wished to dance with her.
Jane and Anne were as different as day and night. However, they both had one similar flaw: they both assumed that because they were the king’s wife, they would be able to convince him to do what they thought was right.
“It is certainly kind of her to say she will speak for you, my lady, but I don’t want you to have false hope,” Madge began, nervously. Mary had just come from a meal with her stepmother and had asked Madge if she thought Jane could really convince her father to reinstate her. “If I may be blunt, King Henry is not the sort of man to admit he made a mistake even if it didn’t involve disinheriting his son.”
“On her deathbed, my cousin asked him to love his daughters as much as he loved their son. The result of that was simply to reunite you with your mother and give you your own household,” she pressed on “I don’t think there is much else he’d be willing to do for you. Although I know he loves you very much and I’m sure His Majesty is just as happy to have you at his side as you are to be with him.”
For nearly two years, she had served as Mary’s chief lady and had treated her with nothing but kindness, taking the poor motherless former princess into her heart, counting her as a dear friend.
If King Henry were willing to least say Mary was born from a marriage in good faith and therefore was a princess---allowing her to be ahead of Princess Elizabeth but behind Prince Ambrose in the line of succession---Madge would be happy for her, pleased that at least Mary got a piece of what she had lost through no fault of her own.
“Are you sure she meant me?” Mary asked, causing Madge to furrow her brow in confusion. “Your cousin. You said she spoke of me on her deathbed. Forgive me but I am having trouble believing she would waste her breath on me.” Unless it was to curse me. She added silently, keeping her expression neutral.
“Well, I only heard this secondhand, but I believe Anne said your daughters and considering you are the only other daughter King Henry has, I cannot think of anyone else she could have meant.” Madge studied Mary’s face, wondering if the mere mention of Anne’s name would upset her.
The young woman bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly as she tried to keep her emotions in check. The idea that her father had only shown her kindness because of her stepmother---the woman she blamed all her troubles on---was a harrowing feeling and the worst part was she knew it was true.
Her father had stripped her of her title, made her a servant to her half-sister and ignored her for years, only to decide to visit her the day after his concubine died. Then after arguing with her, he still allowed her to go live with her mother instead of punishing her harshly for speaking out against Anne and her children.
She had wanted to believe that he had softened and was treating her kindly because of his love for her. No. He did love her, she was sure of that, but it was only because of Anne that he was being kind to her and that thought completely shattered her heart.
Unaware of his daughter’s despair, the red-haired monarch was reclining in his chambers with the Duke of Suffolk.
“I feel old, Charles. My daughter has turned twenty-one today. I am an old man,” Henry complained as he dropped down onto his chair, a claret in one hand as he let out a heavy sigh.
“Perish the thought for if you are old than I must be ancient,” Charles remarked, shooting his friend a grin. “At least we still have our looks.” The Duke of Suffolk decided to refrain from mentioning how Henry seemed to have put on a little weight over the years. He then sobered as he remembered something. “Frances is due to make me a grandfather this year. How terrifying is that? Me: A grandfather.”
Henry sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. Out of his four children, only Hal Fitzroy was married but he had passed away last May which had been a devastating blow to his father, mother, and wife. The boy had not had a chance to become a father before he died which was even worse.
“Well, I’d hate for you to go through that alone,” Henry jested, looking pensive. “Perhaps I should start looking into marriages for Mary.”
“I’m sure she would be more than happy to begin a family of her own,” agreed Charles, looking all too pleased that his friend was thinking of his oldest daughter. The fact that he had agreed to not invite Anne Boleyn’s brats to court showed that if nothing else, he wanted her to be happy, something he had not thought of until after the whore had died, proving it was only for Anne that he was willing to treat his daughter so terribly.
“She would. I think I shall ask Cromwell to start looking into a husband for my pearl.” Henry now had a determined glint in his eyes.
“If I may, Your Majesty, the Imperial Ambassador suggested Luís of Portugal, Duke of Beja,” reminded Suffolk. “Would he not be a worthy husband for the Lady Mary?”
Luis was the younger brother of the King of Portugal, therefore making it unlikely that he would become king, something the Boleyns would have brought up. He was also the nephew of Mary’s mother and a Catholic, two factors that would Mary quite pleased even if she still hoped to become a queen.
Besides if worse came to worse and the Boleyn’s brat became King of England with no legitimate half-brothers to save England from the wrongful heir, the English people would be more accepting of Mary and her foreign husband as long as he was no threat to their independence.
Henry frowned at the mention of the Imperial ambassador, thinking of the crimes of his predecessor. Although the Holy Roman Emperor had agreed to marry his younger daughter to Prince Ambrose, the relationship between Spain and England was still strained at best. However, Portugal and England had been friends for more than a hundred years and despite being Emperor Charles’ relatives, they had never been hostile to England, smartly keeping out of such affairs.
Still, it might be more prudent to look for a husband of the reformed faith for Mary, simply to keep her away from her Spanish cousin’s plotting.
“You have given me much to think about, Charles, not bad for an old man,” Henry teased causing Charles to give him an over-the-top offended look.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you, do not say such things,” Charles laughed, clapping Henry on the back before raising his glass prompting Henry to do the same. “To our health that continues to be good despite our age.”
“And to the health of our children,” Henry agreed as they clinked their glasses before drowning the wine.
The king added a silent prayer that God would help him, and Jane conceive a Duke of York before he became a grandfather, further securing his dynasty so Ambrose would not be under the pressure he had been to have a healthy son.
Hours later, Mary sat beside her father in a chair beside his throne while Jane sat on his other side.
“How are you, daughter?” Henry asked, patting her hand. “Well?”
“I am, Father,” Mary replied, giving him a thin smile. She pushed the conversation she had with Madge to the back of her mind, not wanting to focus on her disappointment.
“Good because I have a surprise for you,” Henry told her, his eyes twinkling mischievously. He snapped his fingers at one of his grooms, signaling that it was time to bring in the surprise.
Moments later the great ornate doors of the Great Hall were opened, and Princess Elizabeth sauntered in, beaming as she held a small bundle of fur in her arms. Behind her, Prince Ambrose walked slowly, grasping a bouquet of flowers tightly in his chubby hands as he tried to keep up the pace with his older sister.
Some of the onlookers looked aghast at seeing the prince and the princess, others smug. However, Mary cared not for the political implications of her father refusing to make her birthday be just about her.
Although she knew her stepmother had good intentions, she couldn’t help but feel that by isolating Ambrose and Elizabeth from their father, she was doing the same thing Anne had done to Mary.
Not to mention while Ambrose might not realize that he was being excluded, poor Elizabeth would have and Mary had not liked the idea of her young sister being told she could not come to her sister’s birthday feast, knowing how hurt Elizabeth would have felt.
Besides, she could guess that her half-siblings had not been brought to court to be shown off but instead her father had thought it would make a nice surprise if after being told that Elizabeth and Ambrose were not coming to court to celebrate her birthday, they arrived bearing gifts.
“Happy birthday, sister,” Ambrose lisped as he presented the roses to her. He then added in an apologetic whisper: “I could find no Tudor roses.”
“You did well, my son,” Henry assured him, not wanting to hurt Ambrose’s feelings by informing him that the Tudor rose was actually not a real rose but instead a combination of the rose of the House of York and the rose of the House of Lancaster, symbolizing the unification of the once feuding houses.
“They are beautiful, Ambrose,” Mary complimented the flowers as she opened her arms for the boy to place them into. “Thank you so much. I shall make sure they are put in a vase in my chambers.”
One of her ladies stepped forward for Mary to give her the roses so she could do as her mistress instructed.
Elizabeth had been trying to hush the now awake and barking puppy in her arms. Mary was unsure how she managed to keep her dignity as she presented the puppy who was trying to lick her face.
“Happy birthday, sister,” she repeated her brother’s words but in Spanish instead of English. “Lady Seville’s dog had three puppies and I wanted all three of us to have one. Do you like him?”
Mary could not help but beam at her sister, clapping her hands in delight that Elizabeth was speaking her mother’s native tongue, a gesture that melted her heart even more than the puppy that was now in her arms.
“Oh, he is a darling boy. I think shall call him, Ajax,” she decided, kissing the top of his head. It was a bit harder for her to give him up than it had been with Ambrose’s flowers, but she knew that having a puppy in the Great Hall would be a nuisance. “Thank you so much, sister.”
She pulled her siblings into a hug and was mildly surprised when Ambrose chose to climb up onto her lap so he could hug her better.
Her father chose this moment to pick up Elizabeth so she could be on his lap.
“Joyeux son famille,” he proclaimed, gesturing to his wife and children on the dais. At his declaration, the courtiers applauded. Henry leaned over to Mary. “I take it, you liked your surprise, my pearl.”
“I did, Father, and I liked their surprises as well,” affirmed Mary, tickling Ambrose as she spoke.
“It was very sweet,” Jane agreed, smiling softly. If she was put out by the fact that her husband had not informed her of his plans beforehand or that he had not left Ambrose and Elizabeth at Hatfield instead of summoning them to court like she had suggested, she did not show it.
Henry was so wrapped up in quizzing his daughter to see how fluent she was in Danish, that he didn’t acknowledge his wife’s words with anything more than a distracted nod of his head.
Jane sighed; her brother was right. There was only one way for her to get the King’s attention away from his bastards: she needed to give birth to a son.
Her scrutiny shifted towards Prince Ambrose, wondering how he would react if she had a son. Would he view that his half-brother, who was far more legitimate than him, was an enemy and treat him as such?
The sweet innocent child looked so harmless now and perhaps he would greet any half-sibling with love and affection. But once he grew older, the Boleyn poison might change him, making him a bloodthirsty tyrant willing to destroy his own flesh and blood in order to safeguard his throne.
Despite the warmth of the room, Jane shivered.
May 3, 1537
Bad news always came in three. First there was the king deciding he would marry off his wretched older daughter. Then his daughter-in-law expressed a belief that the queen was with child and now, it seemed that two years after losing his daughter, he was to lose his wife.
She had been well when she had gone to be witness to the marriage between her half-brother and the Dowager Queen of Scotland’s daughter, Margaret but when the Duchess of Kent returned home to Hever, her health began to deteriorate to the point where she was too sick to go to the celebrations of Prince Ambrose’s second birthday.
The minute she learned of her mother’s illness, Mary had gone to Hever, thankfully leaving her husband behind to tend to their estates. Thomas guessed that she had not wanted to miss saying goodbye to her mother as she had with her sister.
Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle despite himself as he noted that his three children had given him an equal number of grandsons as they had with granddaughters with only Mary having more than two.
Each of his grandchildren represented a different time in his life.
Catherine Carey was long suspected to be the king’s illegitimate daughter as her mother’s time as King Henry’s mistress had overlapped with her marriage to Sir William Carey. Because of her mother’s dalliance with the monarch, Thomas was no longer seen as a simple ambassador or as the Duke of Norfolk’s brother-in-law, his status in the royal court was growing quickly.
She was now a girl of thirteen, blossoming quickly into womanhood. She was currently engaged to Sir Francis Knollys, a knight of little note but one who had strong Protestant convictions and was slowly gaining the king’s favor. Thomas could not help but think that in many ways his granddaughter was repeating her grandmother’s story. Hopefully, it would end happier.
Henry Carey, the Baron of Hudson was born in 1526. By the time he was born, his mother’s affair with King Henry was long over and it was his aunt who the English ruler was chasing after. In the months before his birth, his grandfather had become the Earl of Ormond and the Viscount of Rochford. Thomas had been pleased to have his first grandson but was already dreaming of next grandson one would be the next Prince of Wales. Little Hal was not yet eleven, but Thomas hoped that he would have the Boleyn ambition that both of his parents lacked. As the future king’s cousin, he would hopefully be one of Ambrose’s closet companion and friend. Although, he was just a baron, Thomas would find him a wife of good breeding.
The soon to be three-year-old Annie Stafford was the reason her mother’s secret marriage was discovered. Thomas had been furious when he learned of his eldest daughter’s foolishness. Mary was the sister of the queen; yet she had chosen to shame her family by marrying a mere solider, a man who was not even a gentleman let alone a man of nobility. Mary had been banished along with her new husband and children, disowned by all but her sister. Perhaps that was why she named her daughter Anne after the woman who despite her own anger at Mary’s action had still sent her sister money whenever she needed it.
Annie Stafford was now the daughter of a viscount and when her cousin turned six, she would be sent to Hatfield as Elizabeth’s companion. Perhaps she would accompany Elizabeth when the princess went to Denmark, and she could marry a Danish noble who take care of her for the rest of her days.
Edward Stafford was the only grandson Thomas barely knew anything about. He was born in March of last year. Although his father was now a viscount, Thomas was still reluctant to see the children of the marriage of whom he had not approved. God willing, the future Viscount of Bindon would rise above his low birth and make his family proud.
Princess Elizabeth’s birth had been a disappointment. Everyone was so sure she would be a son and it didn’t matter how clever and beautiful she was. Her birth had caused Anne and the Boleyns to begin to lose favor. As much as he loved his royal granddaughter--- and despite what many thought, he loved her just as much as he loved her brother--- Thomas knew that if she had been a boy, the English people would have accepted her over her half-sister, the French monarch would not have snubbed her and King Henry would have not started to lose his affection toward his wife.
Despite this, Thomas was fully aware that his granddaughter was a remarkable girl who would no doubt be a magnificent queen. If Anne could see her, she would be proud of her daughter.
Prince Ambrose had been his mother’s savior and it was only by a cruel twist of fate that she had died giving birth to him. He was the Boleyns' triumph and he had secured his mother’s family’s fortunes just by continuing to thrive.
Jane Seymour could birth a thousand sons, but they would not be able to live up to neither Elizabeth nor Ambrose. Through them, the Boleyns'---no. Through them, Anne’s legacy would never die.
James Boleyn, the third Viscount of Rochford would be one year old in a fortnight. The third and youngest of Thomas’ grandsons. For years, Thomas had waited for a grandson to carry his surname and while he wished George had named him after his father, Thomas was still pleased that his grandson would inherit a dukedom instead of just an earldom.
His sister's name had both pleased and saddened their family. Like her cousin, she was named after her queenly aunt but unlike Annie Stafford, no one could say the name Anne Boleyn without immediately thinking of the late Queen. While Thomas had put off looking for a bride for James (as of yet, there were no girls suitable for a future duke), he was certain that the Earl of Lincoln would be a good match for his granddaughter that is if he could convince the impossible Duke of Suffolk to look past his prejudice.
George’s children were both born a year after Anne’s death. They were a reminder of how far the Boleyns had risen and of who they lost along the way.
“Your Grace, the priest is finished performing your wife’s last rites,” the doctor announced, bringing Thomas out of his thoughts.
Thomas let out a heavy sigh as he walked to his wife’s room, his chains of office felt heavy enough to choke the life out of him.
Her chambers smelled like death and Thomas could hear his daughter weeping in another room. Elizabeth Boleyn lay on her bed, looking sickly and pale.
Was this how Anne looked? Thomas wondered as he kneeled by his wife’s side, taking her hand in his. He had not---he could not---be in the bedroom where his youngest daughter took her last breath. George already hated him, he wasn’t sure he could live with himself if Anne died, with the same blame in her eyes as she gazed at him for the last time.
“Anne,” Elizabeth breathed, her eyes fixed on a spot past her husband to the edge of the bed. “You look like an angel.”
“She is an angel,” Thomas remarked, his gaze sliding to where his wife was looking, half-hoping he could get a glimpse of his daughter.
“I’m going with her,” murmured Elizabeth.
“I know you are. I wish I were going with you. But my time on Earth is not up yet and I must make sure our grandchildren are secure before I go,” Thomas whispered, rubbing soothing circles on his wife’s hand.
“Don’t take too long, Thomas, Anne misses you greatly,” Elizabeth told him softly as her eyes fluttered shut.
When Anne died, Thomas had kept his composure, unwilling to break down and cry as his wife and children did. But at his wife’s deathbed, the Duke of Kent could not stop the tears flowing down his wrinkled cheeks.
October 12, 1537
King Henry was devastated upon learning that his mother-in-law had died. Not only had his children’s grandmother died but also the woman who had so bravely protected them from that vile murderous former groomsman of his.
He given both the Duke of Kent and the Duke of Norfolk permission to retire to Hever so they could make the funeral arrangements and execute her will. Thomas Cromwell would act as his proxy to her funeral.
Ambrose and Elizabeth were far too young to understand what death meant. However, they were still devastated by the notion of their beloved grandmother never coming back that it was a relief to be able to share good news by announcing that their stepmother would soon be giving them a younger brother.
Jane’s pregnancy had soothed the pain of losing the Duchess of Kent, at least for Henry, Elizabeth, and Ambrose. Henry was pleased at the prospect of being a father again while his children were happy to be welcoming another member to their family.
But when Jane went into labor, Henry started thinking of that fateful April when Anne had such a difficult pregnant that she had lost too much blood. Was he cursed to lose his third wife the same way?
That thought terrified Henry. Losing Anne had been painful enough but if he lost Jane too, he wasn’t sure if he could bear it.
Dorothy and Elizabeth Seymour took turns giving Henry reports of Jane’s progress and the red-haired monarch feared that they would give him the news that something had gone wrong, and he would lose either Jane or the baby or even worse both.
Finally at two o’clock in the morning, Elizabeth Seymour came out of the birth chambers, beaming proudly. She barely had time to say anything before King Henry flew past her.
“It’s a boy, Janey, you have done it!” Margaery Seymour declared, beaming at her daughter, and kissing the top of her head. She wished her husband had lived to see the birth of his royal grandson.
Jane smiled happily as she held the small bundle in her arms. Edward was a quiet baby and the queen had feared he was born dead when she had not heard a peep from him, but the midwife had assured her that aside from being remarkably quiet, he was in perfect health.
He was the image of the king and unlike his brother, there was no doubt that he was a legitimate son.
The new mother frowned for a moment when she realized that her son would be the Duke of York instead of the Prince of Wales like he should be. She once again lamented of the unfairness of her situation, unable to keep her resentful thoughts from spilling over.
Had it not been for Anne Boleyn, Queen Katherine would have died peacefully and when Henry meet Jane, he would have been a widower with no illegitimate bastards he had been deceived into thinking were his.
Her son would have been born the Prince of Wales and she would be hailed as England’s savior with even the Princess Mary accepting her son as heir, willingly shedding her title of Princess of Wales for her younger brother.
“Where is he?” Henry demanded as he bounded into the room with all the energy and excitement of a man half his age. “Where is my boy?”
“He is here, my love, our perfect boy,” professed, extending her arms so her husband could inspect the newborn prince.
The baby fussed as he was plucked from his mother’s arms, but he settled down when his father kissed his soft forehead, before wiggling his forefinger in front of the baby, smiling when he felt a small hard grasp his finger.
“His grip is strong and already he is a handsome lad,” Henry declared, grinning happily. “Now we must think of a name for our little Duke of York.”
“What about Henry?” Jane suggested, remembering how Queen Katherine of Aragon’s short-lived son had been named Henry. It would be nice to follow in that great woman’s footsteps. “It has been a long time since there was a Duke Henry of York, and he looks just like you.”
For a moment Henry wondered if she realized the implications of what she had just said but he decided that she couldn’t possibly be suggesting that their son would become King instead of his older brother.
“No, I shall not tempt fate by naming him Henry. I think he shall be named Edward after my grandfather and your brother of course. Would that please you, sweetheart?” Henry asked.
“I think Edward is wonderful name,” Jane agreed, not upset in the slightest.
Edward was a good name. The name of five English kings and perhaps one day, he would be the sixth King Edward of England.
As God had willed her to be the Queen of England, surely it was in his plan to do the same for her son. And though Edward, the destruction Anne Boleyn had caused would be undone.
Her Edward had a greater destiny than his half-brother, Jane just knew it.
Hours later, there was a great big celebration in the Great Hall. The courtiers drank and danced to the birth of the Duke of York. Although he knew the reason, George could not help but frown at how much livelier the festivities were than they had been two years ago when the new Prince Edward’s older brother was born.
“The way Thomas Seymour is acting, you’d think his dratted sister had given birth to a Prince of Wales,” George grumbled, his lip curling in disgust as watched Thomas Seymour guzzling the wine and calling out toasts to his sister and his nephew every time, he refilled his goblet.
“George, if you are going to sulk go to your chambers. The last thing I want is for His Majesty to notice,” Thomas hissed. King Henry was overjoyed to have a second son after decades with no son at all and he would take it as a personal insult if he saw that someone was disgruntled by the birth of the Duke of York.
“There is no sign of the Viscount Beauchamp,” observed George, not even acknowledging his father’s words, still glaring at the pompous Seymour brother. “I have no doubt that he is somewhere, already plotting on how to get his nephew on the throne.”
“Then stop sulking and get ready to counter what move he makes,” Thomas snapped, finally gaining his son’s attention. “I don’t have much time left; I can feel it in my bones. Two or three years at most. Soon you will be the head of the Boleyns. Soon it will be up to you to protect not only your children and Mary’s children but Anne’s children as well. It’s time to start taking things seriously, George, and get ready to defend Ambrose from his enemies.”
The earl swallowed, unnerved by the forcefulness of his father’s tone. He glanced over King Henry who was competing with Henry Howard, shooting at makeshift targets with pistols. If both his father and the monarch died before Ambrose reached maturity, it would be up to George to protect the boy king. Edward Seymour would no doubt use any mistake he made to push his own nephew as a better candidate for England’s ruler.
Suddenly filled with apprehension, George made a solemn vow, I swear to you, Anne, the son of that Seymour girl will not be able to replace your son. I will make sure of it.
As the celebrations continued below them, Mary held both of her siblings’ hand tightly as they walked down the corridors with Lady Bryan and Lady Seville following close behind.
They nearly ran into Edward Seymour on their way into the queen’s apartments. He frowned upon seeing them or more importantly frowned upon seeing Ambrose.
“Your Highnesses, I did not expect to see you here,” he greeted politely, keeping his tone measured as he bowed.
“We’re here to see our brother,” Elizabeth explained, cocking her head curiously as if she could sense that Edward was not happy to see them, but she wasn’t sure why.
“I was told the queen was well enough to have visitors,” clarified Mary, beginning to realize that her stepmother must have assumed that she was coming alone. But surely Jane would not turn away her other stepchildren.
The viscount nodded in understanding before pivoting to let them pass.
They were ushered into the queen’s bedchambers by Margery Seymour where they found Jane lying on her bed, looking over at a crib that was stationed a few feet away. No doubt that was where little Prince Edward was sleeping.
“Where is Ned? I wanna see him!” Ambrose demanded, looking quite cross that his baby brother wasn’t immediately in his line of sight.
Elizabeth looked as though she wanted to smack her little brother for causing a commotion especially when Ambrose’s shrill voice caused Edward to start crying, startled awake.
“Look what you did, you upset him!” she admonished him.
At once Ambrose’s expression turned to shame as it often did when his older sister scolded him.
“I just wanted to see him,” he defended.
Jane got out of her bed, shooing away her ladies as she picked up her son and comforted him. She glanced at Ambrose and for a second, Mary was afraid she would demand that he leave.
Thankfully, the queen went over to her three stepchildren and kneeled down so they could see Edward for themselves.
“Edward, my darling, these are your big sisters Mary and Elizabeth, and this is your big brother Ambrose,” she introduced, purposely omitting their titles.
Ambrose’ brow furrowed as he studied his younger brother, chewing his lip as though he was mulling something over.
“I like him,” he declared finally as though it was a big announcement.
“Well, I’m sure, he is very glad to know you like him,” Mary murmured, ruffling Ambrose’s hair affectionately.
“Can I hold him?” Elizabeth asked eagerly. “I’ve been practicing with my doll, so I know I won’t drop him.”
The queen looked uncertain but after a few seconds of hesitation she nodded, telling Elizabeth to support her head as she held Edward.
“He is a handsome babe,” voiced Mary.
“Just like his father,” Jane agreed, her eyes glowing with affection and love towards her son.
However, it did not escape Mary’s notice that her stepmother’s eyes darted towards Ambrose when she said that or that she seemed weary of Ambrose touching Edward. Not to mention, it seemed like she was ready to tear Edward out of Elizabeth’s arms at any moment.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Anne Boleyn was weary of her being around Elizabeth. The thought that Anne might have feared she would harm her half-sister was infuriating enough. Consequentially, it bothered her that Jane might have the same reservations towards the two toddlers who saw Edward as a playmate.
Notes:
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Chapter 6: The Pilgrimage of Grace
Summary:
Thomas Percy starts a rebellion, but soon finds that it is much harder to do when it is splintered two ways.
Notes:
I felt like I was moving too fast and I wanted to slow it down a bit. I also felt like I might made a big time jump a little too soon and I should focus on the cracks of the marriage between Jane and Henry, not to mention the rivialry between George and Charles.
I actually was planning on rewriting the whole thing, but then I realized I should just add a new bit in the first chapter and then add two new chapters.
After the next chapter we will go back to regular updates. Thank you for putting up with me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
December 9, 1537
His brother’s death had not come as much of a surprise. Henry Percy, 6th Earl of Northumberland, had been ailing for the past two years before finally dying in the late summer. He died of heartbreak, still obsessed with the false queen of England, the whore, Anne Boleyn, morning her death just as much as King Henry and her horrid relatives did. If it was not bad enough that because of Hal’s infatuation with the Great Prostitute he had refused to sire an heir with his bride Mary Talbot, his falling out with the other members of his family had convinced him to leave his title and his estates to the crown instead of his younger brother as was right and proper.
Sir Thomas Percy had been furious when he learned that he had gotten nothing from his deceased brother and to his mind, there was only one person to blame for his misfortune: that thrice damned whore who had poisoned Henry Percy even from beyond the grave.
He was not her only victim. Anne Boleyn’s evil had seeped throughout England as King Henry was determined to destroy the truth faith as a tribute to his dead concubine, propping up her bastard and her wretched relatives. The younger Percy knew he was not the only one who was fed up with the way England was heading, the monasteries were being eradicated and looted by the men employed by the heretic Cromwell and the black-hearted bastard Boleyn.
It seemed that no one was willing to stand up against the king’s treacherous advisors and so the people of England must act now if they wanted to save their souls along with the soul of their monarch.
Luckily, on the heels of the birth of the Duke of York, he had found men willing to take a stand against those wicked councilors who fed the red-haired monarch nothing but lies in hopes of making the witch’s bastard king.
Soon Thomas Percy would have enough men to march on London to force King Henry to replace his heretical advisors with good Catholics. Not even the stubborn ruler could prevent God’s will.
“Those malevolent vagrants don’t just want to destroy the noble institutions of God, but they also are also burning holy relics, a monstrous action if there ever was one,” Thomas Darcy exclaimed, making the cross sign as he spoke. “We must put an end to this before it is too late.”
“We must act for Cromwell and Boleyn have been whispering in His Majesty’s ear to marry his daughter to a heretic in Germany in order to make an alliance with the Schmalkaldic League and she is the only one who can succeed her father,” added John Hussey.
“Why her? We have a true born prince in the nursery, and it is rumored that his mother is Catholic,” Thomas Percy noted.
“But her brother is Lutheran,” countered the baron. “Between Edward Seymour and King Henry, I have no doubt the Duke of York will follow in his father’s footsteps. No, the Princess Mary is a far better choice.”
“Gentlemen, we are losing sight of what is truly important, the dissolution of the monasteries and the removal of men like Cromwell, Boleyn and Cranmer must be dealt with first,” Robert Aske spoke up. “A group of men have already turned away the black rook’s commissioners who looked to close Saint James’ church and I guarantee more shall follow our cause. But I advise cation when it comes to the English succession. Prince Ambrose might be a bastard according to secular law, but he is beloved by the people of England, and I do not think they will follow men who seek to displace him even for his brother.”
“Bah, you speak nonsense. Anne Boleyn was no true queen; everyone knows that and her brat is nothing more than a jumped up bastard even if he is the King’s son and I wouldn’t put it past the slut to have a lover,” Thomas Percy growled, thinking of how his sister-in-law claimed that Anne and Hal Percy had married secretly causing both her marriage and the royal marriage to be bigamy. “The English people will want Prince Edward on the throne of England not his half-brother.”
“If we cannot agree amongst ourselves who should succeed King Henry, then Master Aske has the right of it,” quipped Darcey. “We must make this solely about religion least it causes our pilgrimage to split off into fractions, destroying ourselves from the inside out before the monarch can even call for our heads. Remember, gentlemen, united we stand, but divided we fall.”
December 14, 1537
King Henry strode into his wife’s rooms, a great big smile on his face as he held something behind his back.
Queen Jane had just recently been churched, her body had not lost all her pregnancy pounds, but she still looked as pretty as she did when Henry first met her.
An angel in blue, he thought as his eyes roamed over her shapely figure. She was glowing, her hair in a perfect bun and her blue eyes twinkling.
“Husband,” Jane greeted him sweetly, unable to curtsy for fear she might jostle the babe in her arms.
Henry’s eyes lit up when he saw his son. He used his free hand to move the fabric partly covering Edward’s face, studying his features. The Duke of York peered up at him, grabbing his finger with his chubby hand.
“What a grip! He will be a warrior for sure,” Henry declared, laying a kiss on Edward’s forehead. “You have done so well, my love. I am so proud of you.”
Jane beamed at him, her cheeks becoming pink at his praise before she glanced down lovingly at her son. “I never thought I could love someone as much as I love our son.”
“He is our special boy, sweetheart, and I promise he shall get the best of everything,” affirmed her husband, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek.
Prince Edward began to fuss, and Jane had to hand him to his nursemaid so she could take him to the nursery for his feeding and then for a nap.
Henry waved a hand to dismiss Jane’s ladies before leading his wife to her bed and presenting her with a diamond studded necklace.
“It is beautiful,” Jane breathed as she turned so her husband could put it on her.
“I think it is the perfect gift for a woman who has given me a second son,” Henry gushed as he took her hand in his and kissed it, missing the slight grimace that appeared on Jane’s face when he reminded her that her son was not the heir, but the spare.
It was so unjust. Edward would always be one step behind his brother. It should not be that way. Everyone knew that Ambrose was a bastard while Edward had come from a true marriage, made only after the sainted Queen Katherine died. It was Edward who should have been the Prince of Wales. Instead, he was the Duke of York, and he would always be second in everything including his father’s esteem.
For all of Henry’s sweet words, he constantly compared Ambrose with Edward, noting their differences and similarities, loudly proclaiming that he now had two sons, one who would continue his legacy and the other would keep it safe. For all his happiness at having a second son, it could not be any clearer that out of the two boys, he favored his firstborn even though all of Europe knew Ambrose was illegitimate.
Edward was not the only child of the monarch who was displaced for a bastard. While it was true that Mary’s situation had improved after the whore died---proving once and for all that it was only for Anne that Henry treated his daughter so terribly--- she still was falsely labeled a bastard, while her half-sister was hailed as Princess Royal, a title reserved for the oldest true born daughter of King Henry--- another title stolen from Mary. Poor Mary and Edward were doomed to be in the shadows of their half-siblings, pushed to the side for unworthy bastards just as Queen Katherine was forsaken for Lady Anne Boleyn.
Oh, if only the ship carrying the harlot from France to England had sunk, leaving everybody better off. Then the Great Matter wouldn’t have happened, Queen Katherine would have died and be buried with all the respect she deserved. Then Henry would have met Jane and when Edward was born, he would be the undisputed Prince Edward of Wales, with Princess Mary having a dynastic match, one that befitted her status as princess.
Jane sighed; she should not be letting herself become so distraught by things she could not change. Edward was healthy and strong. As for Mary, well at least with a second son, perhaps Henry would be willing to listen to reason.
“My love, may I ask you for something?”
“Anything, Jane, just name it,” Henry avowed.
“I was thinking that perhaps Mary should be reinstated as a princess again. It would make an Imperial alliance much easier to negotiate,” entreated the queen, knowing that her husband was hoping to marry Ambrose to the Princess Joanna.
Although Jane was disgusted that Anne Boleyn’s son would get to marry Queen Katherine’s great-niece---and she was horrified that Emperor Charles would even consider such a match--- she knew that they needed better relations with the Holy Roman Empire.
She also knew that Emperor Charles would be much more agreeable if his cousin was restored to line of succession even if she was put behind Ambrose and Edward. Not to mention it would mean that Mary’s would be a much more attractive bride for the various princes and dukes of Europe.
Henry frowned, his eye narrowing. “I was unaware that I needed the emperor’s approval.” His tone was clipped. “I am not a dog looking to please my master by obeying his commands.”
Jane’s face fell. “Of course not, husband, I was not implying---” she began.
“No, you, weren’t,” Henry agreed with a sigh, patting her hand. “Forgive me, Jane, but I do not think it would be wise to add Mary back into the line of succession not when there are wrongminded people looking to displace Ambrose with her.”
“I understand, Your Majesty. Forgive me, if I have offended you,” apologized his wife, trying not to sound disappointed as she averted her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder if anyone tried to push for Edward to be Prince of Wales over Ambrose, would King Henry disinherit their son just to protect Anne Boleyn’s bastard?
“There is nothing to forgive, sweetheart.” The monarch drew his wife into his arms. “You have a tender heart, Jane, and I know that you have the best intentions. However, it is better to leave the greater things in my care.”
Jane snuggled up to him, gazing lovingly at him through her eyelashes. “I know, Your Majesty, has everything well in hand. I am merely a mother who wants the best for all her children.”
“It warms my heart to know you see Ambrose, Mary and Elizabeth as your children,” remarked Henry, approvingly. “This is why I married you, Jane, I knew that you would make a wonderful mother to my children.”
Although the queen knew her husband had meant that as a compliment, his words broke her heart. He didn’t marry her because he loved her, but because he needed a mother for his children and broodmare to birth a spare for his dynasty. When he first was courting her, Jane had thought she had won his heart; it wasn’t until their wedding night did she realize that she was wrong.
After they had consummated their marriage, Henry had whispered sweet nothings in her ears until she fell asleep, basking in the love the red-haired-monarch had for her, still barely able to believe that this was real.
Then Jane had woken up to him screaming her name in his sleep, begging her to come back to him, promising that he would change, swearing that he would never do anything to hurt her again if she just would come back to him and their children.
It was then that Jane realized that there would always be a third person in their marriage. Despite never having met the woman, Anne had become Jane’s rival, a malevolent spirit who never let her have a moment’s peace.
Anne Boleyn must have cast a powerful spell on King Henry to keep him so enamored of her even after his death.
Jane was almost relived when a page came and Henry had to leave for an emergency council meeting, waiting a few minutes before she collapsed on a pillow, sobbing, and cursing the witch’s name, for stealing her husband, barring her son from his rightful place as heir.
Without even knowing her, Anne Boleyn had ruined her life.
King Henry had a slight bounce to his step as he walked to where the privy council had convened. His good mood was dampened when he saw how serious his advisors looked.
“What happened?” he demanded, trying to gage from their expressions what the bad news was. He knew that there had been an uprising in Lincolnshire, but he had sent the Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond to suppress those who dared ignore his will.
“It seems that Lincolnshire uprising has inspired others to take up the cause,” Audley reported, a slight quiver in his voice “They are calling their rebellion the Pilgrimage of Grace. They are hoping to overturn the religious policies, returning England to the Flock of Rome, and are calling for the removal of all who would oppose it.”
“Such as their king,” Henry growled, his hands clenched into fists. His eyes then narrowed, knowing full well what else those traitors wanted. “Have they made any demands for the removal of Prince Ambrose as my heir?”
He wasn’t a fool, he knew that even after Anne’s death, there were some people who still thought of her children as bastards. He doubted it was coincidence this uprising was happening two months after the Duke of York’s birth.
Cromwell grimaced, knowing how unwelcome this news would be. “From the intelligence I could gather, the rebels are conflicted over demanding that the Lady Mary be your heir, Prince Edward supplant his brother or just focusing their cause on religion. It should be noted that this divide has convinced more than a few people to abandon their uprising.”
“Your Majesty, may I make a suggestion,” Thomas Boleyn spoke up, his eyes glinting vindictively. He paused until Henry nodded his assent. “Let us announce that those who accept Ambrose as the Prince of Wales will be pardoned and they will be listened to if they put down their arms and desert those who wish to upheaval England by challenging my grandson’s claim to the throne.”
“You wish for me to negotiate with traitors,” Henry repeated incredulously, more out of confusion than anger. After all, it was clear that the Duke of Kent was one of the men these so-called pilgrims were hoping to remove from the seats of government.
“Of course not, Sire, but this rebellion can be over quicker if we divide and conqueror,” the older man informed him with a wry smirk.
“His Grace speaks truthfully. The majority of your subjects love the Prince of Wales and will refuse to let him be called illegitimate,” agreed Cromwell, a thoughtful look on his face. “If they think they can barter, they will turn against those who refuse, believing that their cause will not be won without the disinheritance of Prince Ambrose and Princesses Elizabeth.”
He did not say Anne’s children and yet those two words echo in Henry’s ears as if he had.
Ambrose and Elizabeth were all he had left of his wife, his love, the woman had fought so hard to be with and the one he should have spent the rest of his life with if it weren’t for the cruelties of fate.
He could not let these men, these traitors ruin Anne’s legacy, destroy her memory, all the work she had done to see the English church was reformed. Henry had once vowed to protect her legacy and he was not about to fail her.
Never again would he fail her.
“Let it be done, but mark me, my lords, I want all of their heads on spikes,” the red-haired monarch snarled.
December 21, 1537
The Duke of Suffolk rode rather stiffly on his horse, silently fuming in the saddle.
He had just returned to his estates after quashing the Lincolnshire uprising only to be summoned back to court less than a fortnight later, being told that he was to lead his forces north where the leaders of the Pilgrimage of Grace, the ones who were not making their way to London in hopes of getting pardons, were inciting their men to fight for either Princess Mary or baby Prince Edward.
This whole thing rankled him. The devil Boleyn had suggested dividing the rebels up, ensuring that those who wanted to petition the king, even if they did not go to London, would be separated from their allies, allowing the forces of Norfolk and Kent to slaughter them the minute they were found. The English ruler had no intention of agreeing to anything and had made false promises to trap honorable men whose crimes were only to see the great calamity Anne Boleyn wrought to be undone.
In Brandon’s humble opinion, none of the men of the Pilgrimage of Grace were guilty of anything, although he understood that they should not be taking up arms against their monarch, it was clear they only wanted what was just.
With the Boleyns gone, heresy stamped out and Edward being raised the right way, Charles was certain that all of this bloodshed would be avoided. Instead, King Henry was determined not see sense and he continued to push Cromwell and Boleyn’s heretical agenda down the throats of his subjects, brainwashing them into believing that Ambrose and Elizabeth were true born royalty.
It was madness. Complete and utter madness.
“Of all the months for those traitors to choose to rebel, it had to be in the dead of winter. But then again, I suppose they are made of ice and therefore do not feel the cold,” proclaimed George Boleyn, causing Charles to shudder with hatred for the devil’s son and the whore’s brother. “If they are smart, they will surrender once they see us. And then we can all get out of this bloody cold.”
“Perhaps we can stop at an inn and find a serving wrench to warm you up,” Francis Bryan called from his spot next to the Seymour brothers.
“My wife would not like that, but then again she is a shrew and I care not a whit for her opinion,” George laughed loudly, shooting a smirk behind him.
Charles grounded his teeth, wondering why King Henry kept pairing him with George. Did his old friend not trust him and therefore thought he needed to be watched over like he was a child? It was not only frustrating that Henry seemed to have more faith in that foolish Earl, but he also could not protest least that brought the monarch’s ire on his head.
He hated Thomas Boleyn, but at least he was not as aggravating as his son who seemed to delight at being boorish and flippant.
God’s teeth, why what he wouldn’t give to strike that man down. One day, he would find a way to bring about the Boleyns’ downfall and when they died, he would relish in their defeats, perhaps punching George’s smugness right off his face. But for now, he was forced to ride beside the other man, listen to him prattle on about the folly of the rebels.
Soon they arrived near the edge of Cumbria where Sir Thomas Percy, Baron Darcey and Sir Robert Constable were in front of their own army, a mixture of soldiers and peasants.
As the highest ranked peer, it fell to the Duke of Suffolk to make the first move, promising a fair trial if they would surrender. However, before he could do anything, the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond rode forward.
He shouted with the air of an outraged knight. “My sister, the sainted Queen Anne Boleyn died to give England the prince we sorely needed, and you dare conspire against the Prince of Wales not to mention your beloved king!”
“Bah, there is only one true heir, and it is neither of the bastards that fell from the bitch’s womb. My only regret is that she wasn’t burnt for her crimes,” spat Thomas Percy.
“Then you will die a traitor,” declared George, his fury no longer feigned. “For King Henry calls for justice for such an act of betrayal. All those who want to return to their homes alive with their family unburdened by being related to traitors, flee now and we shall not hunt you down.”
To Charles’ surprise, some of the men did exactly that, perhaps frightened by the size of their enemy’s army and deciding they’d rather live than see justice be done. If the leaders had noticed the deserters, they did nothing to stop them and instead ordered those who stayed to attack in the name of the true heir---although, they didn't say in whose name they were fighting.
Fueled by his hatred of the Boleyns, Suffolk spurred his horse forward, ready to fight his way out of this, determined to live so he could tell King Henry just how much of a hothead George Boleyn had acted, riling the rebels up so they wouldn’t surrender, just to take his revenge on those who dared insult his damned sister.
Meanwhile in London, Robert Aske and Sir Francis Bigod were brought before King Henry in a public audience.
The red-haired monarch scowled at the men who were kneeling before him. “Before I let you speak, may I ask why is it you think you can make demands of your sovereign? Am I not owed your loyalty? Is my word not law?” he demanded in a harsh voice. “Why do you think you can go against me, betray me so utterly?”
“Majesty, I swear on my conscience that it was never our intention to betray you. We merely wish to protect England from those who seek to destroy our fair country,” replied Robert Aske, his voice trembling only a little. “We have no argument your decision to make Prince Ambrose your heir as it is English law that you can pick your own heir. However, we fear that those who encourage you to close down monasteries are misleading you so they may fill their own coffers.”
Had Henry not possessed an ounce of decorum, he would have snorted. Most of the money they made from selling the church land or the so-called holy relics were put in the royal treasury and yet Aske did not accuse him of being a thief.
He opened his mouth to call the other man out for it, only to snap it shut as a thought occurred to him.
What would Anne say? Knowing his wife as he did, knowing her fierce temper, she would accuse him---or perhaps Cromwell--- of using reform for momentary gain. She had often said that she wished the religious house that were hotbeds of corruption and sin, were turned into charitable or educational institutions.
Jane had begged him to spare these men who were acting out of ignorance. Anne would have asked him to spare them simply because she sympathized or perhaps even agreed with them. The fact that at least these men were not against her son being the future ruler of England would endear them to her even more.
With that thought in mind, Henry signaled for a page to come over.
“Tell Norfolk and Kent to let them go free,” he commanded before turning to Robert Aske and his companion. “I have decided to pardon you and those who think like you for I know that my wife, the late Queen Anne, would have wanted me to do so. She would have understood your plight and although I do not agree that my men’s actions were cause for rebellion, I shall investigate your complaints and make sure that the religious houses that have been of a great comfort to the people who needed them most are protected. But mark my words if you flaunt my mercy and rise up against me again, not even my beloved queen’s spirit descending down from Heaven will save you.”
“Your Majesty is most gracious,” Master Aske proclaimed without a hint of disappointment. Instead, if anything he seemed relived, perhaps realizing that it could have been much worse.
Besides Henry, Queen Jane was aghast. Although she was happy that Henry was not going back on his word that he would not kill the brave men who came before him, hoping for compromise---proving that Anne’s poison had not completely warped her husband into a monster--- it infuriated her that he had named Anne Boleyn as the reason why he was being merciful.
She had pleaded for him to spare the rebels, begged him on her hands and knees and all she got was Henry’s sharp reminder not to meddle in his affairs, telling her that he could not let this insult go unanswered.
Jane felt like bursting into tears, although she kept a serene smile on her face. She sat beside Henry, she wore the queen’s crown and she had just birthed his son and yet it was Anne, Anne, Anne, and nothing else.
Notes:
Yeah, I don't see the Pilgrimage of Grave being nearly as successful with Henry, being all mopy about Anne and more focused on making her changes before the dissolution of the monasteries really kicked into high gear.
Chapter 7: Innocence of Childhood
Summary:
Charles Barandon's hatred for the Boleyns intensifies. Thomas Boleyn gets fed up with George's uncaring behavior and decides to make a point quite strongly. Mary's future is about to change while Henry begins to suspect that someone close to him is not what they seem.
Notes:
Last time, guys I swear. Regular updates returns next time. Once again thank you for putting up with me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 3, 1538
Christmastide ended in a bloodbath. King Henry had pardoned those who followed Robert Aske and Sir Francis Bigod, making empty promises to look into the matter of monasteries, threatening them what would happen if they chose to rise again. However, the men who followed Lord Percy, Lord Darcy and Sir Constable were slaughtered like lambs for dinner.
The red-haired monarch wanted to make a statement that all those who dared to claim his heir was anyone other than Ambrose would face his wrath. In fact, his response to the Duke of Suffolk’s tale of how the Earl of Ormond had provoked the clash between them and the rebels was to praise George Boleyn, stating he would have acted the same way, making it clear that the insults against Anne and her children would not be tolerated.
Oh, smugness was almost rolling off George Boleyn like storm clouds arriving to ruin everyone’s sunny day.
“One day, one day, he will go too far, and I will destroy him,” Charles growled, punching the wall in frustration, taking advantage of being in his own rooms to vent his anger at the Boleyns.
“How? As long as King Henry continues to favor his concubine and her son, there is nothing the Boleyns could do to anger him,” Catherine pointed out, wringing her hands as she glanced at the door, fearing that their sons would be awoken by the commotion and might overhear what their father was saying. God, forbid they repeat in the presence of unfriendly ears. She wouldn’t put it past the temperamental monarch to lock them all up in the Tower of London for daring to speak the truth.
“I understand that, but there is a part of me that cannot stand to see them continue to grow more powerful especially when I know it will doom England,” Charles ranted, grinding his teeth together as he glowered. “George Boleyn’s actions have proved that all they care about taking bloody vengeance on those who slight the long dead whore. Not to mention killing those who would protest against the Boleyn bastard being hailed a true prince of blood. How long before Princess Mary is poisoned? Or Prince Edward and Queen Jane?”
“Surely they would not be so stupid to try a thing like that, not when they would be the most obvious suspects,” protested Catherine, pressing her hand to her heart, shuddering at the thought of Princess Mary, little Prince Edward and the kind Queen Jane being murdered just to prevent them from getting in the way of Anne Boleyn’s children.
“Who knows what lies in their twisted hearts? I just pray that Queen Jane can protect Prince Edward and Princess Mary from the evil of the Boleyns,” Charles muttered darkly. The Boleyns faction was growing more stronger by the day, and he feared that those who supported the Duke of York had not have enough power to counter.
Catherine let out a heavy sigh as she thought about Queen Jane. The poor woman was trying so hard to do right by her new family and her subjects, but she often found her efforts stymied by the king’s continued obsession with Anne Boleyn.
The Duchess of Suffolk knew how it felt to be in the shadow of a dead woman. Although, she had no bad words to say about Charles’ late wife, she often felt that she would always come in second in her husband’s heart compared to the Dowager Queen of France, Mary Tudor as she and Charles had pined for each other for a long time before deciding to elope. It was a love story the bards would sing about.
However, the difference was Mary was someone worthy of being respected and loved. Anne was not; she deserved to be burned at the stake for her crimes, her body buried in an unmarked grave on Tower Hill, and to be hated and scorned long after her death.
It is so unjust, Catherine lamented. “Katherine of Aragon should have died and been buried as the queen she always was, and her successor’s son should be the Prince of Wales. If it were not for Anne Boleyn, all would be well, instead of us being forced to put with her little bastards getting in the way of the true heirs and she be lauded as a martyr.
“If only there was a way to fix this,” she murmured, as she clasped her hands together, praying for souls of the newest victims of Anne Boleyn’s evil.
“If only.” The Duke of Suffolk paid little heed to his wife, getting lost in his brooding. He needed to find a way to take the Boleyns done before it was too late.
Lady Mary walked with her head held high as she made her way through the corridors to her father’s study. She could hear the courtiers whispering about what a lovely lady she was becoming, almost a woman of twenty-two.
She had lovely hazel eyes and her red-gold hair seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. She was of age to marry; she had been for some time.
Shortly before Christmastide, her father mentioned he was looking into grooms for her, something that had thrilled Mary to no end. Although, she knew that her current status---whether she was truly a bastard or not---would make her ineligible for a match with a prince she was certain that her father would find her a match worthy of the royal blood that flowed in her veins.
As long as he is Catholic and noble, I shall not be upset, Mary professed. For I long to be a wife and a mother if I cannot be queen.
After Edward’s birth, Mary knew her mother’s dreams of her succeeding to throne of England were truly dead. God would not bless her father with two sons if He wanted her to rule.
As much as it hurt, the former princess had been determined to accept it, consoling herself with that fact that even if Anne hadn’t arrived on the scene and her mother died, her father would have remarried, and she would have had to accept that a son of her stepmother was the next heir regardless of what she had wanted.
She prayed that God had a plan for her like He did her half-siblings.
“Lady Mary Tudor,” the herald announced as Mary entered the royal chambers.
Her father looked up just as she sank into a curtsy. The monarch went to her, lifting her up before embracing her.
“Oh, my pearl, my sweet pearl, are you the most beautiful girl in the world?” Henry asked playfully, sending Mary into a fit of nostalgia, remembering how they used to play that game when she was younger before Anne, before Elizabeth.
“I don’t know, Papa,” she replied, trying not to sound bitter. Her father had forsaken her repeatedly and yet he tried to act as if those years did not matter, the cruelties he had heaped on her could be forgotten now that they had reconciled. That they could go back to a time where she had been the pearl of his world.
Of course, in his fantasy, I am there, but Mama is not, she realized. He likes to forget that he was ever married to her, pretending it was always Anne even at the time she was far too young to catch his eyes.
Thankfully, Mary was able to keep a smile on her face and her father didn’t seem to notice her inner turmoil as he laughed merrily.
“Yes, you are, my precocious pearl and every man in Europe knows it,” Henry proclaimed as he practically pranced back to the paper covered table he had been standing in front of when she came in, picking up a few and waving them about. “I had Cromwell searching among the German Dukes for a husband for you a few months ago and already I have four men vying for your hand.”
Mary giggled at her father’s almost giddy behavior as he read the names of the German Princes who wanted her as a wife for either themselves or their sons. However, her heart sank as she recognized the names her father read out were either members of or related to members of the Schmalkaldic League, Lutherans who were enemies of her cousin and the Catholic Church.
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering her mother’s words to her when they discussed the topic of marriage a few years ago. She couldn’t quite recollect what had led up to this, but she could recall what her mother said as if Katherine of Aragon was in the room with her, holding her hand and whispering in her ear.
“With his mother dead, your father will go extra lengths to protect his son. I have no doubt that he will not take the chance of marrying you to even a Catholic Duke. Once I hoped to see you marry a prince, now all I can hope for is that he shall love you and make you happy. If he does that, I shall deem him worthy of you, mi hija.”
Mary opened her eyes and swallowed a lump in her throat. Her mother had fought for her rights for a long time, only giving up when it became clear that Mary’s life was in danger.
She wanted Mary to stay in King Henry’s good graces, even if that meant dishonoring herself. The former Princess of Wales would not do any less. No matter what her true feelings were on her future husband, she would accept the man her father picked out for her.
“I am sure that whoever you pick for me, Father, will be a splendid choice,” Mary proclaimed, realizing too late, she might just have cut her father off.
Thankfully, the red-haired monarch seemed to be in too good of a mood to be annoyed at his daughter or even if he was, her words pleased him too much to scold her.
He put the papers down and walked over to her, placing each of his hands on her shoulders and placing a tender kiss on her forehead. “Do not worry, Mary, I shall find you a grand husband. Just leave it to me,” he told her kindly.
“Of course, Father, I trust your judgement completely,” Mary affirmed, even though the twisting of her gut said otherwise.
She still loved her father, and she always would love him. However, trust was another thing entirely and she was not sure she could trust anyone least of all her father.
Hatfield House was a grand manor. The courtyard was filled with roses bushes, red and white, with a charming fountain at its center.
But its beauty was not the true reason why George was happy to be here as he gazed out the window, a smile tugging at his lips. No. It was the sight of the children playing that filled him with joy and a sense of melancholy as he was often thrust into those innocent days of his childhood.
“George,” a voice behind him snapped.
The earl scowled, but he did not turn around. “Decided to come and nag me in person.”
“Well, my letters don’t seem to have any effect on you, foolish boy,” Thomas Boleyn shot back, clearly irritated. His boots thudded loudly on the wooden floor as he joined his son at the window, glaring at him.
“I am on my way to Ireland, Father, I just wanted to make a quick detour,” George told him gruffly, not tearing his eyes away from Anne’s children.
Elizabeth and Ambrose had been delighted when he made an unannounced visit. Lady Bryan less so, but she didn’t dare to say a word.
“King Henry has entrusted you with the post of Lord Deputy and I would expect you to take your duties seriously instead of handing your responsibilities to another while you galivant about,” Thomas sneered, his words dripping with disdain. “People already see you as a hotheaded, pompous, arrogant fool. I would prefer that you didn’t continue to prove them right.”
George rolled his eyes. As if they hadn’t always thought of him like that. The Duke of Suffolk especially hated him. The older man acted like a child, eager to tattletale to the teacher of his rival’s wrongdoings, only to become sulky when the teacher praised his rival instead.
He just like everyone else, was only jealous of the favor King Henry would shower the Boleyns. They would sprout spiteful insults while wishing they were in George’s place. Hypocrites, the lot of them.
“Bah. Why does it matter what they think of me, Father? King Henry---” George began to say.
Quick as lighting, Thomas Boleyn grabbed the back of his son’s head and slammed his face into in the window with such force, it was a surprise that George’s nose didn't break upon impact.
Shocked by his father’s sudden violence, it took a few minutes for the Earl of Ormond to try and wiggle free. However, despite his age, the Duke of Kent managed to keep his hold, not letting him escape his iron grip.
“It matters because of them!” Thomas hissed, jabbing the finger on his free hand at his grandchildren. “Look at them, George, look at them! Look at their perfect smiles on their perfect faces. One wrong step from you and they will disappear in an instance! When I die, the king will name you as Lord Protector. Should you not be careful, every single person you have ever crossed will work tirelessly to bring you down. Then what will happen to Anne’s children? Elizabeth will either be married to a minor noble if she is not sent to a nunnery. As for Ambrose, he will die from poison as his half-brother sits on the throne. Everything we built will be destroyed and the Boleyn legacy that your sister died to create will vanish.” The old duke’s chest heaved with exertion as he finished his passionate speech. He then dropped his hands and took a step back, allowing George freedom of movement.
George rubbed his face, massaging his cheek which was now red from being pressed up against the window. “All right, Father, you have made your point, quite forcefully might I add,” he groused.
“Well nagging you was clearly not going to have much of an effect so I thought a different method might get me the desired result,” his father quipped, a note of amusement in his voice.
“What result is that? I don’t think me being in Ireland is going to make much of a difference as far as our enemies are concerned,” noted the earl as he smoothed his ruffled doublet.
“I want you to take everything seriously, George, whether they matter in the long run or not,” answered his father. “As his Lord Protector, Ambrose will look to you for advice and guidance. It would serve England better if your advice isn’t: give the job to someone else.”
“Technically that is what kings do,” George stated, ducking when his father sent him a murderous look. “All right, fine. But don’t expect me to do things your way.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Thomas drawled sarcastically before turning and walking out, leaving George alone with his thoughts.
The way Father acts, you would think I am the last Boleyn standing, the head of the household, responsible for everyone, he mused.
To the dark-haired man’s surprise, his father appeared in the courtyard minutes later, kneeling down so Elizabeth and Ambrose could run into his outstretched arms.
It was only then, did George note the grey of his father’s beard and the thousands of wrinkles on his face and hands, making him look ancient. A shiver went down his spine as he remembered his father’s words at the feast celebrating the birth of the Duke of York.
“I don’t have much time left; I can feel it in my bones. Two or three years at most. Soon you will be the head of the Boleyns. Soon it will be up to you to protect not only your children and Mary’s children but Anne’s children as well. It’s time to start taking things seriously, George, and get ready to defend Ambrose from his enemies.”
As much as George loathed to admit it, Thomas had a point. It was time to stop acting as though he was untouchable, relishing his power over those who dared insult his sister, and time to start making sure that the Boleyn luck didn’t run out.
February 12, 1538
Edward, Duke of York was now five months old, his blondish hair growing darker and his blue eyes sparkling as he sucked on his fingers.
Henry nearly wept at the sight on him in his mother’s arms. “Oh Jane, you have created such a handsome boy,” he murmured, stroking the toddler’s cheek before greeting Mary who had joined Jane for their midafternoon meal.
“Your Majesty gives me far too much credit, for he is your son in every way,” Jane gushed, as she kissed the top of her son’s head, before smoothing out his hair.
“Where are Ambrose and Elizabeth? Did they eat already?” wondered Henry. After all, Edward was still being fed by a nursemaid so it made sense that he would be brought to his mother’s chambers after he had his meal.
“No, Your Majesty, I just thought they would rather eat in the nursery,” Jane explained.
Had either of them being looking at Mary, they would have seen her eyes narrow suspiciously at her stepmother, before shaking her head as though she had dismissed whatever thought that had run through her mind.
“Nonsense. They should be having their meal with the rest of their family,” Henry told her with a laugh. Jane can be so silly at times, thinking that something so trivial would matter to my children. I am certain Ambrose and Elizabeth would not care as long as they get to spend time with their favorite father.
He then turned to Jane Boleyn, commanding her to fetch the Prince of Wales and his sister. When he turned back, he noticed that his wife looked a bit displeased. “Is something amiss, my love?” he asked, looking quizzically at her. Surely, she wanted her stepchildren to join them.
“Nothing at all, my lord, I was merely worried that we might disturbing their afternoon nap and they might be cranky,” Jane explained, fidgeting slightly in her chair, her eyes lowered to the floor. “But I am sure I am worrying needlessly.”
“It is sweet that you are concerned for their comfort, Jane, but I am certain that they will be fine.” Henry was puzzled by his wife’s statement.
The blonde woman seemed to be making excuses to leave Elizabeth and Ambrose out of the private family gathering, almost as though she didn’t want them there.
But no, that couldn’t be. Jane is a sweet woman who has cared for my children as much as she cares for our son, he reminded himself. She has extended her hand in friendship to Mary, so caring and loving to her, speaking about her often, spending much time with her. As for Ambrose and Elizabeth, she…
Henry’s brow knitted together as he racked his brain for any sweet gestures Jane had shown her younger stepchildren. It wasn’t that she did not treat them kindly or courteously, but he couldn’t remember the last time when she spoke of them without Henry broaching the subject first and when they went to Hatfield, it was always Edward she wanted to see.
Of course, he could not fault her for being charmed by their boy, but he had hoped she would put more of an effort forming a connection with his half-siblings.
The red-haired monarch was broken out of his musing by Ambrose and Elizabeth being announced and ushered into the queen’s apartments. As they took a seat on either side of him, Henry soon forgot about Jane’s strange behavior and focused on talking about the subjects of birthdays.
Or at least he tried to, but that nagging thought would not escape him, and it left him quite discomforted.
October 31, 1538
Germany
His cousin was up to something. Granted, Philip didn’t know William that well to really know that for sure. But why else would he send Philip to England to meet with a potential bride unless he was up to something.
William, future Duke of Cleves, had offered him money if he traveled to England and acted as his envoy, allowing him to get to know the Lady Mary, make sure the rumors of her being a pyromaniac delusional madwoman were simply slander.
“Who calls her that?” questioned Anna of Cleves, sounding scandalized that anyone would say that about a woman that until Prince Ambrose’ birth even Lutherans were calling the true heir of England.
She and Philip were walking around the leaf covered ground, making the lawn look as though it had a spotted coat of red and brown. Anna had wanted Philip to give the Lady Mary her letter, hoping to start up some correspondence with her.
“Well, no one. But why else would your brother want me to go unless he wants me to make sure that she isn’t so fervently Catholic that she spends countless nights, scolding him for turning away from the true faith,” Philip speculated.
“I think you maybe judging her a little too quickly,” Anna scolded him gently, a reproachful frown on her visage. Then her expression morphed into a sympathetic one. “Poor girl has been through much and I wouldn’t blame her if she clings to religion like a child would cling to their blanket.”
Philip sighed, nodding his head in agreement, unable to argue that point. “Still, she is probably the type of woman who dresses in all black, never smiles, never laughs.”
“Perhaps that’s because no one has made her smile,” Anna pointed out, giving her cousin a meaningful look. “Of course, if she could hear you talk about her, I don’t think you would be a giving her a reason to do otherwise.”
“You’re right. You are absolutely right. I think I am just annoyed at being turned into an errand boy,” Philip admitted, abashed. “I shouldn’t be thinking the worst of her just because I am feeling resentful.”
“I’m sure when you go to England, you will feel much better. Whose knows, maybe there will be an English lady who you will sweep off her feet,” proposed Anna, half in jest.
“I can only hope I’ll be that lucky,” Philip laughed, a twinkle in his eyes.
He would stay in England for a month or two, make sure that Lady Mary was as wonderful as the ambassadors insisted, sample the English wine, and then return home, his life going on as it normally did.
England
After celebrating Edward’s first birthday, the royal children returned to Hatfield. While the servants unpacked their things, Ambrose raced about the nursery, unleashing the energy he had kept bottled up during the long carriage ride.
Little Edward managed to slip away from his governess and found himself right smack in his brother’s path, causing the Prince of Wales to slam into him. The Duke of York began to wail as his head hit the floor hard, causing Ambrose to immediately start checking him over, apologizing profusely.
“Oh, Ned, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, honest. Neddie, don’t cry, you are fine,” Ambrose assured him, almost in tears himself as he could feel a lump forming on his brother’s head. “I’m so sorry, Neddie, I swear I’ll never hurt you again, I promise.”
“I’m sure your brother knows that Your Highness,” affirmed Lady Bryan, unable to scold Ambrose for not heeding her warning for him to watch where he was going, not when the scene between the two brothers was so tender.
“Here, Amby, let me try something,” Elizabeth offered, going over to Edward, and beginning to tickle him, causing his sobs to turn into giggles.
“How did you know that would work?” Ambrose inquired in surprise, staring at his sister in awe as though she had performed some sort of miracle.
“That’s what I used to do to you when you wouldn’t stop crying,” Elizabeth explained, smiling lovingly at both of her brothers.
“I think it might be time for the young Duke of York to get some sleep,” Lady Bryan suggested, as she scooped up Edward in her arms who waved at his siblings as he was carried to another room.
“Does it always work?” queried Ambrose, turning his head towards Elizabeth.
“Does what always work?” Elizabeth questioned, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“Tickling someone when they are upset,” he elaborated. Instead of answering his sister smacked the back of his head. “Hey! What was that for!”
“Oh, I thought I’d test it out on you,” the red-haired five-year-old answered, grinning widely as she held her hands up with her fingers curled.
“Lizzie, don’t you dare!” the toddler Prince of Wales warned her, taking off running with his sister close on his heels.
Using her longer legs, Princess Elizabeth managed to catch her brother, knocking him down and tickling him mercilessly.
The servants of Hatfield smiled as they did their duties, finding the sounds of the children’s delighted laughter warming them like a roaring fire on a bitterly cold winter day.
Notes:
YES! Wrote a scene with Anna of Cleves. Thank goodness. I do love Anna of Cleves and if there is any wife I think deserved a different fate besides the usual two, it is dear Anna.
Chapter 8: Seeds of Discontent
Summary:
The abrupt death of Thomas Boleyn affects both George and Henry. Edward Seymour wishes his brother and sister could keep their mouths shut especially Thomas. While three of the Tudor children are in the middle of the Seymour-Boleyn war, they are for now blissfully unaware of the tensions.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
March 12, 1540
George Boleyn watched his son dueling with his older cousin with a feeling of pride mixed with just a sliver of sorrow. Anne would have loved watching this. She would have enjoyed seeing her beloved siblings’ sons playing together, knowing that soon they would be companions to the Prince of Wales: her son.
His sister should be watching her children grow up. Her daughter was only six and yet regarded as far wiser than children her age usually were. Her son was shaping up to be a bright and strong boy.
Anne would have been just as proud of her children as George was of his. It just wasn’t fair that she was dead.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” questioned little Anne, grabbing his hand with her little chubby fingers, tugging him slightly, shaking him from his gloomy thoughts.
As George picked her up, holding her close, he wondered how he could explain to her why he was so upset. His children were almost four years old, too young to understand the concept of death.
“Your Grandpa went to be with your grandmother and Aunt Anne,” George told her, remembering Mary saying something similar to Cathy and Hal when their father died of the Sweat. “And I’m just missing them a lot.”
“Don’t be sad, Papa, James and I are still here,” Anne assured, wrapping her arms around his neck, and laying her head on his shoulder.
“And I am very grateful for that,” George murmured, nuzzling her hair. He closed his eyes to keep the tears inside, but he could feel them leaking out and staining his cheeks.
April 9, 1540
The Duke of Kent’s death had come as a bit of a shock as he had seemed healthy as can be when he was at court during Christmastide. Some courtiers even whispered that perhaps one of his many enemies had managed to poison him.
King Henry was aware from George’s letter that there had been no sign of foul play in the physician’s expert opinion. Thomas Boleyn had simply gone to sleep and never woken up.
That was a terrifying thought and it chilled Henry to the bone. While Thomas Boleyn was by no means a young man, he still didn’t seem old enough to die so suddenly and yet he had. It made the red-haired monarch wonder if one night, he would close his eyes and then with no warning at all, he would leave his earthly body behind.
However, the last thing the red-haired monarch wanted to do was dwell on such things especially not today of all days. Today was a day of celebration. No matter what loses his family suffered, King Henry refused to allow his son’s birthday to be marred by those painful tragedies.
The Prince of Wales was turning five-years-old, and he deserved a celebration worthy of his status. A joust, a tennis match and a feast had all been planned for the boy England had been waiting for since the birth and subsequent death of little Prince Hal almost thirty years ago. In five years, Ambrose would be going to Ludlow and five years after that, he would be getting married to Infanta Joanna of Austria. The monarch just prayed he would live long enough to see both of those milestones.
Henry could not deny that he was not a young man anymore. He had an ulcer in his leg that throbbed when he stood or rode for too long. He was becoming sick far more often. He could no longer partake in the sports he had once enjoyed. It terrified him knowing that one day he could wind up like Thomas Boleyn, simply passing away, leaving the burden of kingship on the shoulders of his young son.
The English ruler shook his head, clearing his mind of his brooding. Today was about Ambrose and no one else. With the thought of his beloved heir in mind, he walked towards the nursery, his grooms following close behind.
“Matthew, go to the stables and make sure Prince Ambrose’s surprise is ready for him,” Henry commanded one of his grooms as he nodded at the men and women in the corridors who bowed and curtsied as he went by.
He arrived at the nursery and smiled when he heard the excited chatter of his children. Not wanting to disturb them if they were playing a game, he shook his head at the herald, silently ordering him not to announce his arrival.
Lady Nan Seville had passed away two years ago, and Elizabeth’s new governess Mistress Katherine Champernowne was teaching them how to play checkers.
When Lady Bryan spotted Henry, he quickly had to put a finger on his lips before she could bring his presence to his children’s attention, he beckoned her over so he could question her on how they were faring.
“Princess Elizabeth is a bright girl, and she is doing quite well with her lessons. Master Grindal has noted that she is the only child he has ever known who seems to view studying as an enjoyable pastime,” Lady Bryan explained, smiling fondly at her former charge. While she had only taken care of Elizabeth until Ambrose was born, she still adored the little girl.
“She is her mother’s daughter,” Henry murmured, beaming proudly at his daughter.
“The Prince of Wales is a credit to Your Majesty, and he has expressed a hope to start his studies early,” continued the governess, a proud smile lit up her stern countenance. “Although I do think this might just be a ploy to stick to his sister’s side, I have no doubt that he would be a quick learner for he is just as intelligent as the princess.”
“Hmm, well I think I can arrange that,” Henry decreed thoughtfully. After all, it certainly would not hurt to give Ambrose a head starts with his schooling especially when it would only be a year early. “And what of the Duke of York? How is he?” He was not concerned by the absence of his younger son. Edward was not yet three and Henry had no doubt he was simply taking an afternoon nap.
“Aside from Prince Ambrose, I have yet to meet a sweeter lad,” Lady Bryan remarked. “He is quiet and polite. Although he does not enjoy many of the same activities as his siblings, he is no less bright as them.”
“When will Prince Edward wake up from his nap?” inquired the monarch. “His papa is eager to see him.”
“Your Majesty, forgive me, but the queen sent a messenger asking that the Duke of York be brought to her room as soon as he was awake. He is there now,” the old governess explained, averting her eyes, knowing that this would not please the king.
Henry frowned disapprovingly. However, it was not Lady Bryan he was annoyed at.
The royal children had only just arrived at court today. And while work had stopped Henry from going to see them straight away, there was nothing that would stop Jane from seeing her son and stepchildren. Even if there was, she still should have sent for all three of them instead of just Edward.
This was not the first time, Henry had observed that his wife seemed to show more affection towards Mary and Edward than she did with Elizabeth and Ambrose when she thought she could get away with it. And while it might be understandable that she would want to show Edward so much love and attention as he was her only child, it still was only right and proper that she should be just as motherly to her youngest stepchildren as she was with Mary.
He would have to have a talk with her. Remind her that although Edward was their darling boy, she was still the stepmother of two other children who she should not leave out.
Meanwhile in the queen’s apartments, Jane was fussing over her son, making sure he looked every inch of a prince that he was.
“Oh, my sweet boy, you are a handsome child,” she gushed, brushing his blondish-red hair. “You are the very image of your father.”
“Unlike Prince Ambrose,” Baroness Elizabeth Cromwell nee Seymour commented under her breath. “He is more Boleyn than Tudor.”
Edward’s brow furrowed in confusion at his aunt’s statement, unsure what that meant and why his mother looked uncomfortable. He decided he would ask Elizabeth about it later as she always seemed to understand or at least figure out the meaning of the weird things the grown-ups would say.
“Now Edward, this is going to be your first time at a joust, so I want you to be on your best behavior,” proclaimed Jane. “Your papa will want to see what a big boy you are.”
“Yes Mama,” Edward replied dutifully.
“Good because you are our special boy and I know you will make him proud of you,” Jane continued, beaming at him.
“Not as proud as Ambrose makes him,” noted Edward, remembering how he had heard Lady Bryan gushing about how smart Ambrose was and how happy the king would be when he learned that Ambrose had asked to start his lessons early.
It wasn’t that his father didn’t love both his sons, but Edward noticed that Ambrose seemed to be his father’s favorite, the one always praised and hailed as a golden child.
Ambrose was the heir and Edward was only the spare.
“Don’t talk like that, sweetheart,” Jane objected as she embraced him. “You are the Duke of York just like your father was before you. I have no doubt in my mind you will be just as great as him.”
Had Edward known that his father had an older brother, he might have guessed what she was trying to say to him.
Although Queen Jane would never want any harm to come to her stepson, she had no doubt that Edward was better suited for the throne than Anne Boleyn’s bastard. Her son was just like his father in every way, and no one could say for certain if Ambrose was really Henry’s son even if he had been legitimate.
As Prince Ambrose grew, he looked more and more like his Boleyn relatives, casting doubt on his paternity. Jane just wished Henry would open his eyes and realize that there was a possibility that Ambrose was not his and then he could make Edward the Prince of Wales as he should have been in the first place And when Edward was king, he would restore the true faith to England, and wipe away all the chaos Anne Boleyn’s witchcraft had caused.
But the Duke of York knew nothing about his mother’s thoughts, all he wanted was for his father to look at him with the same pride he looked at Ambrose and Elizabeth. He was just glad that his mother believed in him so much and it was rather nice that she seemed to think he was just as important if not more than Ambrose.
“His Majesty, King Henry, His Highness Prince Ambrose of Wales and Her Highness Princess Royal Elizabeth,” the herald announced, causing all of Jane’s ladies to put their needlework away and getting off their chairs so they could curtsy as the king and his two children strode in.
“Papa!” Edward shouted gleefully, running up to his father.
Henry picked his son up and swung him around. “My little Ned are you happy to be back at court?” When Ned nodded, he added. “I wanted to show your brother his birthday present and he insisted on bringing you with us.”
“That was very sweet of him,” Jane complimented, giving Ambrose a smile. She could tell by the look in Henry’s eyes that he was not pleased that she had sent for Edward and not his siblings.
“I thought so as well,” Henry agreed, keeping his expression pleasant. “Would you like to come as well, my queen?”
Although he coached it as a request, Jane knew it was an order for her to accompany them.
“Of course, I would.” She motioned for her sisters to rise with her.
Henry placed Edward down so he could be carried by his aunt. Jane placed her hand on his arm, and they waited for the herald to call for them to make way before they walked to the stables where Ambrose’s present was waiting.
As Ambrose was still too young for a horse, Henry had picked a pony as he had for Elizabeth’s last birthday. As he often did when his sister got something, the Prince of Wales had dropped hints that he wanted a pony as well, professing that he would spend all day and night learning to be the best rider of all time.
Although the king wasn’t certain his young son would be the best equestrian of all time, he hoped that Ambrose would prove to every bit an avid sportsman as his father before him.
With his window overlooking the stables, Edward Seymour was able to watch as the king's groom brought out the Prince of Wales' birthday present. The Earl of Hertford studied the royal family with critical eyes. It could not be denied that Prince Ambrose was a robust boy who was reacting with all the delight of a child as his father lifted him onto the saddle of a dusty brown pony.
King Henry was devoted to his children by Anne Boleyn. Although he loved Edward and his relationship with the Lady Mary was considerably warmer than it had been in decades, neither could hope to hold onto his attention and affection like Ambrose and Elizabeth did.
It seemed that the only way Jane could hope to loosen the hold Anne Boleyn had on the red-haired monarch even from beyond the grave was if she had a second son something neither Queen Anne nor Queen Katherine of Aragon had done.
Alas, since Edward’s birth, Jane had yet to fall pregnant again. The doctor and midwife had assured them that she could conceive despite the difficulties she had gone through during her labor. However, it had been almost three years and Jane had shown no sign of becoming with child again. And with every year that passed, her fertility continued to lessen.
A second son would mean great things for the Seymours even if they never had a relative wear the king’s crown, they would still be members of royalty. Wealth and power would be granted to them.
Besides with Thomas Boleyn gone, only his buffoon of a son and the sensible Duke of Norfolk remained to protect Prince Ambrose’s interests. When the King of England died, Edward was certain that through his nephews, he could obtain much favor from the boy king, ousting the Boleyns from the places at court and placing himself in the Duke of Kent’s stead, even gaining a Dukedom for his descendants.
But first Jane needed to give birth to a second son, so the Seymours didn’t have to continue playing second fiddle to the Boleyns and their relatives.
It was a rather lovely day for a joust in Mary’s opinion. She sat in the stands next to Susan and Lady Catherine Parr who had replaced the retired Lady Shelton as Mary’s chief lady.
“Are you looking for someone, my lady?” Susan asked with a knowing smirk.
As if on cue, the dashing Duke Philip rode up to the three ladies, lifting his visor so he could lock eyes with Mary.
When Mary first learned that her father was looking for a bridegroom for her, she had been ecstatic. Her happiness lessened slightly when she discovered he was searching among the heretical princes of Germany. But then Duke Philip of Bavaria showed up, acting as an envoy for his cousin the Duke of Cleves and well she found herself drawn to the charming man.
Then Duke William of Cleves choose to seek a match with the young Jeanne d'Albret, the daughter and heiress of the King of Navarre. Instead of returning to Germany when his cousin was no longer seeking Mary's hand, Philip had remained in England and asked King Henry for permission to court Mary, something the former princess was quite pleased with.
Despite their differences in religion, Mary and Philip had fallen in love and Mary hoped desperately for the day when her father would give permission for them to be wed.
“My lady, if I could have your favor,” Philip requested, grinning wolfishly at her. Mary wrapped her token around his lance. He placed his hand on hers before she could take it off his lance, lifting it off her handkerchief and kissing the back of her hand. “I shall win the day for you, my lady.”
“I am sure you will, my lord.” Mary blushed madly as she slipped her hand out of his grasp. She could not tear her eyes off of him as he rode away.
“You are the very image of a maiden in love,” observed Susan, giggling as Mary reddened even more.
"And Duke Philip is certainly her knight in shining armor," Catherine Parr agreed.
"Hush both of you," Mary admonished, her stern tone was undermined by the sweet smile on her face as she glanced in Philip's direction.
The day seemed to fly by. Soon it was dark outside but while the children, including the guest of honor, had retired for the night, the court continued to celebrate Prince Ambrose.
However, despite it being a happy day, King Henry felt he needed to pay tribute to his wife, unwilling to let her tragic death go unremembered even if she would want everyone to focus on Ambrose instead of her.
“To Queen Anne, the beloved mother of my heir!” Henry declared, toasting her memory.
George smiled as he raised his glass, pleased that despite everything his sister was not forgotten. The king might have a new queen, but it was clear that even with a son of her own, she could not replace Anne in her husband’s heart.
“And to Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth, their mother’s children!” George shouted out impulsively. He couldn’t help but smirk at the sour looks at the Seymour’s faces.
While their sister may be a queen and their nephew a prince, the fact still remained that Anne had done it first and it would be his nephew who was the next King of England no matter how much they wished it were different.
“Hear, hear.”
“Nephew, might I have a word with you?” the Duke of Norfolk asked once the tables had been cleared so the courtiers could dance. He did not acknowledge Mary who had only come to court for her nephew’s birthday. Despite the fact that the King had ennobled her husband and she was in now in great favor, he still treated her coldly, believing she had shamed her family.
“I think I shall go find William and see if he wants to dance,” Mary announced, spotting her husband chatting with Richard Rich and John Dudley. She bent her knees respectfully before leaving her uncle and brother alone.
“What is it, Uncle?” George asked tiredly. After his father’s death, he had to deal with endless amount of work that came with being the new head of the Boleyns. Luckily, he was no longer the Deputy of Ireland not that his new post was any easier. And to make matters worse, his uncle kept insisting on trying to butt in and give him unsolicited advice.
“There is a new opening in the queen’s household, and I think that it’s high time there was another Howard girl at court,” Thomas Howard explained. “After all we must make sure that His Majesty will be surrounded by members of our family to properly counteract the Seymour invasion.”
“Thank goodness you have so many nieces, Uncle, otherwise you might run out of girls to throw at the king,” George drawled sarcastically, struggling not roll his eyes.
“Just because you are a Duke now, does not mean you get to speak to me so disrespectfully,” Norfolk growled, glaring at his nephew.
“What does making a Howard girl one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting have to do with me?” George inquired, not even acknowledging his uncle’s words. The time when he would act subservient to his uncle and father were long gone just as any respect, he had for them died when Anne died five years ago.
“Just have your wife keep an eye on her. Let us just say I am worried that this particular niece does not have a strong sense of decorum,” divulged the Duke of Norfolk, deciding not to press George for an apology. With his father gone, the new Duke of Kent was the only other noble he could say without a doubt felt as strongly about the Seymours as he did. That family was going to start causing trouble eventually and the Boleyns and the Howards needed to stay united behind Ambrose.
“Then why would you want her to be at court in the first place?” questioned George.
“Like I said before, we need more Howards around the king,” Norfolk remarked with a small smirk as he glanced over at the red-haired monarch. “Especially pretty girls who can catch his eyes.”
If it were not for the timely arrival of his wife who quickly came up with an excuse for them to leave, George might have punched his uncle.
Edward grimaced as he watched his brother stumble about the corridors. Thomas Seymour was drunk and unfortunately the alcohol had loosened his tongue and robbed him of the little tact he had.
So, when William Stafford, George Boleyn and Mary Boleyn walked by, Thomas called after them: “Look there goes the English Mare, sister to the French Mare!”
“Seymour, control your brother’s tongue before I cut it out myself,” George Boleyn demanded, purposely omitting Edward’s title.
“Don’t be mad at me, Boleyn, just because your sisters act like sluts allowing every man from England and France into their beds,” jeered Thomas.
“Thomas, enough!” Edward hissed, grabbing his brother’s arm, trying to pull him away. If the King heard about what Thomas was saying about his sister-in-law let alone his dead wife, all of the Seymours would be blamed.
“George let’s just go,” Mary whispered as her husband---who looked equally outraged---held her brother back.
Thomas Seymour shook his brother off him and took a few steps towards the Boleyns. “Everyone knows that the Boleyn whore was never a true queen like my sister, I just wonder who sired her bastard: Thomas Wyatt or you?” he mocked maliciously, grinning stupidly.
George’s eyes widened and he managed to tear himself from William Stafford's grasp, punching the younger man and wrestling him to the ground. Edward tried to help his brother by putting the Duke of Kent in a headlock, only to be knocked to the side by the Earl of Surrey who had decided to help his cousin.
It was not until then did Edward realize that a crowd had formed in the corridors watching the spectacle in front of them.
Well, this is not good, he thought just as the crowd parted to make way for the king and queen. And now it’s worse.
“What the devil is going on here?” Henry demanded after his guards had separated the two men. Jane ran to her brother’s side, taking out her handkerchief and using it clean his nose which was either broken or bruised.
“The Duke of Kent attacked me!” Thomas Seymour exclaimed, his words slurring slightly. “Didn’t he, Edward?”
He looked over at his brother, clearly expecting him to jump at the opportunity to paint George Boleyn being in the wrong. Edward would have gladly done so if it weren’t for the fact that there had been witnesses---unrelated to the Boleyns---who would tell the king exactly why the Duke of Kent had attacked the youngest Seymour brother.
“The Duke of Kent did indeed throw the first punch,” Edward admitted, not saying anything else. He would not implicate his brother, but he wasn’t going to lie for that fool either.
“He called Mary and Anne whores. He said Anne was no queen. He then asked me if I was Ambrose’s father,” George snarled, using his sister’s handkerchief to wipe the blood off his hands. He was far too angry to feel smug despite knowing how much trouble the knight was in.
“Is that true?” the English ruler demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously as he turned to Thomas Seymour.
“I’m sure he didn’t say any of that,” Jane soothed, wanting to defend her brother and prevent the Boleyns from causing any trouble. It would be just like a Boleyn to make up a story to paint themselves as a victim.
Edward fought the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to his sister to make things worse.
“Are you calling the Duke of Kent a liar, Madam?” Henry asked coldly, glaring at his wife for standing up for her knave of a brother.
While it was possible that the death of his father had left George emotionally unstable, taking everything the wrong way, Henry knew that Anne’s brother was not a violent man, nor would he ever lie about something like this.
“No, I just meant…” the queen trailed off, sensing that nothing she could say would make up for her slip up. It was clear that her husband believed George Boleyn even though he had attacked her brother so viciously.
“Well, Sir Thomas? Did you say such foul things about my son, his mother and his aunt?” Henry interrogated, his fists clenched, making it clear he was struggling not to attack Thomas Seymour himself.
If his brother had a lick of sense in that brain of his, Thomas would have confessed what he had done, thrown himself at the king’s feet and begged for forgiveness. But his brother was always a man of much wit and extraordinarily little judgment.
“No, Your Majesty, I have no idea what His Grace is talking about. I was only on my way back to my chambers when he attacked me out of nowhere,” Thomas lied, either too drunk or too stupid to realize that there were at least four witnesses---not including the Viscount and Countess of Bidon---who could confirm the Duke of Kent’s testimony.
It was plain from the furious expression of the king, that he had no need to ask anyone else. He knew that Thomas Seymour was lying, and Edward could only hope the punishment wasn’t his brother being thrown in the Tower of London.
“So not only did you insult my son, his mother and his aunt. Now you have the gall to lie to my face about it,” Henry growled. “This is not fitting behavior for a knight let alone a member of my court. If my poor innocent Anne were still alive, I would have you on your knees to apologize to her. But since she is not, you can instead beg the Duke of Kent and the Countess of Bidon for their pardon.”
The Seymour siblings looked aghast at the king’s demand and the queen even tried to protest.
“Henry, please, Thomas was drinking, he didn’t mean---” she started to say only for her husband raise his hand to silence her.
Luckily, Thomas seemed to realize that there was nothing he could say to get out of this humiliation. He got down on his knees at the feet of the Boleyn siblings, a sour look on his face.
“Please forgive me for my insults towards Your Grace and Your Ladyship,” Thomas grounded out through clenched teeth.
“And who else?” Henry prompted. When there was no answer, he clarified: “You also must beg their pardon for your insults against Queen Anne, Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth.”
Although, he was fairly certain, that Thomas Seymour had been referring to Ambrose and not Elizabeth when he made that foul accusation that Anne had conceived him with either Sir Thomas Wyatt or worse her own brother, Henry felt an insult to her brother and mother counted as an insult to her.
“I also beg your pardon on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Anne, His Highness Prince Ambrose of Wales and Her Highness the Princess Royal Elizabeth,” Thomas recited, sounding thoroughly humiliated.
“We accept your apology,” Mary said quickly before George could speak. And considering the sneer on the Duke of Kent’s face, it was clear he would not be as forgiving as his sister. But he decided to bite his tongue for once, even though he had to know that the king would never force him to accept a clearly disingenuous apology, made only in an attempt to avoid getting in more trouble.
“Hertford, I want you to make sure that your worthless brother is gone from court by tomorrow afternoon,” Henry barked at Edward before turning to Jane. “Madam, I have changed my mind. I will be sleeping in my own chambers tonight. I will speak to you tomorrow about your brother and your behavior towards my children.”
Without letting either Seymour speak---not that Edward was even planning on doing so---Henry instead asked George, Mary, and William to walk with him.
Edward grimaced as he watched them walk away, guessing that the Duke of Kent would be giving the King a more detailed account of what Thomas had said.
Feeling angry and embarrassed, Edward roughly pulled Thomas off the floor. “I’m going to take Jane back to her chambers. I suggest you go back yours and try to sober up before you start to pack,” he hissed.
He didn’t give Thomas a chance to argue as he led Jane away from the courtiers who were already gossiping about what had just occurred.
Notes:
Edward Seymour is my favorite Seymour. Even when he's not the on the side of my heroes, he still is the one with sense.
For my Mary/Philip fans, don't worry they will have more scenes in the coming chapters. That was only a taste.
Chapter 9: Happy Wife, Happy Life
Summary:
While Henry and Jane's relationship continues to sour, Mary and Philip's romance continues to bloom. Meanwhile the fight between George and Thomas weighs on both the Duke of Norfolk and Cromwell's minds as they think of the future. Elizabeth and Mary make a decision that they must protect their brothers from their scheming relatives.
Notes:
A new month, a new chapter. Spent the entire day working on it. Just goes to show you when inspiration hits sometimes you can be a writing machine.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
April 10, 1540
Vicious rumors circled around court about the fight between the Boleyns and the Seymours had the night before. There were those who took the Seymours’ side, adamantly believing that George Boleyn had overreacted to what was probably an innocent comment about the late queen. After all it was well known just how ridiculously protective the Duke of Kent was of his dead sister.
However, most of the courtiers, even those who had not witnessed the fight, agreed that while George could be foolhardy at times, he was not a man to become violent unless someone had said something truly vile.
Furthermore, whatever Sir Thomas Seymour had said, it was clearly bad enough that the king had banished him from court. He had to leave in the early hours of the morning like he was a thief slipping away into the night.
Speaking of Henry, it was noised that the red-haired monarch had not been pleased with the queen for sticking up for her brother and he had a few choice words for her when he went to see her after she had broken her fast.
Some courtiers pointed out that the Seymours seemed to be losing favor while the Boleyns continued to gain it. It seemed that despite Anne Boleyn’s death, she could never fully disappear from the king’s heart.
For men like Thomas Howard, this was a pleasing notion as it meant Anne’s relatives could never fall from grace. And to make matters even better, the silly Seymour girl was only making things worse for herself and her relatives by acting as though her weak brat was more important than Prince Ambrose. In the Duke of Norfolk’s opinion, the boy was barely more important than the Princess Elizabeth.
“According to George, the king asked him to spare no detail about the fight last night. He wanted to know exactly what was said so he could decide how long Sir Thomas’ banishment would last,” Henry Howard reported. “You would think the Seymours would recognize that how much His Majesty loves the late Queen Anne, and they would not court his anger by ignoring the Prince of Wales and starting fights with the Boleyns, trying to ruin her reputation.”
“Out of the whole lot, it is only the Earl of Hertford who has a lick of sense. However, that does not make them any less dangerous than him,” the Duke of Norfolk remarked, standing out the window, looking up at the sky as if he were checking to see if there were any storm clouds threatening to bring gloom to a beautiful spring day.
“Pshaw, thanks to Anne, we are untouchable,” the Earl of Surrey declared, his tone dripping with pride and smugness. As if gaining such favor through his cousin and not by his own merits was something grand.
Norfolk rolled his eyes, wondering how he had raised such a proud fool. Besides royal favor was a fickle thing and while the Howards certainly were well liked by the King, it was truly only George and Mary who were untouchable. As Anne’s siblings, they knew her best and could reminisce about her with King Henry hanging off every word they said, making him feel nothing but tender feelings towards them.
They could insult all the Seymours even Queen Jane and all they would get was perhaps a token reprimand but as long as they avoided insulting the Duke of York, King Henry would not banish them as he did with Thomas Seymour.
However, the Howards were not so lucky. They were treated with grace and courtesy, but it was clear that they could not hope to reach the same status as the Boleyns. King Henry had made it clear that he wanted the Duke of Kent to be regent to Prince Ambrose if he ascended the throne before he was of legal age. He had not even considered giving that job to the older and wiser Duke of Norfolk who had been his regent years before.
Despite disliking the fact that he would have to one day be ruled by his foolish nephew, which was not his greatest fear. Last night had proven that George was still ruled by his emotions allowing him to speak his mind which could prove to be disastrous if he had to rule England for a long time.
Obviously, the Duke of Norfolk was better suited to be England’s protector---until Ambrose was old enough of course--- but first he had to convince King Henry that he would be better for the job than his nephew and he knew only one way to have the monarch’s ear.
“Hal, tomorrow you ride to Lambeth to bring your cousin to court,” decreed Norfolk.
Across the palace, another father and son duo were discussing last night’s events. Gregory Cromwell was informing his father about the news he had received from his wife, Elizabeth who was the queen’s sister and lady-in-waiting.
“The king railed at Queen Jane for not only neglecting her poor young stepchildren but also for sticking up for a knave who, and apparently these were his exact words, is lucky that he has not been thrown into the dampest cell in the Tower of London,” Gregory reported, almost exasperatedly. “The Earl of Hertford told Her Majesty exactly what their brother said about the late Queen Anne and yet that silly woman still thinks Lord George Boleyn was in the wrong to attack him. If it had been my sister Thomas Seymour insulted like that, I wouldn’t have cared that he was my brother-in-law, I would have gutted him.”
“Some people feel that the young Duke of Kent is too emotional,” revealed the Earl of Essex, thinking of the man’s own uncle who according to the spy in Norfolk’s household was hoping to use his Howard niece to not only diminish George’s influence on the king but also Cromwell’s.
“Oh? And what of you, Father? What is your opinion on the matter?” Gregory inquired a delicate eyebrow rose up his forehead, guessing that his father was calculating the future instead of caring about the fight that had happened last night.
“I think that much like his sister, George Boleyn is often underestimated,” observed Cromwell. “He is seen as nothing but a hardheaded sentimental fool who can’t take anything seriously. His laxness with his previous post as Lord Deputy of Ireland and his actions last night have not helped that perception but he has the potential to turn out to be a shrewd councilman.”
The king was not a young man and although no one said it aloud, it was accepted that he would mostly likely die before Ambrose reached his maturity. Cromwell had no doubt that as regent and uncle of the new ruler, George would focus on keeping his sister’s legacy from falling apart and unlike his pompous uncle and cousin, he would not mind working alongside with a base born turned earl.
“And what of the Seymours?” his son pondered. “God knows the Earl of Hertford is plotting ways to oust the Boleyns so may take the Duke of Kent’s spot on the council. Not to mention, it is quite clear to everyone but His Majesty that Queen Jane believes that Prince Edward will follow his father’s footsteps in more ways than one.”
“Before I respond to that, let me ask you a question of your own: would you wife be willing to turn on her siblings if she found out they were plotting treason?” Cromwell inquired, keeping his expression neutral.
“For our children’s sake I believe she would,” Gregory replied after only a few moments of hesitation.
“Good. However, it would not matter much what Queen Jane wants for her son as long as the rest of England doesn’t agree,” the earl commented, his mind straying to the failed rebellion two years ago.
“Until she died, they believed Queen Anne was a witch and a whore. Who is to say they won’t start believing the rumors that Prince Ambrose is not the King’s son?” Gregory pointed out, despite knowing his father had to have already seen the danger of that rumor.
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t be cautious, but I will not jump to conclusions,” Cromwell intoned. “In politics, you either stay a step ahead or you keep your head down. I can assure you that I am proficient at both.”
After all, the entire court was divided between those who supported the Boleyns and those who supported the Seymours, the ear had striven to be neutral, even marrying his son to a Seymour woman had not stirred up any controversy.
When asked whose side he was on, Cromwell would reply he was on the king’s side. If Queen Jane and Queen Anne had switched places, despite not feeling quite as fond of Jane as he did Anne, Cromwell would be working just as hard to safeguard Prince Edward’s position as he was with Prince Ambrose.
Philip and Mary were strolling in the gardens, their chaperones were walking a few discreet feet behind them, allowing the young couple to have a measure of privacy however small it was.
Although they were aware of the events that had transpired last night---there was not a person at court who didn’t know of the fight between the Duke of Kent and Sir Thomas--- but unlike the rest of the occupants of the castle they did not discuss it as it had nothing to do with them.
Instead, they talked about Philip’s cousin Anna of Cleves. Mary had not been surprised when the subject of Anna of Cleves came up.
When it was thought Mary would marry the Duke of Cleves, the older woman had written to her, hoping to strike up a friendship with a girl she thought might become her sister-in-law. Philip had to translate the letters to Mary as Anna could not speak English any more than Mary could speak German. And although there would be no marriage between Mary and the Duke of Cleves, she and Anna still exchanged letters, becoming friends anyway.
“Her brother has finally arranged a marriage for her. Duke François of Lorraine. She is very concerned because she knows he is Catholic and fears he will be unkind to her,” Phillip was saying, glancing at his companion meaningful. “I wrote to her and told her that just because two people are of a different religion, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have a happy and loving marriage.”
Mary stopped in her tracks, realizing instantly what he was getting out. “Phillip,” she began, trying to choose her words carefully. She did not want to dissuade him, as she loved him enough that she wanted to be his wife. However, their religious differences, not to mention the idea of leaving her innocent siblings to have handle divided and chaotic English court on their own was daunting one.
“I already know what you are going to say. I am a Lutheran, you are a Catholic. That you do not want to leave your sister and brothers behind when their relatives seek to use them against each other. That your mother would never approve you marrying so below your status,” Philip interjected, smirking slightly at her surprise. “Have I gotten any of that wrong?”
“Yes, you have. My mother never crossed my mind,” replied Mary, half-teasing him.
After all, while Katherine of Aragon had hoped her daughter would marry a Catholic Prince, especially one of her bloods, she had made it clear during those wonderful days at the More, that her greatest wish was that her daughter would be happy and safe even if she married a man Katherine would never have chosen for her.
Philip took her hands in his, his manner earnest. “We believe in the same God and so while our approach is different, we are the same in our devotion to God. Furthermore, my brother can rule both of our duchies, allowing me to remain in England along with my wife if she will have me. I cannot give you a crown, Mary but I can give you the devotion of a loving husband if you will have me. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Yes,” Mary breathed, losing herself in Philip’s eyes as he leaned in to kiss her. The kiss only lasted a few seconds.
When they parted, Philip walked over to a rose bush and plucked one off its stem before placing it in her hair. “My Mary Rose,” he whispered, kissing her hands. “I think I better go get your father’s permission before anyone lets it out that I asked you before him.”
“I don’t think he will be too angry at that,” Mary laughed, certain that despite the incident last night her father would not deny his request to marry his daughter. Or at least she hoped he would not.
Philip escorted Mary back to her rooms, promising to call on her once her had received the answer from the king.
As she waited, Mary couldn’t help but feel apprehensive and it must have shown on her face as both Catherine and Susan hastened to reassure her.
“I am certain that His Majesty will agree to the marriage,” proclaimed Susan. “He knows how much you and the duke care for one another.”
“Unless he believes the political ramifications would be costly,” Mary pointed out. She could not help but bitterly think that when it came to her father, her happiness meant little if he thought her a threat to his male heirs. The only time when he had ignored his suspicions of Mary was at his dying wife’s request, otherwise he would have continued separating his daughter from her mother. "Perhaps it would be best not even to hope that he would agree."
“You deserve to be happy, Mary, your father knows this,” voiced Catherine, looking as though she wanted to embrace the younger girl but not daring to touch the king's daughter without her express permission. “After all you have been through, you deserve happiness. How can you doubt that?”
“Perhaps it is my fault. After all, if I had been a boy, none of this would have ever happened,” Mary whispered sadly, more to herself than anyone else. She then shook her head, realizing she was speaking foolishly. Philip loved her and she loved him. They could be enough if her father allowed the marriage.
“Princess Elizabeth and Lady Champernowne have asked for an audience, my lady,” Mary’s steward announced, bowing as she signaled for them to be let in.
The minute Mary saw her sister’s face, she realized that Elizabeth was upset and whatever she wanted to talk about, it was most certainly something she would want to be private.
She dismissed her ladies and Elizabeth’s governess before picking the six-year-old up and setting her in her lap.
“What is it, sweet sister? What troubles you so?” Mary inquired, fearing for a moment that her sister had heard of her uncle’s fight with Thomas Seymour and learned what the latter had said about her mother and her brother.
“Well Edward came to see me this morning about something he heard his aunt say that he was confused about. He said she said that Ambrose was more Boleyn than Tudor,” Elizabeth recalled, a frown on her face. “I told him that all that meant was his appearance took more after the Boleyns than the Tudors. But that’s not how she meant it, is it?”
“What did the queen say to that?” Mary asked curiously, feeling a rush of anger at the baroness. While she knew the relations between the Boleyns and the Seymours were tense, she had hoped that at least the women wouldn’t use the two boys against each other.
“She didn’t say anything but when I questioned Edward further, he said that his mother assured him that he would be a Duke of York like his father before him.” Elizabeth swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Mary, I don’t want to cause trouble but I’m not stupid. She treats Ambrose and me with kindness, but it is not like how she treats you and Edward. She thinks we’re bastards, doesn’t she? And she and her sister think Ambrose isn’t even Father’s son.”
Mary had to fight with herself to remain calm. She wanted so desperately to believe Jane’s words were innocent, that her sweet stepmother would never make such remark hinting that like his father before him, Edward would become the King of England instead of his older brother.
However, she knew deep down that Jane’s support of her came from believing that Anne and Henry were never married which of course would mean that Edward was Henry’s only legitimate son.
Whether or not, Mary agreed with her was irrelevant as the fact remained that no one should even be hinting at the whole mess in front of impressionable ears. She could only imagine what would happen if Edward started viewing Ambrose as a usurper and a rival instead of a brother and a playmate.
For all of her father’s arguments against Mary becoming queen, the Cousin War was perhaps the most legitimate concern if not the only one. It was ironic that his fears could happen anyway if the Seymour-Boleyn rivalry escalated to the point where Edward and Ambrose were on opposite sides.
“Elizabeth, my dear heart, I need you to listen to me very carefully, all right?” Mary implored her softly, waiting until Elizabeth tearfully nodded before she continued: “What happened in the past is not your fault or Ambrose’s fault. Neither of you do anything wrong. Furthermore, I am certain that Queen Jane has no ill will against you and Ambrose.”
“What about you?” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Mary’s neck. “Ambrose and Edward don’t listen when the servants whisper, but I do. I’ve heard them talk about you and sometimes I wonder if we make you angry.”
“Never, Elizabeth. Put that thought out of your head immediately,” Mary ordered, kissing her sister’s red locks so she would know that she wasn’t angry. “While it’s true it took me a long time to accept that Ambrose would be the Prince of Wales, for reasons that I must insist waiting to explain to you when you are older, I never ever was angry at either of you. I love you both too much for that.”
Had her father died before Edward was born, Mary might have fought for her claim to the throne of England, believing that with Ambrose being too young, that her age and her legitimacy made her better suited for the crown.
However, she would never let any harm come to her siblings, even going as far as to name them her successors if she were to die without any heirs. Even in those dark moments at Hatfield when she cursed Anne Boleyn, wishing she had died before her father had noticed her, Mary never hated the daughter of Anne Boleyn, believing her sister was like her: a victim of circumstances beyond her control.
“Elizabeth, I need you to promise me…or rather make a promise with me,” she amended. “Ambrose and Edward can never know of what we talked about. We have to protect them from people who wish to turn them against each other. Let us make a solemn vow that we shall always do all that we can to keep them from fighting.”
For any other six-year-old, Mary’s grave words might have either confused or frightened them. However, while Elizabeth might not fully grasp what was going on, she was bright and mature for her age and she understood that her brothers, who were blissfully unaware of the tension going on between the adults in their family, could not have the same tension between them.
“I promise, Mary, I won’t let you down,” vowed Elizabeth, determination flickering in her dark eyes.
Mary smiled at her and decided that now was a good time for a subject change and she know what subject was sure to make her sister smile.
“You wish to marry my daughter,” Henry repeated, staring down at the man before him with narrowed eyes.
Phillip of Bavaria’s request for Mary’s hand shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He had given him permission to court his daughter almost five months ago. And yet now that the German Duke was kneeling before him, Henry couldn’t help but wish he could refuse, unwilling to lose his pearl.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I know that I am unworthy of a king’s daughter, but I can provide a good life for her and be a good husband to her,” Philip declared passionately but he keeping his head bowed so not to seem imprudent.
“I see. I have learned that you have told your brother that you are going to leave your German titles behind if I wish for you to stay in England. Am I to believe that a title less and landless man will be a good husband to my precious daughter?” Henry questioned tonelessly, almost smirking as he saw the man blanch at his words. Clearly Philip had assumed that he would receive an English dukedom to compensate for the titles he would be abdicating to his brother. Of course, even a man as cocky as himself would not dare to say so.
A few minutes of awkward silence passed before the red-haired monarch decided to put the man out of his misery, speaking now far more jovially. “Well, I suppose I could make you the Duke of Somerset, consider it a wedding present.” He waved his hand dismissively when Duke Philip shot up to his feet, thanking him profusely. “Just go tell my daughter that you two have my blessing to wed. I’m sure she is eagerly waiting for it.”
Philip bowed as he walked backwards towards the door before he turned and left Henry alone with his thoughts.
He could tell that Philip and Mary loved each other and it made his heart ache as it reminded him of those happier days when he was younger and in love, eager to marry the woman of his affections.
Unlike Philip and Mary, he had to wait years before he could marry the woman he desired. Even with Katherine, he had spent several years pining for her until his father died and he was free to marry whoever he wished. He had been blind to the fact that their marriage was doomed to fail, ignoring those who tried to dissuade him from marrying his brother’s widow. He paid for his foolishness dearly and yet a part of him could not regret the happier times he shared with Katherine even now when he no longer loved her.
And then there was Anne: seven years, he had waited for her. Seven long years, only for their marriage to become strained and unpleasant. Perhaps it was Anne’s assurance that she would give him a son that made it so disappointing when his perfect jewel was born to the point where he had treated her shabbily and it was only now that she was dead, would he give anything to have her back.
As for Jane, while it had only taken several months before he married her, he couldn’t help but feel that he was following a similar pattern. At first, she had been an angel who rescued him from the darkness that he had felt after Anne’s death. He had thought she was an innocent maiden he could be Lancelot to. Now he was not so sure.
In the beginning everything was wonderful but then something happened that made the once love filled words turn resentful. The worst part was Henry was certain if Anne had lived, their marriage could have had a fresh start and perhaps the lack of stress would have cooled both of their tempers. However, the nothing he could do to change the past and it seemed he would always be doomed to fall out of love just as hard as he fell in love.
Henry prayed that Mary and Philip would have a happy marriage, something he had wanted but never manage to get.
April 15, 1540
Jane Boleyn wondered which Seymour was more upset. Sir Thomas who was banished indefinitely, the Earl of Hertford whose desired dukedom would be given to Duke Philip once he and Lady Mary were wed or Queen Jane who had just learnt that her husband had decided to send their son back to Hatfield without his older siblings.
Now the Duchess of Kent could feel a small measure of pity for the younger woman as the red-haired monarch was clearly sending Prince Edward away as a punishment to his mother who had been neglecting her stepchildren in his favor.
And it irked her how causally the king had broken this news over dinner as if he were simply discussing the weather instead of sending his young son away solely to punish his wife.
“But sweetheart, don’t you think it is unfair to send Edward away when his siblings are still at court?” pleaded Jane, keeping her voice as soft and meek as she could, knowing that she would not be able to change his mind if she sounded like she was scolding or arguing with him.
“Unfair? Why would it be unfair?” Henry’s features were schooled in a stoic mask, but his tone betrayed his irritation. “Edward is just two-years-old, he cannot be expected to conduct himself at court for as long as siblings do. Besides the country air will do him a world of good.”
Jane Boleyn could sense that queen would have liked to point out the ridiculousness of the former sentence especially when Ambrose was only two and a half years older than Edward and had none of his sister’s maturity.
Instead, Jane just continued to appeal to his better nature. “I understand your reasons and I agree that our son’s well being is important, but I fear that if we send him to Hatfield, he might think that he is being punished or that you love Ambrose more than him.”
King Henry scowled, throwing his napkin down on his unfinished plate. “Is that what he thinks or are you the one who thinks that Madam?” he demanded, his voice growing louder. “Is this why you neglect Ambrose, denying him the love of a mother because you believe that I love him more than Edward? Perhaps you are jealous that Edward is not the Prince of Wales. Do you hope that I might one day make your son my heir instead of his half-brother?”
“No, Your Majesty that was not what I was saying. I love both Ambrose and Elizabeth as if they were my own children,” Jane protested.
“Then why don’t you act like it?” Henry shouted, as he jumped from his seat, slamming his glass on the table, causing the queen to flinch. “I have suddenly lost my appetite. I think I shall retire to my own rooms.”
“Wait Henry, please. I did not mean to upset you. I shall work hard on being a better stepmother but please don’t send Edward away. He doesn’t want to be all alone at Hatfield,” Jane implored, making one last attempt to persuade her husband to change his mind.
“Enough! I will not hear another word! You have no right to control my conduct with Edward,” snapped Henry.
“I am his mother,” Jane insisted, a little spark of fire flaring in her eyes.
“And I, Madam, am his father and therefore I know what’s best for my son,” Henry declared, ignoring her tear-filled eyes. “I bid you goodnight, wife.”
“Your Majesty, I beg of you---” cried the queen but her pleas fell on deaf ears as King Henry stormed out of her dining chambers.
“How dare she!” Henry hissed as he stormed through the corridors leading out of the queen’s apartments.
It wasn’t like he was banishing Edward like he did to the boy’s uncle. In fact, he had thought his little Duke of York would stay a few more days before sending him off to Hatfield then his brother and sister would follow after the Mayday celebrations.
Jane had no right to criticize him. In fact her words only made him more determined to send Edward to Hatfield, away from his mother who was no doubt spoiling him far too much.
As for the idea that he preferred Ambrose over Edward; it was pure nonsense. He loved his two sons equally and he was certain the Duke of York knew that. Even if he did unintentionally favor Ambrose, it still did not give Jane an excuse to neglect Ambrose and Elizabeth out of pettiness.
The king was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not see the lady-in-waiting rounding the corner until he had already bumped into her.
“Oh my, Your Majesty, please forgive me,” the girl squeaked from the floor where she had fallen.
“Nay, my lady, it is I who should apologize for I seem to have knocked you off your feet,” Henry countered, extending his hand to the poor girl. His dark mood had evaporated completely now that he had laid eyes on such a pretty lady. He helped her up, smiling kindly at her. “And what is your name, fair maiden?”
“Lady Catherine Howard, sire, but everyone calls me Kitty,” the girl replied, averting her eyes as her cheeks blushed pink.
“Another Howard? There are so many already at court,” Henry remarked, hoping to put her at ease.
“My cousin said there is always room for a Howard at court,” Kitty jested, her eyes lighting up when he laughed jovially, pleased that she had made the monarch laugh. “My step-grandmother thinks I would be too silly for court, but I personally think everyone could use a little light in their lives.”
“It certainly would make things less dreary,” opined Henry. He couldn’t help but like how playful and innocent Kitty seemed. She reminded him of the carefree days of his youth. “Tell me, my lady, how are long have you been at court? I think I would have noticed a breath of fresh air such as yourself.”
“Not very long, Your Majesty. I only arrived and was sworn in as a lady-in-waiting yesterday. I had just finished my last task for tonight when you swept my off my feet,” Kitty giggled.
“Oh, is that what we shall call you bouncing off my chest and tumbling to the floor? Certainly, would make it less embarrassing,” Henry guffawed good-naturedly. “Well Mistress Howard, if you were about to retire when we meet, I shouldn’t delay you. I hope to see you tomorrow as you have been a delight to talk to.”
“Your Majesty is far too kind,” praised the girl blushing madly when the king kissed the back of her hand before curtsying and going to the chambers where the other ladies-in-waiting slept, no doubt she would be recounting her encounter with the red-haired monarch.
King Henry stared after her with a smile on his face. Anne had only been a few years older than her cousin when they first met. He had longed to recapture the early days of their courtship and while Kitty was clearly more innocent and girlish than Anne had ever been, perhaps he could finally return to happier days.
With the days of his carefree youth flickering in his mind, Henry walked towards the Duke of Suffolk’s apartments, hoping to convince Charles to partake in a wrestling match or something like that.
When he arrived, he was amused to find that the Suffolks seemed to be entertaining a small group of people.
“Charles, how dare you throw a party and not invite me,” Henry mock-scolded his friend as the man came over to greet him with a bow.
“Forgive me, I thought you were with Queen Jane and wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” explained Suffolk, rather sheepishly.
Henry glowered as he remembered the argument, he had with Jane just before he had bumped into Kitty.
Sensing his friend’s dark mood, Charles quickly led Henry over to where his wife was talking to the Parr siblings who stopped their conversation to greet the king. He couldn’t help but notice that William Parr and Catherine Brandon looked rather shamefaced as if they were schoolboys discussing something naughty when their schoolmaster happened upon them.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt. What is it you were discussing?” Henry wondered what the topic was that was making them uneasy.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s not like we were discussing treason,” Anne Parr snapped when no one answered, causing her brother to shoot an angry look.
“What my sister means to say, Your Majesty, is the topic is a rather controversial one and we were concerned that you may not approve of us discussing it,” Catherine Parr clarified smoothly, smiling winningly at the king.
“Say on, my lady, I shall decide whether or not your words are too controversial,” Henry told her kindly. He remembered seeing her a few times with Mary, but he hadn’t ever spoken to her and yet he felt somewhat at ease with her as if the tone of her voice soothed his troubled mind.
“I am working on translating the works of Erasmus,” Catherine explained.
“My sister is a very diligent woman,” Anne Parr complimented her sister, pride shining in her voice. “She thinks every Englishman should be able to read the works by not only Erasmus but also Thomas Berthelet.”
“Well, I regard it as much my duty as my pleasure, to place such wonderful books before the good English people who have been a long time thirsting and hungering for the sincere and plain knowledge of God's word,” Catherine declared passionately.
Henry could not help but be reminded of Anne who also believed that the English people deserved the English bible so not to be deceived by the clergy who use the knowledge of Latin to trick the common folk into fattening the church’s coffers.
However, he of all people knew that some people tried to insist that God’s words went directly against what he did with the monasteries he closed down and even went as far to try to dictate who his heir should be.
“Just be cautious. Not every English person can read or understand the Gospels and you should be careful of the consequences of encouraging them to try,” warned the king.
“I am not afraid of the Gospels, nor should anyone be afraid. Your Majesty has begun a great work in banishing the monstrous idol of Rome and now with God's help, you can finish that work by purging the Church of England of its dregs,” Catherine continued, speaking perhaps a bit too boldly.
Although a part of Henry felt affronted that she seemed to be lecturing him, he couldn’t help but enjoy how she spoke to him with candor. It reminded him of the early days where he and Anne would have spirited debates with each other about religion and politics.
Jane had little offer on such subjects other than her tender heart requesting he spare those who committed treason against him.
Soon his argument with Jane was long forgotten as he discussed several interesting topics with Lady Catherine who was proving to be as intelligent as she was beautiful.
April 18, 1540
“Ned, stop moping, you’re not going for another two days,” Ambrose ordered his brother with a sigh.
“I don’t want to go,” complained Edward, tears in his eyes. “Why is Papa sending me away?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want you because you’re acting like a big baby!” Ambrose snapped, annoyed at his whining. Immediately he regretted his harsh words as now Edward was crying. Elizabeth glared at him as she rushed over to comfort their brother. “I didn’t mean it, Neddie, honest. Papa probably just think you don’t want to spend time at stuffy court where everything is really boring.”
“Then why am I the only one being sent to Hatfield?” Edward asked in a small voice.
“Uh---I don’t know,” admitted Ambrose, his brow furrowed in confusion. Then his expression cleared, and he smiled again. “I know what we shall do. Why don’t we go to Papa right now and ask him to let Ed stay at court until we have to back to Hatfield? He can’t say no to all three of us.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to tell her brother that yes, he could in fact say no to all three of them. He was the King of England for goodness’s sake, only answerable to God Himself. Unfortunately, before she could, Ambrose had already gone to Lady Bryan and demanded that she take the three of them to see King Henry.
“I’m afraid the king is too busy with his work right now, Your Highness,” Lady Bryan began. “Perhaps in an hour---"
“I don’t want to wait an hour! I’m the Prince of Wales and I want to see Papa right now!” Ambrose shouted, not happy by the implication that his father would be too busy to see him.
“Ambrose, that is not how princes are supposed to act!” Elizabeth admonished her brother, thinking how hypocritical it was of him that not even ten minutes ago he had called Edward out for acting like a baby and here he was throwing a fit. She then turned to the governess, speaking sweetly. “Lady Bryan, if you could send a message to Papa, telling him that we would like to have an audience with him whenever he has a moment of free time, we would be very grateful.”
“Of course, I will, Your Highness,” the older woman replied giving her a smile before throwing Ambrose a look that screamed: “why can’t you be more like your sister?”
“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Amby,” sang Elizabeth, looking very smug.
“I’m the Prince of Wales,” Ambrose muttered, his arms folded over his chest and a black scowl on his face.
“Then stop acting like an immature brat,” Elizabeth countered.
As if he thought it would contradict his sister’s words instead of proving them correct, Ambrose stuck his tongue out at her. Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation while Edward giggled, looking much happier than he had moments before.
Lady Bryan must have sent the messenger right away, believing that the monarch would see it, finish his duties, and then send for his children. Instead in less than fifteen minutes after the page had gone to the king’s chambers, he came strolling into the nursery looking quite amused. Before speaking, King Henry bowed to them.
“Your Highnesses, I am humbled that you have sought an audience with me,” he proclaimed, teasing them lightly as he kneeled down and took all three of them into his arms. “What can I do for you?”
“I told you we were more important than his stupid work!” Ambrose exclaimed to Lady Bryan.
“A king’s work is very important, Ambrose, as are his manners,” Henry scolded him sternly, rather taken aback by his son’s rudeness.
“I’m sorry, Muggie,” Ambrose said softly after Elizabeth nudged him.
“Good boy. Now what is it I can do for you three?” Henry asked, ruffling his son’s hair so Ambrose would know he wasn’t upset by his outburst.
“Please let me stay at court, Papa! I don’t want to leave without Amby and Lisbeth. I promise I won’t act like a baby, and I’ll be very good!” Edward begged, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck, staring at him with puppy dog eyes.
There was an odd look on her father’s face, one Elizabeth couldn’t quite read.
“You are a very good boy, Edward but I think it would be best if you went Hatfield early. Court can often be too overwhelming for a boy your age,” King Henry told him gently, stroking his hair, his tone slightly strained. “What has your mother been telling you about Ambrose and you?”
Elizabeth knew what was about to happen even before it did. Her father was talking about something else entirely, but Edward was about to reveal what his mother had said to him days earlier. Something that she had gathered from the alarmed look on Mary’s face would upset their father.
“Well when we first got to court, I was a little worried that you would never be as proud of---” Edward began, sounding a bit sheepish as if he thought that he perhaps it was his own insecurities that had caused his father to decide that he was too babyish to stay at court with his siblings and instead send him back to Hatfield early.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Elizabeth blurted out, thinking fast. If Edward revealed what happened, Ambrose would be confused and want an explanation especially if Papa got angry. And knowing her pig-headed brother, he would not stop until he had some answers which he most certainly would not like. Then he would probably make Edward, who would think their father was angry at him, feel even worse for speaking up.
As if sensing his daughter’s thoughts, King Henry requested Lady Bryan take Edward and Ambrose to another room as he talked to Elizabeth.
“Sweetheart, I need you to be completely honest with me. What did the queen tell Edward that has him so upset?” Henry asked, keeping his tone calm although his daughter could sense he having trouble controlling his temper.
“Well, he wasn’t upset about anything his mother said to him, he just thinks you aren’t as proud of him as you are Ambrose,” Elizabeth explained.
“But there is something she said that I should know about,” Henry guessed, giving his daughter a gentle squeeze when she looked down at her hands. “Bess, I promise I won’t get mad at you or Ned, I just want to know what’s going on.”
The princess was reluctant, but she realized she might be able to turn this to her advantage. “Do you promise to let Ned stay if I tell you?”
“You are as shrewd as your mother,” Henry complimented, laughing despite the seriousness of the situation. “Alright sweetheart, it’s a deal. Now tell me what you know.”
Notes:
Elizabeth and Mary both know what's up while Edward and Ambrose remain innocently unaware...for now.
Henry has learned absolutely nothing and is honestly holding onto a fantasy.
Speaking of Henry, considering how important his last two wives are to this story, I felt I needed to at least mention Anne of Cleves who sadly will not be appearing in England in this story which is a pity because it would have been nice to write about the friendship between Anna and Kitty were said to have.
I hope everyone understands why I put Catherine Parr and Henry's conversation in the show here. Henry always seems to enjoy candor when it's not his wife.
Which Catherine will become his mistress? Kate? Kitty? Both? Neither? Wait and find out.
And uh-oh, someone's in trouble.
Chapter 10: Consequences
Summary:
Elizabeth and Henry's talk stirs up trouble in court.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
April 18, 1540
The atmosphere in the privy council was grim. Once they were all young and light of heart but as the years went by the tragedies and stresses, both personal and political, began to wear on them, dashing the innocence of their youth and turning them into tired old men just like the men of his father’s council forty years ago.
King Henry sighed heavily at that thought, remembering those blissful days when he had just become ruler of England at the age of seventeen and he had been so eager to replace the stuffy old advisors of his father with friends of his: men who would be sure to focus less on the boring side of statecraft and more on increasing England’s glory and splendor.
Now that Henry was a man of forty, nearly fifty, he found himself pondering if there had ever been a time where his father’s councilors were carefree and easygoing. He very much doubted his serious father ever was remotely lighthearted much less easygoing.
As if God had heard his morose thoughts and had wanted to give him a break, a messenger arrived with a note from Lady Bryan, saying that his children had requested an audience at his earliest convenience.
There was something about the tone of the note that charmed the red-haired monarch as he could guess that Elizabeth had been the one to ask and he had no doubt that the message were her words exactly. The idea that his darling daughter acting with all the grace and maturity of a skilled courtier made him beam with pride.
“Gentlemen, it seems that I have been summoned by my fair princess and I can’t bear the thought of keeping her and her brothers waiting for a moment longer than I have to. Therefore, I think we shall have to end our meeting early,” Henry commanded, waiting for his councilors to agree and take their leave of him before he hurried off to the children’s nursery, his spirits lighter than they had been moments earlier.
Once he was arrived at the nursery, he bowed to his children before speaking, acting as though they were his lieges, and he was nothing more than a modest courtier who would do whatever they wished, delighted that they had summoned him.
“Your Highnesses, I am humbled that you have sought an audience with me,” Henry proclaimed, teasing them lightly as he kneeled down and took all three of them into his arms. “What can I do for you?”
“I told you we were more important than his stupid work!” Ambrose exclaimed to Lady Bryan; his face scrunched up in a dark scowl.
“A king’s work is very important, Ambrose, as are his manners,” Henry scolded him sternly, rather taken aback by his son’s rudeness. While Ambrose looked more like Anne, there was no denying he had the Tudor temper.
“I’m sorry, Muggie,” Ambrose said softly after Elizabeth nudged him. The king could not help but be reminded of his own older sister, Margaret, who would also sternly remind her temperamental younger brother to mind his manners whenever he acted out.
“Good boy. Now what is it I can do for you three?” Henry asked, ruffling his son’s hair so Ambrose would know he wasn’t to upset by his outburst.
“Please let me stay at court, Papa! I don’t want to leave without Amby and Lisbeth. I promise I won’t act like a baby, and I’ll be very good!” Edward cried, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck, staring at him with puppy-dog eyes.
The king frowned, wondering what Jane had been saying to Edward. Had she been trying to turn their son against him like Katherine had done with Mary?
“You are a very good boy, Edward but I think it would be best if you went Hatfield early. Court can often be too overwhelming for a boy your age,” Henry told him gently, stroking his hair, his tone slightly strained as he tried not to take his anger at Jane out on Edward. “What has your mother been telling you about Ambrose and you?”
“Well, when we first got to court, I was a little worried that you would never be as proud of---” Edward began, sounding abashed.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Elizabeth blurted out, causing Henry to stare at her in surprise. He noticed that she was glancing worriedly over at her brothers, leading him to guess that whatever she wanted to tell him, she would rather they were alone.
“Lady Bryan, would you please take Ambrose and Edward to another room,” he commanded, waiting until she had done so before taking Elizabeth in his arms and speaking to her in a gentle voice.
“Sweetheart, I need you to be completely honest with me. What did the queen tell Edward that has him so upset?” Henry asked, trying hard to keep himself calm so not to frighten her into remaining silent.
“Well, he wasn’t upset about anything his mother said to him, he just thinks you aren’t as proud of him as you are Ambrose,” Elizabeth explained. The apprehensive look in her eyes told Henry that was more to it than that. Besides, why would she want Ambrose and Edward out of the room if Edward was just being insecure about being the second son, and it had nothing to with Jane?
“But there is something she said that I should know about,” Henry guessed, giving his daughter a gentle squeeze when she looked down at her hands. “Bess, I promise I won’t get mad at you or Ned, I just want to know what’s going on.”
His daughter’s features morphed into a calculating expression. “Do you promise to let Ned stay if I tell you?”
“You are as shrewd as your mother was,” Henry complimented her, laughing despite the seriousness of the situation. “Alright sweetheart, it’s a deal. Now tell me what you know.”
In truth, Edward’s tearful plea had weakened his resolve and he was reconsidering sending him back to Hatfield especially if the Duke of York feared he loved Ambrose more than him, but he decided not to tell Elizabeth that, allowing her to think that it was her negotiation that had convinced him to allow Edward to stay at court.
Elizabeth took a deep breath before she began to tell him everything she knew and figured out for herself. “Well, I only heard about this conversation from Edward, and he could have misheard his aunt and mother, Papa. I don’t want to be telling tales, but they were talking about how Edward is your very image and the Baroness Cromwell mentioned that Ambrose looked more Boleyn than Tudor.”
Her apprehension and discomfort were palpable on her visage. “Edward said his mother looked uncomfortable at that and changed the subject to how proud you would be of him. He was sad because he believed you wouldn’t be as proud of him as you are of Ambrose so his mother told him that he was a Duke of York just like you were before him and that he would be as great as you were.”
Henry couldn’t blame her. In any other context those words could have been innocent; yet together they seemed malicious. Especially after Thomas Seymour’s foul accusations that Anne had laid with other men including her own brother. And even if Jane did not agree with her sister’s sentiments about Ambrose looking more Boleyn than Tudor, her words about Edward being just like his father were almost treasonous when one put it in the context of them both being the spares to the English throne with their older brothers being the heirs.
Although one could argue that Jane had only meant that Edward would be a great man like his father, the fact that she had worded it by mentioning how Henry had once been the Duke of York made the king believe that she was deliberately making parallels between Edward and Henry.
Clearly Elizabeth had come to the same conclusion and that was why she was so worried about Edward telling Henry what his mother had said, knowing how angry her father would become when he heard about it, an anger he wouldn’t have been able to conceal in front of Edward. Furthermore, if a six-year-old knew the implication of Jane’s words than there was no way his wife had not noticed.
She had wanted to name Edward Henry when he was first born and at the time Henry had thought she was only trying to name a son after him. Now he was certain that she believed history would repeat itself. Whether through Ambrose’ death or because he was supposedly illegitimate, she believed that Edward would be his father’s heir.
“Papa, are you mad at me for telling you?” inquired Elizabeth, pulling her father from his thoughts.
“Of course not, sweetheart, I’m very glad you told me,” Henry soothed, standing up and keeping her in his arms as he brought Elizabeth to where her brothers were waiting, deciding to deal with Jane later.
Elizabeth had hoped that her father spending the next quarter of an hour with them would cause her brothers to forget her odd behavior. While it seemed to have worked for the most part with Edward who was in high spirits learning that he could stay at court, Ambrose had not forgotten.
The minute their father had left, and their governesses were out of earshot, the five-year-old boy turned to her and fixed her with a glare that was reminiscent of their father. For all his Boleyn’s looks, his expressions managed to make his resemblance to the king far more noticeable.
“What was that about, sister? Why did you want us to leave when you talked to Father? What did our lady stepmother say that Papa is upset about?” he interrogated. Although their father had done his best to conceal his temper, Ambrose could practically feel the tension rolling off of him.
“I don’t understand.” Edward’s gaze bounced between his sister and brother. His brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” Elizabeth replied, giving Ambrose a glare.
“You shouldn’t tell lies,” admonished Ambrose. “I am the Prince of Wales and I order you to tell me.”
“According to some people, you are nothing but a bastard!” exploded Elizabeth, fed up with her brother’s bratty behavior. She didn’t know the entire story, but she knew enough to realize that there were some people who didn’t think her mama and papa were married and therefore she and Ambrose were illegitimate and that was why her stepmother and her stepmother’s family believed that Edward should be their father’s heir instead of Ambrose.
“Your Highness!” Lady Bryan exclaimed, shocked by the normally composed princess’ outburst. “You know better than to use such language.”
“What is a bastard?” Edward asked curiously, not understanding why Ambrose looked so hurt and the governesses were so horrified.
“Is that what our stepmother said?” inquired Ambrose in a quiet voice.
“Not exactly,” Elizabeth answered, biting her lip angrily, wishing she hadn’t lost her temper like that. “It’s complicated, Amby.”
“What’s a bastard?” Edward repeated his question, his expression a mixture of confusion and displeasure.
“It’s a bad word for children whose parents weren’t married,” Ambrose explained before looking back to his sister. “If our stepmother didn’t call me a bastard, what did she say then?”
“Mama would never use bad words,” Edward pipped up.
“It doesn’t matter,” their sister proclaimed, unwilling to talk about this subject anymore in front of Edward and their governesses. “Mary says it has nothing to do with us.”
Ambrose didn’t look like he believed her and opened his mouth to say something else when Kat stepped in.
“You know it’s such a beautiful day outside, so why we don’t go outside and feed the fishes,” she suggested.
“I don’t want to,” Ambrose denied crossly. “I want to see Uncle George.”
“Alright, Your Highness. Mistress Champernowne will take Elizabeth and Edward outside and I’ll take you to see the Duke of Kent,” decided Lady Bryan.
The princess tried to catch her brother’s eyes as she and Edward followed Kat out of the nursery, but he didn’t look at her, his expression grim.
Something told Elizabeth that her brother would not be forgetting this conversation for a while. She just prayed he wouldn’t question her again when Edward was around.
Jane was discussing the plans for the Mayday celebrations with her two sisters when her husband walked into her chambers, a black scowl on his face.
“Lady Cromwell, your services are no longer required at court. You are to return to your estates at once,” Henry commanded, his tone broaching no argument.
Elizabeth Seymour looked aghast at being dismissed and banished from court so abruptly and publicly, but she didn’t dare protest. She meekly curtsied before hurrying out of her sister’s chambers, her cheeks colored in humiliation.
“Husband, what crime has my sister committed that you would dismiss her?” Jane asked, shocked by Henry’s actions, wondering if George Boleyn had anything to do with this. Perhaps he was so determined to rid the court of Seymours that he was now making up lies about her siblings, whispering poison about them in Henry’s ears, turning her husband against them. Perhaps it had been his idea to send Edward away so Henry would dote on Elizabeth and Ambrose instead.
“Leave us,” Henry ordered the other ladies-in-waiting, ignoring Jane’s question. He waited until the ladies had left the room before he looked at his wife, his eyes burning with barely concealed anger. “It has come to my attention that your youngest brother is not the only member of your family who has been making foul remarks about my son and heir.”
“Surely there must be some sort of misunderstanding,” protested the queen. “My sister would never insult Prince Ambrose in any way.”
“But she has, Jane and so have you. In fact, some might say your words were treasonous.” Her husband’s tone was deadly soft and dripping with venom and malice.
Jane shuddered at the dreaded word treason, terrified at the implication of Henry’s words and in that moment, she wouldn’t put it past him to arrest her and her sister for treason.
“Your Majesty, I swear to you that neither my sister nor I have ever said anything treasonous. I don’t know who told you such slander,” she began, wondering if this was some sort of ploy by the Boleyns to get rid of her. Were they so foul that they would try to kill her on trumped up charges? But then again there were rumors that Thomas Boleyn and his daughter had poisoned their enemies so perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised.
“Oh? Do you think the people who told me are liars then, Madam?” Henry interjected, almost mockingly.
“If they are accusing me and my sister of treason and speaking against my stepson, then yes I do say they are liars,” proclaimed his wife, not caring if it upset Henry that she was calling the Duke of Kent or perhaps his uncle, the Duke of Norfolk liars. It was high time for Henry to understand that some of the people closest to him were ambitious vipers, plotting the downfall of the innocent people for their own gain.
“I find that interesting considering the person who revealed this information was Prince Edward,” divulged Henry. Had the situation not been so serious he would have enjoyed the look of shock and horror on his wife’s face when she realized the person who ratted her out was their toddler. "Apparently when he first arrived at court, you were saying how he was the very image of me and your sister mentioned that while he was my miniature, Ambrose looked more Boleyn than Tudor. Now I might have accepted that Lady Cromwell’s statement as innocent had your brother not insinuated that the Duke of Kent was Ambrose’s father---a truly disgusting accusation I’m sure you’ll agree. Do you deny that those were her words, Madame?”
“No, Your Majesty, but she didn’t mean—” interrupted Jane only for Henry to continue talking.
“And then you said to Edward, who thankfully is far too young to have grasped such a thing, that he is a Duke of York just like I was, and he would be just as great as me. Do you deny saying that?” he questioned, his voice rising in volume.
Jane was becoming afraid that Henry might hit her or worse have her arrested for treason. “No, Your Majesty but I swear I never intended for my words to mean anything besides Edward being a great man like his father.”
“I was my father’s second son, the spare until my brother died. Are you telling me that you weren’t hoping history would repeat itself and Ambrose would die, allowing Edward to be my heir?” Henry shouted, infuriated by her trying to downplay what she had said. “Do you wish for Ambrose to die?”
“I would never wish any child’s death!” Jane exclaimed earnestly.
“But if he were illegitimate, our son would be my heir.” Henry was far from mollified by her words. “So, you and your family have been trying to stir up doubt about Anne and her children in hopes that you can grab the throne for Edward.”
“We would never do that.” Jane kneeled at his feet, her eyes downcast. “I swear to you, Your Majesty, that I know that Ambrose is your heir and God willing he will be the next King of England.”
Henry started at her with cold eyes as she began to weep, terrified of his wrath.
“Very well, Jane, I shall accept your word that you did not mean to imply that our son will be the next king,” he proclaimed gruffly., making no move to help her up. “Edward will stay at court until his siblings are sent back to Hatfield.”
“Thank you, husband,” Jane said gratefully as she wiped her eyes on a handkerchief. “May I keep Elizabeth as my lady-in-waiting?”
“No. She and your brother will remain banished until I am satisfied with their punishment. I will find you a replacement lady,” denied Henry, before spinning on his heel and striding out of the queen’s chambers.
Jane’s heart broke as she watched him leave without a kiss or even a goodbye. He no longer trusted her, nor did he love her. But then again when had he ever loved her?
It seemed that much like Edward could never compete with Ambrose, she could never compete with Anne Boleyn. Despite being dead, Anne Boleyn’s spell on Henry was so strong, he would never realize that he had the wrong boy as his heir.
“Make way for Prince Ambrose of Wales!” the sentry called, as Lady Bryan led Ambrose past the courtiers and the servants who immediately stopped what they were doing so they could bow and curtsy to the young prince, expressing the delight at seeing him, whispering loudly how handsome he was and how big he was getting.
Ambrose barely noticed them, shaken by his sister’s harsh words. This was not the first time he heard the word bastard been spoken about him. Elizabeth thought she was the only one who listened, but he did too. There were whispers in Hatfield that the Holy Roman Emperor would prefer his daughter married the Duke of York instead of the Prince of Wales who he thought was a bastard.
The dark-haired prince hadn’t understood then, but he remembered how angry Lady Bryan had been when he repeated what he heard to her. She had explained the meaning of the word and why he was never to say it. She also had given the maids Ambrose had overheard it from a very loud scolding, promising to fire them if they ever said anything like that ever again.
Therefore, he knew the word was bad, but he had assumed the maids were exaggerating or simply were misinformed. After all, why would anyone think his parents were not married?
Had anyone other than Elizabeth said that there were some people who viewed him as a bastard he wouldn’t have believed them. But his sister was the smartest girl he knew, and she would not lie to him.
However, that made no sense. Why would anyone think he was a bastard? Ambrose didn’t want to ask Papa when he was in a bad mood already. He doubted Lady Bryan would be any more forthcoming than Elizabeth had been. He hoped Uncle George would tell him the truth.
“Nephew! What have I done to deserve such an honored guest?” George gushed once Ambrose and Lady Bryan entered the Boleyn’s apartments. He immediately scooped the Prince of Wales up and swung him around, tickling his nephew, making him laugh despite his dark thoughts. “Lady Bryan, you may leave us, and I will see to it that my favorite royal nephew is returned to the nursery safely.”
Although she was reluctant to leave her charge, Lady Bryan curtsied and departed the room, leaving Ambrose alone with his uncle.
Despite knowing what he wanted to ask, Ambrose found himself unable to say the words so instead he asked a different question, one equally important. “What was Mama like?”
George looked at him quizzically, clearly wondering what had brought this on. “Before I tell you, let me show you something.” He put Ambrose down and searching through his desk until he found a miniature portrait. He then sat in an armchair and put Ambrose on his knee before he showed him a painting of three children. “I know that your father has many portraits of your mother but here’s one from when she was only a little older than you. In fact, I was your age when this was painted. Look how adorable I was.”
Ambrose laughed as he studied the portrait. “You look like James,” he remarked before studying the face of the older girl. “And Aunt Mary looks like Annie.” Then his eyes traveled to the girl holding Uncle George’s hand, her eyes reminding him of Elizabeth. “Mama looks so pretty.”
“She was pretty, witty, intelligent, brave and strong,” praised George, wrapping an arm around his nephew. “She had her faults though. I shall not deny that. She could get furious at the smallest of slights, she acted brashly far too often and there were times when she acted like a spoiled brat instead of a queen.”
“Elizabeth thinks that sometimes I act like a spoiled brat,” Ambrose muttered, his eyes downcast as he recalled his sister’s scolding.
“Well at least you have the excuse of being five-years-old. I’ve seen nobles ten times your age acting worse,” George scoffed, ruffling his hair before smiling gently at the boy. “I can tell something happened, Amby. Did someone say something about your mama?”
“Not exactly,” Ambrose replied, not wanting George to get mad at Elizabeth who had only said that in a fit of anger.
George sighed. “I know there are some people who say awful things about your mother. But I want you to know that none of it is true. My sister loved your father, and their marriage was a true one.”
“Then why do people think differently?” Ambrose asked, a frustrated grimace on his face.
“It’s complicated,” George answered with a heavy sigh.
“No, it isn’t. Either they were married, or they weren’t,” Ambrose snapped, growing annoyed at receiving the same answer he had from Elizabeth. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know that Ambrose, but that doesn’t mean I want to have to tell you something I think is unpleasant to talk about,” admitted George, struggling to find the words. “I promise that when you are older, I will tell you everything. But for now, I just want you to remember that no matter what anyone says you are your father’s son as much as you are your mother.”
“Do you think I’ll be a good king like Papa?” Ambrose asked.
George’s smile slipped for a moment. “I think we will have to wait and see but I promise you this, if your mother was here right now, she would be telling you how proud she is and how much she loves you,” he affirmed, kissing the boy’s forehead.
Ambrose smiled, pleased that he had gone to talk to his uncle, finding himself feeling much better. “Will you tell me a story about her?” he pleaded.
“All right, let me tell you about the time, she convinced me to sneak into the stables so we could go riding on our father’s favorite horse,” George began. “Mary, of course, tried to convince her that that was a terrible idea but once Anne got an idea in her head, no one could talk her out of it. Not that I was going to try, mind you. If my big sister wanted to ride Father’s horse than that’s what we were going to do.”
By the time, his Uncle George was done telling him stories about his mother, Ambrose had all but forgotten about why he had been upset.
Something had happened. Mary could practically feel it. Her suspicions were confirmed when her father sent her a note, requesting that Lady Catherine Parr be transferred to the queen’s apartments.
Mary was not stupid. After her marriage to Phillip, she would be retiring to their estates for a while, taking her ladies with her. There could only be one reason why her father wanted Catherine in the Queen’s household and that was to keep her at court so he could make her his mistress like he had done so many times before with his wife’s ladies-in-waiting.
“It seems my father has taken a liking to you, Lady Parr,” Mary remarked, causing Catherine to look up from her sewing startled. “He wishes for you to join Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting.” Although her tone was bland, she had a disapproving expression on her face. She did not accuse Catherine of sleeping with her father outright, but it was quite clear to all the occupants in the room what she was thinking.
“I promise you, my lady, that we are merely friends. I shall strive to keep it that way,” Catherine assured her. “My husband maybe an old and sick man but he is still my husband, and I will not humiliate him in such a way.”
“It is not my business to comment on how you conduct your behavior, Lady Parr, but I think I shall miss having such a principled lady such as yourself by my side,” admitted the future duchess a smile on her face as she reaches out to pat the older woman’s arm.
“I can always refuse, my lady, say I would prefer to stay with you,” confessed Catherine.
“The king wishes for you to join my stepmother’s ladies. I am afraid you cannot disobey him,” Mary opined, her tone now warm, touched by Catherine’s loyalty.
“I promise you that if my friendship with the king continues, I shall speak on your behalf, remind him of how you are born from a marriage of good faith and if you cannot be a princess again, at the very least you should be put in the line of succession as you are his daughter,” Catherine proclaimed with conviction.
Mary could barely find the words to express her gratitude, so she simply hugged her.
The Earl of Hertford cursed once Elizabeth had left the room. Apparently, his sister had done something stupid again, getting the king angry at her. It seemed that only Dorothy and his mother had avoided upsetting Henry but then again, the monarch had barely ever interacted with them.
Now Elizabeth had done something that had gotten her dismissed. She claimed that she had done nothing that would provoke the king’s ire and that she was certain that Jane Boleyn and her husband had been spreading vile lies.
Of course, Edward wouldn’t put it past George Boleyn to do something like that, but he also wouldn’t put it past his sisters to say something bad in front of witnesses who could report them to the king.
Either way, it was becoming increasingly clear that he could not trust his siblings to promote their family’s interests at court when they were acting like such nuisances. He needed to turn to someone else who could help his rise up the ranks and help him remove the Duke of Kent from favor.
The Duke of Suffolk would certainly help as his hatred of the late Queen Anne and Duke of Kent was well known. However, he was not as in favor as he had been years ago. While King Henry certainly still saw him as an old friend, he seemed unwilling to give his position as President of the Privy Council back or even in the privy council at all, trusting other men’s advice over his old friend.
And while this might motivate the Duke of Suffolk to enter a conspiracy against the Boleyns, it might also convince him to do the opposite, betraying his fellow plotters in order to regain his spot as the king’s right-hand man.
No, the old duke was too much of a wild card. Unfortunately, a lot of the other men in the King’s inner circle were Boleyn allies if not relatives…
Suddenly Edward smirked, realizing that there was at least one relative who was becoming disillusioned with his nephew’s increased power. He had seen the way Norfolk’s nostrils had flared when King Henry had announced he was naming George Boleyn Lord Protector of England should he die before Ambrose reached maturity. And there was the adding of Kitty Howard to Jane’s household.
Not to mention he and his son were notoriously against the new men of the council, feeling they were nothing but social upstarts. True, there was no doubt they included Edward in that category but at least they would have a common enemy. After all, the earl was not against getting rid of that sly corvid Cromwell as well.
Now he couldn’t go right up to Norfolk and straight out ask the man’s help for getting rid of both the Duke of Kent and Cromwell. The man might use that to get rid of him instead. Besides, it would be better to give him the impression that it was all his idea. He would make himself amendable to Norfolk and wait until the older man got fed up with his nephew.
Edward would also make sure the king knew that unlike his foolish siblings, he supported the true heir to the throne even if it wasn’t his nephew. Luckily, his royal brother-in-law already knew how invaluable his help was and his sibling’s fallacy had not endangered his position as a member of the privy council.
However, Edward was not yet satisfied with his lot, and he would strive to continue to rise through the ranks at whatever cost necessary. All he needed to do was arrange for those who stood in his way to fall.
God willing, he would be a duke and an officer of the state before the Prince of Wales ascended to his father’s throne. He would have displaced the boy’s uncle long before that happened.
Queen Jane was utterly miserable, not only had the talk with her husband shaken and devastated her but now she had learned that King Henry had picked a woman who previously served the Lady Mary as her lady-in-waiting.
The fact that he had chosen her the same day he had dismissed Elizabeth meant that he had known her sometime before. If this Lady Parr was not his mistress, he was clearly interested in making her into one.
And she was not the only potential mistress. A week ago, Jane had spotted Henry watching young Kitty Howard as she danced with one of his groomsmen and she had heard him compliment the girl on her manner of dress.
Because Mistress Howard was new, her uniform had not been made yet, so she was allowed to wear whatever she wanted; and she had chosen to wear a dress of French design.
“Mistress Howard,” Jane called to the girl who had been sent to fetch the linens and had just returned. The sight of the girl had flared a rather vindictive side in Jane that she had not known she possessed until she spoke. “I do not wish to complain but I feel I must comment on your attire. You see all French things have been out of style for some time now and I don’t think your dress is at all what my ladies should wear.”
“I apologize if I offended you, Your Majesty. I just adore wearing dresses like my cousin used to and the king seems to be happy whenever I wear one,” Kitty remarked, her eyes downcast but she didn’t seem all that sorry. In fact, if Jane didn’t know any better, she would have thought she saw a small smirk on the girl’s face.
Notes:
The court might be divided into two sides: Seymour vs Boleyns but there is a small group of people who are on one side only: the happiness of Mary side. Catherine Parr is one of those people.
Elizabeth had the best intentions but in the end, she didn't handle it as well as she could have. But like her Uncle George said at least she has the excuse of being a child. And yes, he was including Henry in his point about nobles acting like spoiled brats.
That night Kitty dreamed of an auburn haired woman patting her on the head, embracing her and complimenting her for her good taste.
Chapter 11: Turning Point
Summary:
A series of events leads to the last straw that breaks the royal marriage.
Chapter Text
April 30, 1544
Prince Edward charged at Prince Ambrose, his makeshift sword clutched tightly in his hands. But for all the six-year-old’s enthusiasm, his nine-year-old brother was still bigger, faster, and stronger than him. Within seconds Edward found himself sprawled backwards onto the grass, disarmed and with a wooden sword pointed at his throat.
“Do you yield, little brother?” inquired Ambrose, looking down at the younger prince with a teasing smirk.
“Someday I’ll beat you, Amby, just you wait,” Edward told him determinedly.
“You always say that,” Ambrose pointed out with a raised eyebrow as he helped Edward up. When he saw Edward scowl, he patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, cheer up, Ned, soon I’ll be off to Wales, and you will be the strongest boy in Hatfield.”
Edward chuckled, unable to stay upset at Ambrose especially at the reminder that the two boys would soon be separated. “I suppose I should count my blessings then. But I’m still going to train harder until one day I’ll be the best swordsman in all of England and I will lead our army to victory like my Uncle Edward.”
Last May, his uncle had led the English troops to victory in the siege of Boulogne, causing King Henry to promote him to Lord High Admiral.
“One day you’ll be my best knight,” Ambrose agreed, slinging his arm around Edward’s shoulders. “We will stand together like our ancestors: the brothers of York.”
Now Edward was grinning, pleased at the notion that Ambrose seemed to want him to stand by his side instead of in his shadow. “Together we’ll bring the golden age, Papa, is always talking about.”
Ambrose beamed at him. He would miss his little brother greatly when he left for Wales in three months’ time
May 1, 1544
Mayday was always an exciting day for the court and this year was no exception. Although the king was unable to joust anymore, he was no less eager to have such tournaments and he would pick a lady to be the Queen of May who would be the one distributing the prizes to whoever came first and second place.
Usually, he would either pick his wife or daughter but this year, the courtiers had a feeling he was deciding between two other ladies instead as Jane was indisposed and Mary was at her estates. So instead, the courtiers laid bets whether it would Catherine Parr or Kitty Howard as it was an open secret that the king had been courting them both for the past four years.
Despite sharing the same name, the two ladies were as different as night and day. Perhaps consequently King Henry seemed to be fond of both of them for different reasons. Mistress Parr was intelligent and witty, someone he could talk with as an equal and Mistress Howard reminded him of the carefree days of his youth.
In fact, Catherine had once quipped: “He sees me as someone he can debate with about many topics, and he sees Kitty as someone he can dance and be merry with. I’m not sure which of us should be insulted.”
And while the queen might have seen both women as rivals for the king’s affection, neither Catherine nor Kitty saw each other that way and the two ladies had become fast friends.
The relationship between Queen Jane and King Henry had only gotten colder over the years.
It was said that if it weren’t for Prince Edward, Jane Seymour would be forsaken as Katherine of Aragon had been. There were whispers that the king had stopped visiting Jane’s bed in fear that if she fell pregnant, she would give birth to another boy and use him to prove that God wanted her sons on the throne.
As far as rumors went, Catherine found that particular one rather ridiculous as she had been around Henry long enough to know that he would welcome another son as a third son would be proof of his virility as much as one would secure his dynasty even further.
Despite this, it was clear that the English monarch preferred the company of the two Katherines over his wife. However, days earlier, Kitty had confided in Catherine that she was worried that might change as she had done something that she feared their royal lover would be most displeased with. Although she also knew her uncle wouldn’t be pleased either, she was aware that King Henry was a possessive and jealous man.
“What if he gets angry?” Kitty asked in a low voice. “What if he has me arrested?”
Catherine Parr glanced around at the spectators, knowing that the Earl of Hereford and the Duke of Norfolk had spies among the courtiers, and they would run off to their masters to report her conversation with Kitty at the first chance.
“Let’s talk about this later,” she hissed, placing her hand on Kitty’s arm, squeezing it gently, meaning it as a warning as much as it was a gesture of comfort.
“I mean he loved my cousin so I would hope that he would understand what’s it’s like to fall in love with someone,” Kitty continued as though she hadn’t understood Catherine’s thinly veiled warning.
Thankfully, Katherine saw a distraction coming their way. “Will! Come sit with us!” Catherine called out to her brother, hoping another person would cause Kitty to stop talking before she said something that would be reported to her uncle who would not hesitate to give Kitty a beating if he found out about her secret.
The new Baron Parr made his way over, smiling almost indulgently at the two women. He had recently been granted his barony and thanks to his friendship with the Duke of Kent not to mention his sister’s budding romance with the king, he would be awarded the Earldom of Northampton sometime in the near future.
“My ladies how are you faring on this beautiful spring day?” he greeted cheerfully.
“Very well. How are you faring, dear brother?” Catherine inquired as she moved down so her brother could sit on her other side.
“Very well,” Will parroted, his eyes lighting up as he spoke. “I have just learned that I will be a father by next year.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Kitty gushed as Catherine congratulated her brother.
“It seems that it is finally your turn to make me an aunt, Will,” Catherine voiced. “Have you and Elizabeth picked out any names if this baby turns out to be a girl?”
“I think Katherine would be a fine name,” Kitty pipped up, able to guess what her friend was getting at and eager to help her gain a niece named Katherine.
“Of course, it would as it belongs to both my dove and my pink rose,” the king remarked jovially having arrived just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. His subjects quickly got up to make their bows and curtsies. The red-haired monarch smiled fondly before offering his arm to Kitty. “Forgive me for interrupting but the joust is about to start, and I wish to have the Queen of May at my side.”
“Your Majesty, I hope to soon have a private audience with you,” Catherine hinted after Kitty shot her a nervous look as she stood up and took the King’s arm.
“Nothing would please me more, my dove,” Henry replied, a flash of excitement in his eyes.
While Kitty had been the king’s lover for the past three years, Catherine had insisted on a chaste courtship, refusing to insult her husband by doing anything more intimate.
Now that she was a widow again, everyone expected her to jump into monarch’s bed and it was clear from the look of lust in Henry’s blue orbs and the apprehensive expression on her brother’s visage that they had assumed that her audience would be a precedent to her consummating her relationship with the monarch.
Catherine chose not to correct their assumptions.
Queen Jane retched into a chamber pot as her sister held her hair back. Although her stomach was twisting and turning, her heart was light as she hoped that her continued illness was a sign of something much more pleasant.
God willing after six long years, she would finally be able to give Edward a brother. Once she had another son, surely Henry would realize that the Boleyn’s boy was nothing compared to Edward and the third prince. And because she had another prince, Henry would finally be free of Anne Boleyn’s spell as Jane would have succeeded in doing the one thing she did not: have two legitimate sons.
Even if Henry didn’t name Edward his heir over Ambrose perhaps a third son would comply him to be more amendable to Jane’s suggestions.
For one thing, the Queen of Scots would make a fine bride for Edward. She had not dared to tell Henry that as she was certain he would assume she hoped that if Edward married the infant monarch of Scotland, he would use both his claim and hers to take the throne of England from Ambrose.
“Can you imagine it, Dorothy, Edward and Mary would unite England, Scotland and Ireland together?” Jane gushed after she had finished throwing up, taking advantage of them being alone to speak openly of what she hoped for her darling son.
Even if Henry still didn’t want Edward to marry the toddler queen, at least a third son would make him amendable to giving out more honors to the Seymours and their relatives, lessening the Boleyn’s hold on the government.
And perhaps he would be willing to reinstate the Princess Mary as legitimate. She was certain her stepdaughter would be grateful for her kindness and despite being married to heretic and the love she had for her half-siblings would want a true Catholic heir to sit on the English throne when Henry died.
If nothing else, the least she could do was make sure that harlot Kitty Howard was sent from court in case she tried to follow in her wretched cousin’s footsteps. All she need was a second son and the Boleyns would finally fall.
May 10, 1544
When Mary had become pregnant a few months before their first wedding anniversary, the Duke of Somerset had been ecstatic. When she had given birth to twin girls, Phillip’s happiness had not lessened, and he had proclaimed himself the luckiest of men to be blessed with three of the loveliest ladies in Christendom.
Mary had been worried that once the allure of their daughters wore off, Phillip would seek out a mistress especially when he could not share his wife’s bed for six months as her body had needed to heal after giving birth to twins.
Instead, Phillip had remained faithful and never once hinted that he would prefer a son over his two daughters.
“Mary, Mary, my love, we are fools,” Phillip declared dramatically as he balanced Katherine on his lap. “Our daughters are your spitting image and we neglected to name one of them after you.”
Mary could not help but giggle as she rocked Elizabeth in her arms. “Ah but this way we can honor our mothers,” she pointed out sweetly, kissing the top of her daughter’s head. Of course, the fact that her sweet sister shared the names of one of her nieces (who she was the godmother of) was merely a bonus.
“While that is quite true, dearest, I must insist that if we are to have a third daughter her name should be after her beautiful mother,” Phillip proclaimed, grinning widely.
Mary’s smile slipped as she thought of her recent miscarriage. Although their physician had assured her that her body was in perfect health, she was reaching her thirties and God knew how hard to was for her mother to birth healthy children. What if she were to suffer the same fate?
How many miscarriages and stillborn children would Phillip tolerate before he got tired of waiting for a son? How much longer would it take before a younger woman caught his eyes.
“Susan, will you be so kind to tell my angels a story?” Phillip requested as he placed Katherine on the floor, stroking her hair as he did so. Once Susan’s tale had distracted Katherine and Elizabeth, he led Mary to an antechamber. “You’re doing it again.”
Doing what?” Mary averted her eyes as she knew full well what her husband was talking about.
“Thinking that I am your father,” Philip answered, trying to keep his tone gentle but Mary could detect the frustration oozing from him. “How many times must I tell you that I am not your father? That I don’t care if I have no son to inherit. Our daughters are enough, Mary, you are enough.”
“I’m never enough!” she exclaimed, hysteria seeping in her voice and tears springing into her eyes. “I have never been enough for anyone. Henry Fitzroy, Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth, Ambrose and even Edward were chosen over me.”
She felt like a child, bemoaning over something so trivial and that was long past but now it was like she had opened the floodgates and could not stop herself from crying over being rejected time and time again by her beloved father.
“I choose you and I will never stop choosing you,” Phillip told her softly, embracing her. “Please, my love, how can I convince you that there is no one else for me but you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just too cynical to believe in love anymore,” admitted Mary with a sardonic chuckle.
“Then I will spend the rest of my days convincing you because I refuse to allow you to doubt the love I have for you,” Phillip declared, kissing her lips passionately.
Cynical or not Mary could not help but melt at his words and at his touch.
She didn’t dare believe that she was enough, but she wanted to because she had never been so happy in her entire life.
Miles away at Whitehall Palace, King Henry was unaware of his daughter’s turmoil. Instead, he was waiting for what he assumed would be a romantic rendezvous with Catherine Parr.
When she met him in the gardens, he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed troubled. “What is it, sweetheart? You look most disturbed,” he observed, his brow furrowing in concern. “Did the queen say something?” He knew from Kitty that Jane had often made “innocent” remarks about Kitty’s silliness or clumsiness, not outright mocking her but still drawing attention to it, opening poor Kitty up for ridicule.
Although Catherine had never mentioned whether or not she got the same treatment, Henry could make a shrewd guess that she had run into similar encounters with his wife.
Catherine inhaled sharply, composing herself and choosing her words carefully. “It is not about the queen, Your Majesty. Kitty has confided in me about something, and she fears that her news will upset you, so she has begged me to tell you.”
Henry wondered if this had anything to do with the Duke of Norfolk. He was not stupid; he knew that the head of the Howards was attempting to recreate the past by placing another of his nieces under the king’s nose.
And although it angered him that Norfolk would try to play his emotions, he couldn’t but be reminded of the courtship between him and Anne which made his feeling for Kitty to become very tender. Besides his mistress was far too innocent to manipulate him into doing her uncle’s bidding.
But surely that wasn’t the news Catherine had been pressed to tell him.
“I am a bit offended that she thinks so little of me that I would be angry with her,” Henry mock huffed, even making an exaggerated offended expression, hoping to lighten the tension.
“She is married, Your Majesty,” divulged Catherine in almost a whisper.
She had been shocked when Kitty had tearfully confessed to eloping with one of the king’s groomsmen, admitting that he had been courting her for almost two years. Wanting to be sure that any child she bore was her husband’s child, she thought it would be best to break off her affair with the monarch which of course meant coming clean with what she had done.
Henry blinked. Well, he was not expecting that. While he often would find his mistresses husbands, they had never sought out spouses of their own while still involved with him. After all, what woman would bother looking elsewhere for someone else when they had a king in their bed pleasuring them?
There was a part of Henry that was offended that Kitty had gone behind his back to marry another suitor---probably one who was younger and livelier. Was he not man enough for her? True he was fifty but despite his leg and his girth, he still had the virility of a man half his age.
He had half a mind to send both that girl and her new husband to the tower for daring to marry without his permission let alone humiliating him in such a way.
But before he could do so, a memory of Anne played in his mind during those years of the Great Matter. How she had lamented the fact that while other ladies her age were already married and had becomes mothers, she was forced to wait as her childbearing years slipped by her.
Perhaps Kitty feared that too. Perhaps she was worried that by being Henry’s lover, she would ruin her own chances of being a wife and mother. She was a woman of twenty, too young to be forced to remain the lover of an old man who was now a grandfather.
“Oh, dear Cate, does she think I am a monster?” Henry asked with a sigh, ignoring the fact that his first thought was to arrest Kitty for the crime of humiliating him.
“No, of course not, Your Majesty, she just did not want you to feel slighted. Although she cares for you deeply, her heart has been stolen much like her cousin’s heart was stolen by you,” professed Catherine, feeling relieved that the king did not seem to be angry.
“Well, I don’t think Anne will be happy if get in the way of true love especially when the woman is her cousin,” Henry agreed as he pictured his deceased wife in his mind’s eye, a fond smile on his face. “Who is the man who has stolen my rose’s heart?”
“Thomas Culpeper,” Catherine answered.
“I will have to banish them from court, Cate, they married without my permission. Nonetheless, if she fears my wrath, tell her that I wish her nothing but the best,” Henry beseeched.
“God bless your tender heart, Your Majesty,” Catherine proclaimed, practically beaming at him. Although it would still be hard for Kitty to be banished with, she and her husband losing their income for the foreseeable future---hopefully, the Duke of Kent would be willing to provide Kitty’s dowry for the Duke of Norfolk would not--- but Catherine was aware that things could have been worse. The best thing to do now was capitalize on the king’s kindness towards Kitty, making sure that he didn’t change his mind and decide on a harsher punishment.
“And what of you, Cate, will you be leaving me too?” wondered the monarch, reaching out to take her hand in his.
“I am a widow twice with no children whose reputation I must protect,” she uttered, playing with a loss strand of her hair. “If you want me, Your Majesty, then I am yours.”
Henry took that as permission to close the gap between them.
May 11, 1544
The marriage of the king’s mistress to one of his grooms had spread throughout the court. Although both Kitty Howard and Thomas Culpepper were dismissed from their posts, the king did not seem too angry with the young couple having given his groom a pension and an estate as a wedding present.
It was rumored that the Duke of Norfolk was incensed by his niece’s actions and refused to pay any sort of dowry forcing the Duke of Kent to step up for his cousin.
The queen was overjoyed when she heard of her rival’s fall, finding the news almost as wonderful as Doctor Butts confirming that she was indeed with child, almost two months pregnant according to his calculations.
Feeling delighted beyond words, she requested Kitty Howard’s presence right away, unable to resist her urge to gloat.
Kitty Howard kept her head held high as she entered the queen’s chambers, paying no mind to the ladies-in-waiting who were looking at her with scorn and glee.
“I hear you have caused a scandal, Mistress Howard,” Jane began, frowning at her former lady. “If it weren’t bad enough that you made a harlot of yourself by seducing my husband, you also enchanted a groom to betray his master. I suppose such behavior runs in the family.”
“Is it my fault that the king prefers my company over yours?” questioned Kitty boldly, keeping her eyes low but there was no mistaking the jeer in her voice. “Besides my cousin did nothing wrong. The king was married to a whore and a liar---"
“Don’t you dare speak such lies! Queen Katherine of Aragon was the true Queen of England!” thundered Jane, suddenly enraged that Kitty would dare speak of a woman who had lost so much thanks to Anne Boleyn. As far as she was concerned, no relative of Anne was fit to even speak about Katherine. “Your cousin was an ambitious witch who seduced the king into forsaking his true wife, his true heir and the true faith. England would have been better off if the ship carrying Anne Boleyn back from France had sunk into the sea.”
“Anne is ten times the queen the Dowager Princess Katherine of Aragon pretended to be, and she is fifty times the queen you will ever be!” Kitty declared, her head snapped up and Jane could see the fire in her eyes. “You’re just jealous because you could not and shall not ever live up to her."
“SHE IS NOTHING BUT A WHORE AND HER CHILDREN ARE NOTHING MORE THAN BASTARDS!” Jane roared, shaking with rage. “NOW GET OUT AND NEVER COME INTO MY PRESENCE AGAIN!”
Fearing she might lose the little self-control she had, and she would hit Kitty or worse get so hysterical that she would miscarry her unborn child, Jane strode into her bedchambers with Dorothy close behind her.
If she had stayed, she would have seen Kitty Howard leaving looking rather satisfied. She would also have seen the Duchess of Kent hurry after the younger woman, her expression a mixture of smugness and shock.
Lady Jane Boleyn remembered how seven years ago she had told her husband that she would keep her ears to the ground for anything useful to be used against the queen. She had not been expecting a very public outburst where Queen Jane did not only make her true feelings on Anne clear but also had called Ambrose and Elizabeth bastards.
It must have been a mixture of blind rage and pregnancy hormones that had loosened her tongue, causing her to speak without thought.
I almost feel sorry for her, Jane mused as she steered Kitty to her husband’s chambers so they could tell George what had occurred.
“How many witnesses were there?” George quizzed, sounding as giddy as their son whenever he got a treat.
“Enough to convince everyone that we’re not making it up. The queen had wanted a very public shaming of Kitty,” Jane replied, thinking how ironic the situation had turned out. What was supposed to be Jane Seymour’s victory would be her downfall instead.
“We must go to the King at once,” George decided. “He’ll want to hear about this straight away. “
“Won’t I get in trouble too for what I said?” questioned Kitty, not wanting to tempt the king’s anger especially when she knew he was not thrilled about her elopement even if he had taken it better than her Uncle Thomas and her cousin, Henry.
“Dear, sweet cousin, you could have called Edward a weak little imbecile and His Majesty would be too busy berating the queen to care,” affirmed George. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t send her packing like he did to the Dowager Princess she so admires.”
Not even thirty minutes later, King Henry was stomping towards his wife’s apartments with such force and speed, courtiers had to practically jump out of his way.
He had barely waited until Kitty and Lady Kent had told him their accounts of all they had heard before making his way to her chambers. He only paused to command George to tell Cromwell to get statements from the other ladies-in-waiting so Jane could not insist that the two ladies were lying. Additionally, to have carriages be made ready and a suitable residence picked for the queen’s exile.
First Jane had allowed her siblings to say vile things about his late wife and children, then she continued to neglect Elizabeth and Ambrose in hopes that Henry would see their son as a better candidate for his heir. Now she had gone too far and if she were not the mother of his son, he would have her arrested for slander and treason.
The rage must have shown on his countenance for when Jane saw him, she became very pale, and she immediately dropped to her knees. Her ladies quickly scattered after he bellowed for them to leave.
“Forgive me please. I did not mean any of it,” Jane cried, not even denying what she said, knowing that there was no point when there were so many witnesses to her tirade. “I have been unwell, and it has caused me to speak widely.”
“Do not attempt to act innocent,” snarled her husband, clenching his fists least he lost control and started strangling the woman in front of him. “You have revealed the truth of your character repeatedly. I have turned a blind eye to your continued insults to my loved ones. But enough is enough, Madam!”
“Henry, please.” Jane whimpered pitifully. “I beg your pardon.”
The monarch ignored her, continuing his rant. “I refuse to stand idly by while you slander my true wife and my true heirs. I will be investigating your conduct to be sure there is nothing else you have been keeping from me and until I am satisfied of your loyalty, you will have banished from court and put under house arrest.”
“No, Your Majesty, please I am your most loyal and devoted wife, and I am carrying your child again. Please do not send me away when our child is growing within me,” Jane pleaded, hoping the mention of his unborn child would be enough to stir up Henry’s sympathy.
He only glared at her, his tone as cold as ice. “If what you say is true, Madam, I can assure you that you will be housed comfortable until the baby is born.”
“Please Henry, my love, please don’t forsake me. I will do whatever you want, please don’t forsake me!” implored Jane, terrified that this time she had dug her own grave. “For the love you have of our son, please don’t send his mother away.”
“Speaking of Edward, you will not be able to write or see him until I am satisfied that you are loyal,” Henry informed her cruelly, taking a sadistic pleasure at how she seemed to crumple at his words as if he smacked her. “I will not allow you to turn our son against his siblings especially filling his head with nonsense about how he should be my heir instead of Ambrose.”
“Look at what that witch has done to you! If it weren’t for her, you would never be so cruel!” Jane blurted out, unable to stop herself.
The notion that Anne had once again caused a true queen to banish and separated from her beloved children was too much to bear and she found herself not caring about the consequences of what she said. “How can you even be sure her children are yours considering her reputation.”
Henry grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up, his eyes flashing. “One more insult against Anne and I will charge you with high treason!” his hissed, his nails digging into her skin. “Do you understand me, Madam?”
When Jane nodded, he dropped her unceremoniously on the ground. “You will remain in your apartments until I have sorted out where you will be staying. You will receive no visitors in the meantime save for Doctor Butts. For your sake you better not be lying about being pregnant.”
With that, King Henry left his wife to curl up in a ball and start wailing.
Am I the only one in my godforsaken family blessed with brains? Edward gritted his teeth as he spotted the Duke of Kent in deep conversation his wife. That pompous bastard must be overjoyed in bringing about the downfall of Jane. Although he was aware that this was mostly his sister’s doing, Edward still resented how the Duke of Kent had no doubt eagerly reported every word his foolish sister had said.
Now that Jane had officially lost royal favor---Edward doubted that even if she were to birth another son, the king would be willing to welcome her back--- it was up to the only Seymour left at court to promote his family’s interests.
And although Edward had managed to keep a footing on the slippery slope of court despite the foolishness of his siblings, it was clear that he needed some allies.
Deciding to take a risk, Edward approached the Duke of Norfolk. “Your Grace, I believe that we have something in common,” observed he in a low whisper as he bowed to the duke.
The Duke of Norfolk’s eyebrow rose but he did not seem to object to Edward’s presence nor the breach of protocol. “Do tell,” he drawled.
“For one thing, we both have foolish relatives,” Edward remarked, causing Norfolk to scowl. Not only had Kitty Howard gone against his orders, but George Boleyn also seemed to take great pleasure out of undermining his uncle. “And furthermore, we both are unhappy with the way the court is being run.”
“Hmm, I do see your point,” Norfolk agreed, shooting a glare in his nephew’s direction. “Perhaps we should discuss this further at another time.”
“I look forward to it,” declared Edward with a smirk.
Neither were aware of the Viscount of Lisle who was listening to their conversation intently.
Notes:
Well Jane screwed up big time.
Henry basically sees both Kitty and Catherine as extensions of Anne. With each having something about her that he loved.
Ambrose needs to brush up on history.
Chapter 12: Birthday Drama
Summary:
Only weeks after Queen Jane's banishment, the court celebrates King Henry's birthday.
Notes:
What the hell? Usually this story is the hardest one to write for (and considering it's my most popular story, that just sucks) but today I managed to write four thousand words in just a couple of hours. Not sure what happened but if I keep this up, I'll have all my stories updated by the tenth. Go me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
June 28, 1544
The Queen of England’s downfall was discussed at great length by the court. While some sympathized with the forsaken queen, others thought it was her just deserts after what she had said about Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth. No matter what their mother had done, Queen Jane had no right to speak about her children like that as they were innocent of their parents’ crimes.
However, the majority of the court felt sorry for the true victim of all this unpleasantness: Prince Edward.
“Poor little prince,” a courtier murmured. “I heard upon learning that he wasn’t allowed to see his mother, he wept openly.”
“Surely the king will allow him to see his mother eventually,” another courtier protested, unwilling to believe the red-haired monarch would be so heartless. “He eventually allowed the Lady Mary to be with her mother.”
“Only because he was grieving for the late Queen Anne. Otherwise, he would still be insisting that Katherine of Aragon was turning his daughter against him,” someone else pointed out. “I have no doubt that is the reason King Henry doesn’t want Prince Edward to see Queen Jane: he probably believes the same of her.”
“Poor child, he doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of this mess.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not just in the middle of the mess between King Henry and Queen Jane. He and his siblings are caught in the power struggle between the Duke of Kent and the Earl of Hertford.”
No one could deny the truth of that statement. Even with the queen gone, the battle between the Boleyns and the Seymores continued to rage on.
Prince Ambrose was determined to talk to his father. He would be leaving for Ludlow in a few days, so he was running out of time to have a face-to-face talk. He just hoped his father would listen to what he had to say.
He knew that for all the love his father had for him when he made up his mind on something, he was far too stubborn to change it especially if the rumors about what the queen had said was true.
Although Ambrose was furious at learning what his stepmother had said about his mother let alone him and Elizabeth, he still felt that by separating her and Edward, his father was punishing Edward for something that had nothing to do with him.
The Prince of Wales was not about to let his poor innocent little brother suffer for what his mother had done.
Roger Ascham walked alongside the prince as they made their way to the king’s private audience chamber. As the Prince of Wales’ primary tutor, he had taken it upon himself to counsel the boy on how to speak to his father, believing it would be a good lesson on diplomacy.
The tutor stayed with the other petitioners as Ambrose was ushered into the room. The herald had barely announced his arrival before King Henry had initiated a bear hug, taking advantage of their privacy to be openly affectionate.
“God’s teeth, my boy, will you ever stop growing?” he demanded, laughing as he ruffled his son’s hair.
“Never, Papa, I intend to be as tall as you one day,” Ambrose replied, grinning cheekily.
“You just might,” King Henry guffawed. “Now tell me, Ambrose, what can I do for you? It might be my birthday, but I am willing to partake in any activity you want, just name it.”
“Any activity where I spend time with you, Papa, will be my favorite,” Ambrose told him, being sure to make his tone as sweet and innocent as he possibly could.
King Henry’s eyes narrowed, wiggling a finger at him in a mock rebuke. “I see what you are plotting. You are buttering me up, I can tell, and it is working perfectly. What is it you wish from me?”
Ambrose took a deep breath before responding to his father’s question. “I want you to let Edward see his mother.”
It was clear by the look on King Henry’s visage that whatever he was expecting, that wasn’t it. He gaped at his son for a few moments before regaining the use of his tongue and when he spoke, he spoke with the air of someone choosing their words carefully. “Ambrose, your stepmother has said some things that if she were any other woman in England she would be in prison for. She must be punished for the unkind things she said.”
The Prince of Wales frowned, annoyed that his father was trying to keep him ignorant as if he was a sensitive little childlike Ned.
“I know what she said, Father, gossip travels everywhere even to Hatfield. Uncle George and Mary already explained why there are those who think Elizabeth and I are bastards,” divulged Ambrose, staring up at his father with fire in his eyes, daring the red-haired monarch to lie in order to spare his feelings.
“What exactly did Mary tell you?” Henry asked, a tiny bit of worry in his tone. Although he knew his eldest daughter had eventually come to terms with her bastard status and how much she doted on her half-siblings, treating them as though they were her own children, he did fear that her dislike of Anne could color her opinion even now.
“The truth! She told me the truth!” Ambrose exclaimed, growing angry at what he perceived as his father trying to change the subject. “That you were, or you thought you were married to her mother and some people blame my mother for you deciding to get an annulment and marry her instead. Queen Jane believes that Edward is your true heir because Elizabeth and I were born when Mary’s mother was still alive.”
“That’s right.” Henry fought with himself to be calm. Ambrose was dealing with an unpleasant situation and his anger was understandable even if he should not be talking to his father, let alone his king so disrespectfully. “And that’s why I cannot let Edward go see her. She might make him think the same thing and then when I die you and your brother might start fighting.”
“He is my brother, he would never turn against me,” Ambrose protested, horrified that his father would ever imply that Edward was capable of treason let alone claiming he was king instead of Ambrose. Sure, Edward could act like a baby and sometimes he was a bit competitive, growing sulky when he lost but he loved Ambrose as much as Ambrose loved him.
King Henry knelt down and put his hands onto Ambrose’s shoulders, making sure they were eye to eye. “Ambrose, I love Edward very much. He is my son,” Henry began, deciding not to add that it was only because of Edward and his unborn child that he had not sent Jane to block for her treasonous words. “But King Edward the Fourth once stood side by side with his brothers, their familiar bounds stronger than iron only for them to turn against each other, each believing that they had more right to rule than he and his sons. Your brother stands by your side now but if your mother’s detractors get into his head, he might feel that he is doing the right thing by taking your throne. And let me tell you something, Ambrose, there is nothing more dangerous than an enemy who believes he is doing the right thing.”
“But Edward is not my enemy,” objected Ambrose, closing his eyes as he tried to keep the hot tears behind his eyelids from leaking out, reminding himself that he was a big boy and big boys did not cry.
“I know he is not, and I must take precautions to make sure he never is,” Henry explained, wishing he could assure his son that Edward would never listen to his mother or anyone who told him that he was the rightful king.
However, for all the love Edward had for his brother, if he convinced himself that what he was doing was right that love would not stop him from raising up an army to usurp the throne. “Sometimes kings must do things they don’t want to do even if it hurts the ones they love. I promise you that what I am doing is in Edward’s best interests as much as it is yours.”
He then embraced Ambrose, wishing he could shield him from the unpleasant realities of life but someday he would not be here to protect him and so it was better that Ambrose understood now instead of learning later just how cruel life turned out sometimes.
Without the queen, everyone expected the king to on the dais by himself or for his official mistress Catherine Parr to be at his side, instead he had four thrones on either side of his own throne; it was no surprise when he invited his children to sit with him.
“I do hope my granddaughters will forgive me for not having seats for them,” Henry whispered to Mary, glancing over at his son-in-law and his granddaughters. “If I thought they would be willing to sit through the gift giving ceremony, I would have offered to let them sit on my lap.”
“As much as they would love that, Father, I think they are overdue to take their naps and will only be staying to present our gift to you,” Mary explained, smiling lovingly at her husband and daughters.
“Oh well then I think I shall accept presents from my children first starting with the Duchess of Somerset,” declared Henry, rising his voice so all could hear him.
Holding their father’s hand, Lady Elizabeth and Lady Katherine made their way to the dais, making an awkward curtsy as they did so.
A servant followed close behind them at Duke Philip’s order, he revealed a beautifully crafted tapestry of a knight presenting the Tudor rose to a lady.
Despite knowing gift had technically come from his daughter and her husband, Henry still compliment his granddaughters as thought two toddler girls had made it themselves. “Oh, how beautiful. It is a marvelous gift and I shall think of my favorite granddaughters whenever I look at it,” he proclaimed, patting Mary’s hand just to be sure she knew that for all of his gushing he knew who truly had gotten him this wonderful gift and from what he knew of his daughter’s crafting skills, he wondered if perhaps she had made it herself. He would ask her once the celebration was over and of course thank her properly.
After being embraced by their grandfather, their mother, their aunt, and their uncles, the two girls were led out of the presence chamber, to be put down for their naps.
“Perhaps Edward should go next,” Ambrose suggested, giving his brother an encouraging smile.
Henry glanced over to his youngest son, studying him to see how he was doing. After his conversation with Ambrose, he had vowed to remind Edward that while he could not see his mother, he could have all the time he wanted with his father.
Although little Prince Edward had been quite happy to play with his father, he had begged his father to let him see his mother, promising that he would be on his best behavior and Henry had gruffly refused, causing the boy to become somber and sulky which consequently made his father annoyed, and he had ended their bounding time early to go seek entertainment elsewhere.
Cate had been a sweet remedy to his temper, coaxing him not to be too hard on his son, reminding him that at six it was hard to understand why he could not see his mother especially when everyone was unwilling to tell him why he could not see her.
She had been the one to suggest that instead of him being alone or having her at his side, for him to be surrounded by his four children, showing that despite the queen’s banishment, they were a united family.
He was pleased to see that Edward’s expression was now light and excited as he summoned a servant to present his father with a set of bejeweled goblets.
“Marvelous, dear Ned, I am very pleased!” Henry exclaimed, reaching over Ambrose so he could pat the boy’s head. “All right, who will be next Ambrose or Elizabeth?”
“Ladies first,” Ambrose said with a grin.
“I translated Lady Parr’s Prayers or Meditations,” Elizabeth announced as she presented the pages filled with translations from English to Italian, Latin, and French.
Henry smiled. Catherine had managed to worm her way in the hearts of all four of his children, even before she had become his official mistress. While Jane had focused on Edward’s education and Henry focused on Ambrose, she had taken it upon herself to make sure that Elizabeth was getting the education her intelligent mind deserved. It was no small wonder that as a thank you Elizabeth would remind the entire court that Lady Catherine was a published author.
“I am most pleased by this gift,” Henry affirmed, ordering his groom to take the gift to his chambers, promising his daughter, he would read it thoroughly the moment the celebrations were over. “God has blessed me with such clever and talented women to love and cherish!”
He beamed at Elizabeth before turning towards Ambrose. “Now what does the Prince of Wales have in store for me?”
“A song, Father, one I have composed myself,” Ambrose informed him as he called for a servant to bring him a virginal so he could play it while he sang. Although he had written the song, his music tutor had to help him not only set it to music but also practice singing and playing at the same time.
Those long weeks of rehearsing seemed to have paid off because King Henry’s smile was quite large as he played. Then once Ambrose had finished, he jumped up and clapped loudly for his son, causing the courtiers to quickly follow with the Duke of Kent leading the applause, beaming at his young nephew.
“A masterpiece!” Henry cried dramatically. “Will your talents ever cease to amaze us?”
Ambrose ducked his head and bowed before returning to his seat, his cheeks red in embarrassment as his father continued to lavish praise on him.
“Your Majesty, the next gift is from Queen Jane,” a servant called out before Henry could call upon his mistress to present her gift.
At once the king frowned but he nodded his head, allowing the servant to present the absent queen’s gift while the rest of the court watched with bated breath, wondering what the gift was and how the volatile red-haired monarch would react.
“Her Majesty sends her warmest well wishes on this happy day and she presents to you her gift a pair of Biscayan boar spears,” the servant announced. His expression was apprehensive as he feared that the king would take his anger at the queen out on the messenger.
And he was right to be worried for only a few people were ignorant to the significance of the queen’s gifts as they were the exact same gift Anne Boleyn had given to Henry a little over twelve years ago.
Perhaps Jane thought that King Henry wouldn’t remember as he had regifted Anne’s gift to Ambrose, wanting his son to have a piece of his mother. Or maybe she had hoped he would see it as her way of apologizing for her words against Queen Anne by giving him the spears he had so loved.
Whatever her intentions were, the courtiers were not pleased. Chief among them was the Duke of Kent who was not bothering hiding his look of outrage. The Duke of Suffolk was wincing at the queen’s poor choice, looking nervously at the King, awaiting his outburst. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Hertford both had similar expressions of annoyance and disbelief at Jane’s foolish actions.
Mary and Elizabeth exchanged worried glances as King Henry rose from his throne, his countenance as dark as a storm cloud.
“Send them back to the queen and tell her I reject her gift and order her never to send me anything ever again!” he bellowed before storming out of the room, the grooms and Lady Catherine hurrying after him.
Before anyone else could do anything, Mary stood up. “My father is feeling under the weather,” she lied despite knowing full well no one would believe that. “My siblings and I shall see what gifts you have to offer him before we sup in Great Hall.”
Although she was aware that no one would be able to shake off the king’s fury to truly enjoy the rest of the ceremony or the feast that was planned to follow especially when it was his birthday but Mary felt it would be a disservice to the courtiers who had spent time and effort picking out their gifts and also to the palace cooks who had spent hours preparing the king’s birthday feast.
With the queen exiled, King Henry had granted Catherine Parr her own household, giving her apartments that had a chamber linking them to his own apartments, allowing them to schedule their rendezvous without all of the court knowing what they were doing.
Which is why Catherine had not minded leaving her ladies behind knowing that they were just call away while she soothed her lover’s smoldering temper.
“Perhaps the queen did not mean to offend you. Maybe that she really thought---” Catherine began.
“She thought she could replace Anne in my affections that was what she is trying to do,” Henry shouted. “She wants to replace Ambrose with Edward, Elizabeth with Mary and Anne with herself. Perhaps it is a good thing that Anne is already dead for Jane would have probably killed her to get a crown.”
“Now you’re just saying falsehoods in anger,” admonished Catherine. “If you thought the queen was someone capable of murder, she’d be in the Tower awaiting her execution, mother of your son or not.”
“Sometimes I think you are too bold,” Henry grumbled as he poured himself a goblet of wine.
As he had not demanded she leave or stop talking, Catherine pressed on.
“The queen is naïve, not cruel. Because she believes you were truly married to Queen---I mean the Princess Katherine, you could not have been married to Queen Anne and therefore under that line of thinking Ambrose and Elizabeth are being unfairly labeled as legitimate and your heirs. She believes she is right, and she therefore cannot see the truth even though it is right in front of her,” Catherine speculated, praying that he had not heard her slip up calling Katherine queen, something she had only done because she revered Katherine very much.
“There is no one more dangerous than an enemy who believes they are doing the right thing,” Henry repeated the words he had told Ambrose earlier.
His lover cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheek. “I’m not saying you should forgive her or that her punishment is not just, but I beg of you not to hate her so much that it makes you perceive everything she does as something evil as I fear if you do that, Edward will be the one suffering.”
Henry closed his eyes and took a sharp breath in. “I suppose you have a point, dear Cate. The last thing I would want is to make things worse for Edward.”
“Perhaps you should explain to him what is going on,” Catherine suggested. “That way, he can understand your point of view and he won’t be swayed by those who will be far more biased.”
“I suppose you are right. I will talk to him,” Henry agreed, putting his wine down so he could caress Catherine’s face, kissing her softly. “Oh Cate, if only I had married you for you truly have been nothing but motherly to all my children and I thank you for that. If there is anything I can do for you, I swear I shall do it.”
“Well, there is one thing, I have been hoping you might consider,” Catherine began, having not forgotten her promise to Mary she had made all those years ago. She had thought it would be best to wait until the tension between the queen and the king had died down, but she realized that would never happen and with Mary being so high in the King’s favor perhaps now was a good time to bring it up.
“I know that you were never really married to Katherine of Aragon, but the Lady Mary was born from a marriage made in good faith and with your Act of Succession allowing you to choose your heir I thought perhaps Mary could be returned to her position as princess.”
Henry stared at her for a minute surprised by her statement as it had been a long time anyone even Emperor Charles had brought up Mary being a princess again but at the same time, he could not deny the truth of her words.
After all, Mary had proven herself loyal and her husband, while not English, had agreed to give up his birthright for her. Not to mention Mary was of his blood and therefore had as much right to rule as his nieces did. It was not her fault that her mother had lied about being a virgin.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
June 29, 1544
Mary was slightly nervous when her father called her to see him after she had broken her fast. But her nerves disappeared when he welcomed her with affection shining in his eyes.
“Mary, my pearl, I wanted to thank you for taking over last night,” her father praised. “I know my abrupt departure must have put a damper to things. I hope Ambrose, Elizabeth and Edward were not to upset.”
“No, Father, I mean Edward was confused but Elizabeth and I managed to get his mind off of…” she trailed off, not wanting to say her father’s outburst least he thought she was scolding him for his temper. She also didn’t want to mention that Ambrose was in a foul mood as well for the same reason Henry had been. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “I hope you enjoyed the rest of your gifts.”
Henry nodded in confirmation. “Speaking of last night. Cate and I were talking about something that I had taken much too long to consider and for that I must apologize,” he remarked, ignoring the surprise on his daughter’s face. “Mary, although I shall never say I made a mistake annulling my marriage to your mother, I was wrong to allow you to punish for things outside your control. As a daughter born from a marriage in good faith, you are my trueborn daughter and therefore you and your children should be my heirs.”
“Oh Father, I…” Mary felt overcome with emotion. Ten years ago, she would have inwardly scoffed at him giving her a tiny piece of what had been her right for most of her life especially when it did not come with admitting that her mother had been his true queen. But now the idea of her father trusting her enough to make her his heir and loving her to the point that he was willing to right by her even though no one was fighting for her to be a princess again (for all Jane’s promises she had not followed through, and Mary had seen no evidence of her trying since the day she had made that promise). “Thank you.”
“I do have one condition, Mary,” Henry told her sternly, although he was smiling, pleased by her reaction. “If you become your brother’s heir, your son will be required to legally change his name to Tudor.”
“I shall agree to that, Father,” Mary assured, hoping Phillip would not be too angry at her for making such a promise.
“Good, I shall have a new draft of the succession drawn up,” Henry decreed, kissing the top of her head. “It gladdens my heart to see you so happy, Mary and I am glad that we have put the unpleasantness of the past behind us.”
“I am too, Father.” For once, she was not even lying.
When Henry dismissed her, Mary made sure to make a short visit to Catherine to thank her for her help. Of course, Catherine was very humble about it, insisting all she had done was used reasoning and she apologized for taking so long to do so.
Mary then returned to her own apartments to tell Philip the news only to be told her husband had gone hunting with some friends and Ambrose wished to speak to her.
“Susan said that Father wanted to see you. Did I get you in trouble?” Ambrose’s expression of concern and guilt.
“No. Why would you have gotten me in trouble?” his sister questioned, dismissing her ladies so she and Ambrose talk in private.
“Because I told Father yesterday that you told me about the Great Matter,” Ambrose admitted, knowing that Elizabeth would be furious with him if he got their sister in trouble.
“No. Father never said anything about that. What was it you two discussed?” inquired Mary, kneeling down so she was eye level with her little brother. If Ambrose even mentioned the Great Matter, something that was a taboo subject even all these years later especially where their father was concerned, whatever had transpired had obviously been a tense conversation.
“Edward. I was asking Father to let him see his mother and he was trying to avoid telling me what she said so I wanted him to know that I knew what she said and why she had said it,” divulged Ambrose before remembering why he had wanted to talk to his sister in the first place. “I’m really worried about him, Mary. He’s been so upset lately and yesterday I thought by letting him go first, he would feel important but all that did was make him think I was trying to upstage him by going last.”
“Oh Amby, he’s just upset right now,” Mary soothed, stroking the boy’s face, trying to make him feel better. “It shall pass, and he will realize you were just trying to help.”
“But what if he continues to resent me. Father thinks his mother will turn him against me but if keeping him away from her just makes him start to hate me,” lamented Ambrose. “Especially if I’m not there to remind him that we’re brothers and we’ll always be brothers.”
Mary wasn’t sure what she could say to this. A part of her wanted to assure Ambrose that Edward would never begrudge him because she never had resented him or Elizabeth for taking what she perceived was her rightful position or for their father’s decision to separate her from her mother.
But she and Edward were no more similar than Queen Jane was to Queen Katherine. She couldn’t say for sure that Edward would ever lose that resentment when it stemmed from not understand why his mother had banished and how their father seemed to lavish praise and love onto Ambrose, a lot more than he did with Edward.
However, she could promise one thing. “I swear to you, on my immortal soul that as long as I draw breath, I will always broker peace between you and Edward. I won’t let either of you be…” she broke off, trying to find the right word.
“Stupid,” Ambrose supplied, causing Mary to laugh despite herself.
“Precisely.” She gave him a crooked smile before hugging him tightly.
When Philip returned from the hunt, it was time for them to have supper and Mary informed him of her news.
Her husband chewed on his bread thoughtfully, swallowing before speaking, “Well, I have given up my lands, my title and my home to marry you. I suppose giving up my name is only right. In fact, if it pleases your father, I can legally change my name and our girls name to Tudor, allowing us not to have to worry about such a thing.”
“Would you really do that?” Mary asked in surprise.
“If it makes you happy, Mary, I will give up everything,” Phillip assured her with a loving smile. “Besides I’m a German living in England for the rest of my life and our children will live their lives in England. Therefore, I might as well take an English name or a Welsh name as it were, and Tudor is a good of a name as any.”
“You are too kind to me,” professed Mary. “I’m not sure how I got so lucky.”
Philip stood up abruptly and walked over to his wife, kneeling much to her bewilderment. “Although I would have married you whether you were a bastard or a princess, I can’t help but think in another life, I would be kneeling at your feet, calling you, my queen.” He kissed her hand over and over again.
She could not help but giggle at his words. “You would be my King and you would be able to stop me from going too far with my ideals, turning all of England against me,” she envisioned. “We would have ruled England like King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.”
“We would have but I think our lives now are so much better,” Philip remarked. “As there is no pressure on you and therefore, I get to see that smile on your face that I adore so much.”
“I love you Phillip,” Mary whispered as she pulled her husband up so she could kiss his lips.
“And I love you, my beautiful princess,” he breathed as they parted for only a few seconds.
Their meal was pretty much forgotten as Philip carried his wife to their bedroom, leaving the servants to giggle over how the Duke and Duchess had decided to celebrate Mary becoming a princess again by working on conceiving a new Tudor baby.
Notes:
The worst enemy is someone who believes they are right. Gee I wonder who that describes. Thomas More perhaps? Emperor Charles maybe. King Henry definitively.
Also Catherine Parr has a lot of my opinions. She admires both Queen Katherine and Queen Anne and doesn't hate Jane Seymour with a fiery passion, just dislikes her.
I know people probably think Phillip is a little too nice but as he pointed out, he and his children are never going to leave England and he has no titles or land in Germany so why not take his wife's name?
Thoughts on Jane? Thoughts on Catherine Parr? Anybody you want me to check in on?
Chapter 13: Upwards and Onwards
Summary:
Catherine Parr tries to help Edward come to terms with his mother's banishment which leads her to a dangerous encounter with his uncle. Suffolk began to grow restless and makes a decision. George suffers another blow and receives a message from his sisters.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
July 1, 1544
Queen Jane could scarcely believe her ears when the news had reached Kimbolton castle. She had begged Henry to reinstate Mary, for the sake of his realm, for a Spanish alliance, for the unity of his family, for many years.
However, each time she had brought the topic up with him, her husband had coldly told her that instead of focusing on her oldest stepdaughter, she should be worrying after Elizabeth who needed her stepmother’s guidance as she progressed from girlhood into womanhood, unlike Mary who was a woman grown and therefore did not need anyone looking after her interests.
And now thanks to the king’s whore, Catherine Parr, Mary was to be made a princess again. It seemed that while Jane could do no right, Catherine Parr, who was sleeping with a married man, could do no wrong.
Furthermore, according to her brother, she had done much wrong. Edward had sent her a letter, berating her over the birthday gift she had sent her estranged husband, furious that she would blatantly copy the late Anne Boleyn’s gift, knowing how much King Henry treasured them. He heatedly reminded her that while she was in exile, she could not afford to make such a stupid mistake as if he thought she had wanted to make him angrier at her then he already was.
Jane had only wanted to make her husband soften to her, hoping he would see the gifts she had picked out for in a good light, touched that she remembered how much he had loved those spears. He would be pleased that she had put so much thought to her gift. She had hoped he would see it as a peace offering; instead, he was convinced by either the Boleyns or perhaps his mistress that she had bought him a gift in an effort to mimic or outdo his late concubine.
It was devastating to know just how cruel her husband was willing to treat her. Exiling her, separating her from her only child and then reinstating his daughter as princess, crediting Lady Catherine Parr for the idea when Jane had been the one begging him for years.
He had sent her to Kimbolton Castle, reducing her household considerably. Dorothy and other ladies who were known to be her favorites were dismissed. Either sent home or put in the household of Catherine Parr. Her servants were clearly chosen by the Duke of Kent as they treated her with only the barest amount of respect, their eyes filled with scorn.
While people were allowed to visit her, they were expected to get the king’s permission first and who would be willing to invite his ire by asking to visit his forsaken wife, when not even her family had dared to do so?
As if being banished wasn’t bad enough, Jane was certain she was being monitored so if she said anything treasonous it would be brought to the king’s ears. She had no doubt that her chamberlain was reading her letters before they were sent and any letter she received was read by her chamberlain before given to her.
She wasn’t allowed to leave the house without guards accompanying her and she couldn’t go past the great lawn of the castle. She was not allowed to ride anywhere---considering the castle was on fenland, there weren’t many places to ride in the first place---not unless she had permission from the king. Permission he would never give her.
Jane was isolated and trapped. She might as well be living in the Tower of London as a prisoner who was doomed to remain there until either the sweet release of death or God willing the her husband’s pardon.
Her only hope was the child living inside of her. Surely King Henry would realize what he was doing was wrong once their second son was born. Anne hadn’t been able to bear him two sons. Therefore, once Jane did, Henry would be happy, and he would let her come back to court in triumph. Then she could be reunited with her precious son and maybe she could coax him into sending away Catherine Parr and those wretched people who dared whisper poison in his ears.
Yes, all would be made right again once she had a baby boy, proving that unlike Anne or even the sainted Queen Katherine of Aragon, she was King Henry’s true wife and the only one who could give him what he wanted: legitimate sons.
Miles away from his unhappy mother, Prince Edward watched his brother’s household as they loaded his things into carts. The entire court had gathered to watch the Prince of Wales leave for Ludlow, where he would learn how to run a government from his seat of the Welsh Marshes.
Edward suppressed a grimace as his father lavished Ambrose with praise as he had done when Ambrose had performed during the king’s birthday celebration, showing more pride and joy than he had when he had received Edward’s gift.
Ambrose swore up and down that he had not been trying to upstage Edward and if Edward were to be fair minded, it wasn’t just Ambrose whose gift seemed to have made more of an impact on their father than Edward’s jeweled goblets. Both Mary and Elizabeth had also made their gifts, spending hours of their days, putting their blood, sweat and tears into crafting something their father would cherish while Edward had simply asked his steward to buy his father the most expensive goblets he could get his hands on.
But then again, if he had composed a song and sang it for his father, would he be accused of copying Ambrose as his mother had been accused of doing when she presented his father with fine spears that unfortunately were the same kind Ambrose and Elizabeth’s mother had bought.
Of course, no one would dare say Ambrose was copying him, they’d be too busy commenting on much better the Prince of Wales’s song was compared to Edward and how his older brother was far more talented.
Edward could have drafted a book of poems, written an epic tale, painted his father’s portrait, performed a miracle, won the French crown. Still Ambrose’s gift would have been better in the eyes of everyone.
All because Edward had the misfortune of being born second.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!
“I know you’ll make me proud,” Henry beamed at his son. The boy was just as smart and strong as Henry had been when he was his age. Although Ambrose did surpass his father in one aspect: his eagerness to learn. He had coaxed the king to hire a Welshman to teach him the Welsh langue and of their history in hopes he could be a just and fair leader to them. “Listen to your tutors and councilors they will help you become a king worthy of your ancestors.”
“Yes, Father,” Prince Ambrose replied dutifully, bowing to his father. He knew better than to allow anyone to glimpse the feeling of sorrow and fear of being sent away from his father and siblings that was bubbling close to the surface.
“I expect weekly letters so I may know how you are faring,” Henry commanded with a grin, knowing full well his son could see through his ploy. The Earl of Surrey would send reports on Ambrose’s time in Ludlow so there was no need for him to keep his father informed unless of course he wanted to an excuse to send his father a letter every week.
“I promise I will write you every week,” affirmed Ambrose, fighting a smile of his own.
After a few more words of encouragement from his father, Prince Ambrose of Wales was helped into his carriage. King Henry smiled as he saw his son’s badge. He has chosen gold and purple as his colors and his badge was a falcon carrying the Tudor rose in its beak.
The people standing outside the gate cheered as the Prince of Wales’ carriage rode by, calling blessings to Ambrose who waved at them, putting his head out of the window so he could smile at them.
Henry closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Anne’s face as they watched their son ride off to Wales, beginning his journey to one day become King of England. Her dark eyes would be shinning with love and joy. Her smile would outshine the sun and there would be happy tears rolling down her cheeks. She would be so proud of their son, pleased that he was so loved by his subjects and was well on his way to be a wise and strong ruler.
July 2, 1544
With Ambrose in Wales, it was decided that Princess Elizabeth and Prince Edward would have their own households. Edward’s main place of residence would be Windsor and Elizabeth would live in Oatlands Palace.
However, they would not leave for another fortnight and Edward hoped that now that Ambrose was gone, their father might be willing to spend more time with him.
Much to his disappointment, King Henry wasn’t the one who came to see him, instead it was Lady Catherine Parr who greeted him.
Edward had mixed feelings about his father’s mistress. On one hand, he didn’t like that she had all but replaced his mother, taking over her duties as well as the spot in King Henry’s heart. At the same time, she was kind to him and seemed to want nothing but the best for him, doting on him as she would Ambrose and Elisabeth. Never trying to replace Jane but always assuring Edward that she would like to be his friend if he would have her.
“Your father sends his apologies, Your Highness but he has a long line of petitioners to get through and won’t have any free time to spare for another hour,” Catherine explained. “I had hoped to keep you company while you waited for him.”
“Oh." Edward’s gaze dropped down to his feet, unsure what he could say to that. A part of him felt as though he was betraying his mother by spending time with her rival but the other part of him didn’t want to upset his father by refusing to spend time with a woman he cared for greatly.
“Would you like to play a game? Perhaps chess?” Catherine suggested.
“I don’t know how to play,” admitted Edward, averting his eyes.
“Well, I can teach you if you would like or we can do something else,” Catherine told him sweetly, not seeming to be at all deterred by his lack of enthusiasm. Her smile was friendly and entreating as if she was doing her best to persuade him to spend time with her but at the same time didn’t want him to feel pressured.
Edward was pensive for a few minutes, thinking it over. Ambrose had promised to teach him chess when he was visiting from Wales but that wouldn’t be until Elizabeth’s birthday and if Catherine taught him, he might become good enough to play with Father sooner rather than later.
“I would be very happy if you could teach me, my lady,” Edward decided. He tried to fight a smile, but it was very hard when Catherine was beaming at him.
After a servant brought a chess board, Catherine went over each of the pieces and how they could be moved as they played their first game.
“That was a very good move, Your Highness, you are learning fast,” she praised Edward when he managed to win their fifth game.
“Lady Catherine, if I ask you something, will you promise to be honest?” Edward asked hopefully.
“As honest as I can be,” Catherine replied earnestly. Although she could understand Edward’s wish for someone to be honest with him, she also still regarded him as an innocent child who should not be privy to some of the more adult aspects surrounding the drama with his mother.
“It’s just I don’t understand why Papa is so mad at Mama. What could she have possibly done for him to exile her?” Edward wondered with a puzzled frown. He knew that as King his father’s word was law, but he also knew that his mother was a good and kind woman, and he couldn’t understand how she could have upset his father especially when she would soon be giving birth to his sibling.
“It’s complicated,” Catherine began, pausing to choose her words carefully.
Unfortunately, Edward saw her hesitation as her trying to duck the subject as many others had done and his temper spiked. “Everyone keeps saying it’s complicated, but I know what they are really saying is they think I’m too young to know anything. Well, that’s simply not true, I’m not a baby, I’m almost seven and if I’m old enough to have a tutor than I’m old enough to understand complicated things.”
“It is less about whether or not we believe you can understand the situation and more that your father wants to protect you from the unpleasant events that occurred,” Catherine divulged, hoping she could convey that for all his father’s faults, he did love his second son.
“Well, I don’t need protection,” Edward snapped crossly before softening as he realized that if his father didn’t want anyone telling him, perhaps people were just afraid of disobeying him. “I tell Father that I forced you to tell me.” That way King Henry would be mad at him rather than Catherine.
Although she was certain that if Henry got angry at her for telling Edward the truth, he would still be angry at her regardless of his son’s intervention, Catherine still smiled at the Duke of York, touched by his gesture.
"I am glad that you would defend me, Your Highness, but I do not think it would be appropriate for me to give you all the details as I was not present when the incident occurred. What I can tell you is Her Majesty spoke of something that was untrue and quite hurtful,” Catherine explained, finding herself unable to find a way to say this without painting the queen in the wrong which she was but she doubted Edward would want to believe his mother had done anything wrong and she was loathe to shatter the pedestal he had put his mother on.
“But my mama never lies or says anything unkind,” Edward protested, unwilling to believe it.
“No, she didn’t lie,” conceded Catherine. “For she believes her words to be true even though they are not.” Edward’s brow creased in confusion, unsure what to make of that statement. “Let me put it this way: a young man gives a lady a broach only to see it in the possession of a different man, so he assumes that the other man stole it when in fact it was given as a gift by the lady. He is not lying when he accuses the other man of stealing it because that is what he believes has happened.”
Perhaps that was the perfect way to describe the Great Matter. Everyone insisted that Queen Anne stole the queen’s crown from Queen Katherine when in truth it was given to her most willingly by King Henry.
“I guess that makes sense,” granted Edward, still a little puzzled but satisfied that whatever his mother had done it was not out of wickedness.
“His Majesty, King Henry the Eighth,” the herald announced as Henry strode into the sitting room.
“Now what do we have here?” he asked cheerily. “I was aware that I would find my Ned here, but I was not expecting to find my dove as well.”
“I knew you were busy with your work, so I thought I’d keep him company while you worked,” Catherine explained as King Henry took a seat next to Edward, reaching over the table to kiss her hand.
“Lady Parr has been teaching me how to play chess,” Edward informed his father. “I’ve only won one game but I’m getting better.”
"I don’t doubt that” Henry laughed, ruffling his son’s hair affectionately. “You are a Tudor as intelligent as you are handsome. A chip off of the old block.”
Edward beamed at his father, basking in his father’s praise.
July 3, 1544
In order to weasel his way into royal favor, Thomas Seymour had jumped at the chance to prove himself useful by becoming an ambassador at the French court. He had been recalled to England shortly after his sister’s downfall, his post now given to William Parr, 1st Baron Parr, the whore of England’s brother.
Bad enough that the relatives of the king’s dead concubine continued to get posts over more deserving people but now it seemed that the king’s new whore was also focused on raising her insipid family’s status.
Furthermore, it seemed it was not enough that Catherine Parr had managed to slither her way into the king’s favor, she was also seeking to poison his nephew’s mind against his mother. When Thomas had visited Edward, he had become enraged upon learning that Lady Catherine had dared to talk about what Jane had done, twisting it to seem as though Jane was in the wrong even though she was not.
Immediately after visiting his nephew, Thomas had gone off to search for Lady Parr. Luck seemed to be on his side for once as he managed to find her walking the corridors without her attendants.
“My lord,” Catherine greeted him with a nod of her head as she moved to walk past him only to find her arm grabbed and pulled towards him.
“Stay away from my nephew,” Thomas growled.
“Let go of my arm,” demanded Catherine in a firm voice, not even flinching. If he thought he could intimidate her, he had another thing coming.
“Madam, your brother has stolen my post and now you conspire to steal my sister’s crown,” Thomas growled in deathly low voice his eyes roaming over her figure and it seemed that his anger was being replaced by lust.
“My brother and I stole nothing. The king’s decisions, as they have always been, are his own,” Catherine told him coldly, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “It is certainly not our fault that Seymours continue to make things worse for themselves.”
From what she heard, Sir Thomas had tried seducing King François’ mistress, although some were convinced it had actually been King François’ unmarried daughter, Princess Marguerite, Thomas had been caught sending love letters to but surely even, he was not so foolhardy.
Regardless he had been sent home in disgrace and the fact that he was dismissed from his post after his sister’s banishment was pure coincidence. If King Henry wanted to punish Jane’s family for her actions, he would have just banished them all, something Catherine was very much wishing he had done at the present time.
“Such a sharp tongue, such a defiant beauty. Do you think you are better than me because you fuck a king?” Thomas hissed, pushing her against the wall, using his body to keep her there as he used his free hand to trace her figure, sending shivers up Catherine’s spine. “A royal whore is still a whore no matter for whom she spreads her legs.”
“Sir Thomas, let me paint you a picture of how this will go,” Catherine snarled, trying hard to sound confident so not to reveal how truly frightened she was right now. “I tell the king you forced yourself on me, he will remember your earlier actions both four years ago and recently in France and he will banish you if he doesn’t call for your head to be chopped off. Even if he believes that I am willing submitted to you or that I shamed him in some way, you will suffer badly for your actions. So, I would think very carefully before you touch me.”
Thomas Seymour glared at her as he considered her words. Finally, he let go of her before stalking away leaving a shaken Catherine behind him.
Catherine could still feel Thomas’ touch as she walked back to her apartments, his words ringing in her ears.
A royal whore is still a whore no matter for whom she spreads her legs.
Even when her husband died, Catherine had no intention of submitting to the King’s advances, unwilling to be a mistress. However, when Kitty eloped, Catherine had wanted to protect her friend from the red-haired monarch's wrath and had hoped if she took Kitty’s spot in the King’s bed, Kitty would be free to enjoy her marriage with her husband. Then it became about helping the king’s children especially when Queen Jane had gotten herself banished from court.
But a whore with good intentions was still a whore.
What would her mother think of her? What would Queen Katherine and Queen Anne think of her? Three great women Catherine looked up to who would never humiliate themselves by being any man’s mistress even if he was a king.
However, they weren’t her. She had to find her own way of dealing with things and if it came at the cost of her reputation than she would do it.
People could deride her or sneer at her and Catherine would still walk with her head held high.
No one could break her.
“I will order that bastard to be thrown in the tower,” thundered King Henry. “How dare he!”
After her encounter with Thomas, Catherine had gone straight to her chambers, only to find Henry waiting for her. She had not wanted to tell him, but he had seen her troubled expression and coaxed her into telling him what had happened.
Naturally, he was outraged upon leaning what the youngest Seymour had done.
“Henry, please don’t. I don’t want this getting out. Just send him away,” Catherine pleaded, knowing how bad the gossip would be.
Her lover grumbled, still seething with rage. First Thomas Seymour dared to insult his beloved Anne and their son. Then he had made a nuisance of himself in France by fooling around with King François’ mistress. Had it been the Princess Marguerite, Henry was certain that his French counterpart would have killed the knave himself just as he would have if he had been in his place.
And now, because Henry had foolishly allowed that man back at court, he had yelled at Catherine for speaking to Edward, and he had dared to assault her.
“Very well, Cate, I’ll figure something out,” he fumed. “However, I will not let his words against you stand. The only reason I haven’t discarded Jane and made you queen is because of Edward. However, everyone knows you are practically my queen in all but name. You deserve a title worthy of your station.”
“Henry, I do not need a title,” protested Catherine, having a feeling that this would only make things worse.
Henry lay a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Cate, you are the milk of human kindness for all the love and care you have shown my children even though you did not have to. You are as intelligent and shrewd as my Anne. You may not need it, but you certainly deserve it.”
July 10, 1544
Five years ago, Henry Carey’s stepfather had been created the Earl of Buckingham, allowing his younger half-brother to outrank him, something Ed had liked to tease him about from time to time. However, today, the Baron of Hudson, newly married to Lady Anne Morgan, would be gaining another title from his kingly uncle.
“Lord Henry Carey, by order of King Henry the Eighth, you are henceforth to be known as the Earl of Middlesex,” Richard Rich announced as he put the Earl’s cornet on the eighteen-year-old man’s head.
The newly minted earl took his seat by his uncle, looking forlornly at the empty seat between George and his stepfather, sad that his mother was too sick to see his elevation.
Sir Francis Knollys was made the Earl of Banbury and Henry Norris the younger was made the 1st Baron Norreys much to his stepmother’s pleasure. William Parr was made the Earl of Northampton.
“Lady Catherine Parr,” Rich called, waiting until the lady had approached the dais and kneeled down before reading what was written on the parchment. “By order of King Henry the Eighth, you have been invested with the Dukedom of Bedford and the Earldom of Rivers.”
There were gasps among the courtiers watching as many were shocked by elevation of Lady Catherine as not even the late Queen Anne had been received the title of duchess, only marquess.
While the Duke of Suffolk was surprised, he found it made sense as King Henry could not give Catherine a crown, so he gave her the next best thing. To him the part that was truly appalling part was not the king’s mistress got to become a duchess but just how many of Anne’s relatives and allies had peerages.
Mary Boleyn was a countess, and her son was an earl as well as her son-in-law. There was of course the Duke of Kent and his ilk. As long as he lived his son would never marry a Boleyn. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey were highly placed. Cromwell and Parr who were friends of Kent were also earls and while Charles was pleased the son of his late friend Henry Norris had gained a barony, he was the stepson of Queen Anne’s cousin.
The Seymours had one earldom to their name and they did not have many connections to high placed nobles as the Boleyns did, not even Suffolk who pitied the poor queen and her son was not willing to court the king’s ire, trying to convince him to give the Seymour and their relatives and friends titles not when the only Seymour he had any patience for, not counting his son, was the Earl of Hertford.
The Boleyns power continued to grow and soon all of England would be under their thumb and if the true heir ever tried to make a grab for the throne, he would find himself with no allies to help him.
Charles needed to do something before time ran out. He needed to stir up so doubt about the Boleyns as a whole if not Anne Boleyn herself. He had stayed quiet for far too long. It was time to see if those rumors about Anne Boleyn were true.
Of course, he knew that suggesting King Henry investigate his dead wife would likely lead him to have his head chopped off which meant he would have to do it himself. If he found concrete evidence that Anne Boleyn had lovers, Ambrose’s paternity would be put in doubt, allowing Edward to gain more prominence as the rightful heir to the throne.
Then after nearly twenty years, the Boleyns would finally have their long overdue fall, perhaps taking the Duke of Norfolk with them.
July 19, 1544
“Mary, my sweet sister, please do not leave me,” George pleaded, holding his sister’s hand in his. “I don’t want to be the last Boleyn.”
“The last Boleyn? Even without your children, we have plenty of cousins carrying our surname,” Mary chuckled weakly.
“You know what I mean.” George’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “It used to be me, you and Anne. I don’t know if I can handle it just being me. I could barely hold myself together when Anne died.”
“You must live, George, otherwise Ambrose will have to rely on Uncle, and you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?” Mary pointed out.
“But he needs you too. You are his favorite aunt,” George told her desperately. “Please don’t go, Mary. I need you.”
His sister shook her head. “Anne is calling for me, George, I can hear her voice whispering in my ear, telling me to sleep so we can be reunited. How can I resist her sweet call?”
Despite himself George laughed, thinking Anne would have enjoyed being treated as though she was some sort of guardian angel protecting her loved ones until they were ready to join her in heaven.
“Who am I to deny our sister what she wants,” he muttered with a tearful smile. “Tell her that as long as I’m around both her children, not just Ambrose, will be loved and protected. I shall do right by them.”
“She knows, George, she knows. Will you protect my children too?” Mary asked. “Will might need help.” She glanced over at her husband who had stepped away from her bedside so she and George could have a measure of privacy.
“Of course, I will. I shall make sure they get the best of everything,” George assured.
Mary closed her eyes and William was at her other side in an instance, holding her free hand.
Both men just sat there, praying Mary would open her eyes again, that this wasn’t the end. But soon her chest stopped rising and she was still.
Four years had passed since the last time the Duke of Kent cried and almost ten years had passed since he had wept so loudly.
Mary Boleyn had gone to God—no she had gone to Anne and their parents, leaving George alone to protect Anne’s legacy.
That night when George managed to fall in a restless sleep, he dreamt of being a small boy running alongside his two sisters.
“No fair, you cheated!” George shouted, pouting with his arms crossed over his chest, his lower lip trembling.
“Is it our fault your legs are too short?” Anne teased him, giving his hair a tussle, making him even sulkier.
“Anne, be nice,” Mary admonished her.
“Fine. How about we play another game?” Anne decided, shaking her head in exasperation.
“Let’s play knights and maidens,” George suggested.
His sister’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Very well, Lady George, Sir Anne will save you.”
“That’s not how we play, and you know it!” George exclaimed, stamping his foot while Anne burst into giggles.
“Fine, Sir George but I’m not the maiden, I’m the dragon and I’ve captured the maiden and you’ll have to catch us if you want to save her!” Anne shouted as she grabbed Mary’s hand. They ran away; their laughter echoing in their brother’s ears.
“No fair!” screamed George, chasing after them.
Anne and Mary disappeared behind some bushes and when George charged through the shrubs, he could not find a trace of his sisters instead he saw a group of men standing over two baby dragons.
“More Boleyn than Tudor.”
“A bastard.”
“No true king.”
“If I don’t get to be his Lord Protector then why should I support a heretic brat?”
“Heretic.”
“The Boleyns are too powerful.”
“The Boleyn witch’s spawn.”
The bigger of the two dragons turned to look at George with dark eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul.
Then a man with two wings protruding from his back stepped forward.
“Long live King Edward!” he exclaimed, rising his sword over the smaller of the two baby dragon’s head.
But before he could strike, George raced at him, a sword appearing in his own hand. A falcon cried and a lion roared as George knocked down each of the men surrounding the two dragons and then he drove his sword into the winged man’s chest.
Notes:
By happy coincidence I believe that there was a dragon on at least Henry VII's coat of arms. That worked out for George's dream sequence. Do you know what is on the Seymour crest?
So thoughts on the dream sequence and really the entire chapter but I would love some dream interpretors.
Catherine Parr would probably be getting more people like Thomas Seymour calling her a whore if this had happened in real life but in this story, she's got it pretty good. I hope you all liked her scene with Edward as much as I did.
Chapter 14: To Trap a Rat
Summary:
An old flame visits Hever Castle with some bad news.
Notes:
Important chapter. I really wanted to focus on George's new role as head and protector of the Boleyn family.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
August 5, 1544
Princess Elizabeth was pleased to be at Hatfield again, spending time with Edward. She knew from his letters he was feeling melancholy over the fact that his mother would miss his birthday.
“Do you think Father will ever let her return?” Ned wondered as they sat near the pound, feeding the fish. “She is due to have our sibling soon. Maybe afterwards, he will let her come home? Won’t he?”
“I don’t know, Ned,” she admitted, feeling sorry for her brother. He was the wronged party in all of this. A rush of frustration filled her as she wondered why no one cared about the innocent boy who was being punished for something his mother did.
Her gaze wondered over to the fish in the pound as they gathered at the edge, gobbling up the breadcrumbs that were dropped in the water. The red gold of their scales flashed every time the water rippled, allowing the color to stand out against the blue.
It was an oddly serene scene that contrasted with the churning storm that was brewing inside of her.
Elizabeth didn’t understand why their father thought keeping Edward away from Jane would do any good. If Edward blamed Ambrose for his mother’s banishment, this would only make things worse. Or if his relatives were to poison his mind against his half-siblings, being separated from his mother would only increase their chances of successfully manipulating him.
Thankfully, her younger brother seemed to have accepted Lady Parr’s explanation that Jane had been sent away for her own words. It didn’t make him less upset at the situation though.
“My mother didn’t mean to insult you or Ambrose,” defended Edward even though his sister had not said otherwise.
Yes, she did, Elizabeth contradicted, not daring to voice her true thoughts. Despite Mary, Nan Seville, Kat Champernowne, and even Uncle George’s attempts to shield her, the princess was fully aware that her stepmother did not love her and Ambrose.
Oh, she tried to be loving in the beginning. The princess had a faint memory of blonde-haired woman telling her and Ambrose that if they wished to call her mother, she would be most pleased. However, once Jane and her father married, the smiles became false, the kind words became empty, and the motherly gestures become nil. Instead, she seemed to go out of her way to cast Ambrose and Elizabeth to the side while lavishing praise and affection onto Edward.
It wasn’t out of malice, but it hurt all the same.
“She is competing with a ghost,” observed Catherine Parr---the only one of Elizabeth’s confidants who had been a stepmother. “That’s how every second wife feels. Unfortunately, she has let it get the best of her.”
“Bess?” Edward’s blue orbs searched his sister’s visage for an answer.
“Hmm?” Elizabeth’s eyebrow quirked quizzically, feeling slightly embarrassed for having lost herself in her thoughts, unintentionally ignoring her brother.
Her brother shifted uncomfortably. “Are you mad at her as well?” His manner was pleading.
Elizabeth chewed her lip. “No,” she said at last. “I’m disappointed that she said that about us.” But not surprised.
“She didn’t mean it,” protested Edward. “She is just misinformed. I am sure she's sorry for what she said.”
“Ned, it doesn’t matter.” The princess sized her brother’s hand, clutching it tightly. “I don’t care what she believes or doesn’t. All I care about is how this is affecting you. I want her back if it makes you happy.”
The Duke of York beamed at her and hugged her tightly.
I love you, little brother, Elizabeth murmured. I just wish I could mend the divide between our families.
The Seymour-Boleyn fight was continuing, and it was clear that it would only get worse. Elizabeth knew that she and Mary would never let it affect Ambrose and Edward. However, how could they protect their brothers against their own relatives including Ned’s mother. How long before Edward and Ambrose grew older and more observant? How long before they started choosing sides?
NO! Elizabeth remembered the promise she had made with her sister and made a silent one of her own. As long as I am here, I will keep my brothers united!
Edward pulled away from her, plucking something from the grass. “Look what I found!” he exclaimed, shoving the white round flower in her face. “A dandelion! Now you have to make a wish!”
Elizabeth blinked at him, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. “Why would I have to make the wish?” she inquired. “You are the one who found it.”
The Duke of York’s shoulders sagged, returning to his melancholy state. “Because I know my wish will never come true.” His voice was a no higher than a whisper, but it shattered Elizabeth’s heart all the same.
“Oh, Ned,” Bess murmured. “Dandelions don’t work like that. As long as your heart is true and you believe, they will carry your wish to the heavens and God will grant it.”
Her brother beheld her doubtfully. “Truly?”
“Truly.” She smiled encouragingly at him. “Now go on.”
Edward closed his eyes and pressed the daffodil to his mouth. “I wish---”
“Not out loud!” Elizabeth quickly cut in. “You are supposed to keep your wish to yourself.” She then licked her finger and stuck into the air to find where the wind was blowing. “Turn around.”
Edward did so, his eyes still closed and his mouth on the fluffy head of the dandelion. “Wait! Can I make two wishes? One for me and one for someone else.”
Elizabeth took a moment to mull over her brother’s words before deciding that it couldn’t hurt. “Of course, you can. Are you ready now?”
The Duke of York nodded. “Yep.”
“On three, you blow,” Elizabeth instructed. “One. Two. Three!”
Edward inhaled deeply. When his sister got to three, he blew on the dandelion, causing the seeds to scatter in the breeze.
“Who was your second wish for?” The princess questioned curiously.
“I can’t tell you,” The Duke of York reminded her, bumping her shoulder.
“I just wanted to know who it was for, not what it was,” clarified Elizabeth, pushing her hair out of her face.
“Ambrose,” Edward admitted. “I can tell by his letters he has being feeling a little overwhelmed and I hoped----never mind.”
Elizabeth grinned, ruffling his hair much to his irritation. “You are a great brother, you know that?”
Edward blushed and ducked his head.
After they run out of food for the fish, the siblings decided to cloud watch, taking advantage of the lovely weather.
August 20, 1544
It was an ordinary day at Hever Castle. With the summer heart being so bad, George wanted to escape outside, but instead he finished the last bits of his papers.
I wonder if my father picked this wall on purpose, the duke lamented as he studied the portrait of his father hanging above the desk in his study, forever staring down at his son with a stern expression.
The Duchess of Kent knocked on the door and then entered without waiting for a response. Her features were schooled into a passive façade. However, the stiffness of her body betrayed her true feelings.
“George, Sir Mark Smeaton is at the gate, he says he has something important he must speak with you about,” Jane told him, giving George a suspicious look, having not forgotten his dalliance with Mark all those years ago.
Although they had never discussed it, it was understood that in order for their marriage to work, George could not see Mark ever again.
It had hurt him to tell Mark goodbye, especially when the musician had decided to retire from court life after Anne’s death but for the sake of his wife who had been his rock during those dark days, George had done so, and he had not seen hide or hair of his lover for almost ten years.
“Let him in, he wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important,” George remarked, not even acknowledging his wife’s hidden accusation.
Jane nodded and she went to tell the messenger to allow Mark Smeaton entrance. She did not accompany him to her husband’s study instead allowing George’s groom to escort the former court musician to where the duke was waiting.
“Your Grace,” Mark greeted formally, bowing shallowly.
“Mark, it has been far too long. Where have you been keeping yourself?” George asked as he hugged his old friend, not caring one wit for protocol. Mark meant far too much to him to be treated with formality befitting his lowly station even before he had received a knighthood. “Wine?” Without waiting for an answer, the duke rang for a servant to bring a pitcher and two goblets.
“I could never say no to you, George,” Mark laughed. “And to answer your question, I have been busy. Everybody wants a musician who was so beloved the king gave him a knighthood.”
Of course, the real reason Mark was given a knighthood was simply the monarch’s way of honoring the people Anne was known to favor. In George’s opinion, Mark deserved at least a barony if not more for being such a good friend to Anne during her troubled days, those days when many were unsure whether she was falling, and it would be best to keep away from her in case they were caught up in her downfall.
They spoke for a little while about mundane topics--- chief among them the recent passing of Mary---- until the servant had brought up the wine and left the two men alone to drink it.
“Not that I’m not glad to catch up with you, Mark, I suspect you are here for another reason than to simply reminisce with an old friend,” George remarked almost coyly, sipping his wine as he sat back in his chair.
Despite himself, Mark couldn’t help but smirk at George calling them old friends when in truth they more much more than that. He then sobered as he recalled the reason, he had come here in the first place.
“Someone’s trying to stir up trouble,” he revealed. “A few of my acquaintances have been approached by men offering to pay them quite handsomely if they tell their master if I have had any relations with my previous masters’ wives. The men didn’t say which lady they were interested in but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s the only one who matters.”
George put his goblet down and his entire body tensed, his face becoming as dark as a storm cloud. “Anne.”
“Most likely. I think they were just fishing for information, hoping that maybe I got drunk and spoke about a highborn lady I bedded or something of that nature. Thankfully despite being paid to keep their silence, my drinking buddies cannot keep their mouths shut when they have had had too many drinks,” Mark recounted with a half smirk. All he had done was ask where they had gotten the money from, and they had spilled everything. This little trait of theirs was precisely why he told them nothing, he knew they couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret if their lives depended on it.
“Please tell me they knew who the men worked for,” George implored, wanting to know just who was trying to make trouble and spread doubt on the legitimacy of Ambrose and Elizabeth.
“I am afraid not, George, but I assure you I will find out,” Mark told him firmly. “No one is going to sully Anne’s name while I’m around.”
“Anne would be very pleased to know that you are such a loyal friend,” George speculated fondly, reaching out to clasp Mark’s hand in his, squeezing his hand for only a moment before letting go. His expression turned thoughtful. “These men might not name their employer, but perhaps we could trick whoever the cur is into coming forward.”
“You mean like pretending we have evidence that your sister was unfaithful,” Mark guessed.
“If it is who I think it is, I have no doubt he will immediately go the King with what he found,” George remarked with a frown.
In his mind there was only one suspect for no one else was this foolhardy to try something like this.
Had it been Norfolk or Hertford, they would have simply had their men either bribe or threaten Mark into confessing something false. Besides Norfolk and Hertford wanted power and could care less who gave it to them as long as long as it was given.
And while he wouldn’t put it past Thomas Seymour to try something like this, the man lacked the means his brother had.
Everyone else would be too afraid of the king’s wrath once he found out what they were doing.
It had to be the Duke of Suffolk. He had once tried to convince King Henry that Anne was Thomas Wyatt’s lover. He always hated the Boleyns, and it could not be more obvious that he would do anything to oust them from the throne even at the cost of the stability in the realm.
His hatred of the Boleyns and his jealousy that George had replaced him in the King’s affections would cause him to do something as foolish as investigate whether or not Anne was faithful to her husband.
He had no doubt that a prideful peacock like Charles Brandon would leap the minute he received what he believed was evidence, he would present it to the King, his chest puffed out with a horribly smug smile on his face.
Suffolk would not care that the woman’s reputation he is trying to destroy has been dead for almost a decade now. He would not care that he will cause two innocent children’s lives will be destroyed--- not even Princess Mary would think what happened to her should happen to her siblings at least not anymore. He would not care what trouble he would cause as long as he could be vindicated.
“George? George?” Mark called, breaking the duke out of his brooding.
“Sorry, Mark, I got lost in my thoughts,” George apologized.
“I understand. Believe me I wanted to strangle those bastards once I realized what they were looking for. I suppose I will have to contain my anger and instead pretend I want to help,” voiced Mark, his tone noticeably lacking the playfulness he usually had and instead his voice was filled with conviction.
“That would be very helpful, thank you,” the duke said gratefully, managing to give his former lover a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Mark clapped him on the shoulder. “George, I promise you that when we catch whoever is behind this---- slanderous not to mention treasonous affair, His Majesty will deal with that dishonorable knave swiftly and bloodily.”
“For once in his life, the king will have to wait in line,” George jested, rather viciously.
After Mark left with a small token of George’s appreciation, the Duke of Kent moved to the window, peering out at the field he and his sisters used to love running in, playing whatever game they wished. Anne never did like to play the maiden in distress, preferring to play as a dragoness who would give the “knight” no end of trouble while the “maiden” giggled from the sidelines, sometimes helping the “dragoness” use her tickle attack.
Anne would play the part of villain, not knowing years later, everyone would treat her as if she was actually one. Not even her death hadn’t stopped people from calling her a whore or a witch.
People had no shame. Anne was already dead, and they continued to sling mud at her coffin in hopes it would take down the remaining members of the Boleyn clan and her innocent children.
The sound of laughter broke George out of his thoughts and suddenly he saw his two children racing their puppies through the field. They had named them Apollo and Artemis after the Greek God of the Sun and the Greek Goddess of the Moon: twins just like James and Anne.
The sight of his children made George’s heart swell as he stared down at them. Then rage overtook him again as he realized that Elizabeth and Ambrose were not much older and yet they had horrible people conspiring to turn their beloved father against them in hopes that he would cast them out.
James and Anne must have felt his eyes on them for they looked up and waved at him. Anne even blew him kisses. George couldn’t help himself and waved back, not letting his smile drop until they had gone back to their game.
It took a few minutes for George to tear his eyes away from his children and when he did, so he saw that Jane was standing in the doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?” George demanded, moving away from the window, ushering her inside so he could close the door to his study. In a household as big as this one, you could never be too sure that someone who was getting coins to be a spy or who was willing to sell information to anyone who was sniffing out dirty secrets. Either way, George was certain that this conversation was one to be had behind closed doors.
“Not long. I just didn’t want to disturb you while you were glowering. In fact, I could swear I was looking at your father instead of my husband,” Jane remarked casually as she glanced around the study as if she expected to find signs that her husband and his former lover had been up to something untoward.
“Repeat such foul words again and I shall reconsider sending James to Wales,” George growled, shuddering at the thought of resembling his father as he sat in his chair, returning to the goblet that had been refilled numerous times over the past hour. “Is there something I can help you with, wife?”
“Yes, I think that I have been most accommodating with you and Sir Smeaton, and I think that I deserve an explanation,” his wife informed him as she took Mark’s vacant seat, her eyes seemingly piercing his very soul.
“Because you have not been a nagging shrew, I am supposed to tell you everything,” George laughed. He sobered slightly when Jane gave him an annoyed look. “Fine, I’ll tell you just so your imagination doesn’t run wild. Someone is poking around trying to find out if we will have a king whose father is a musician or I’m sure a poet or perhaps they will dig up the grave of the late Earl of Northumberland and try to determine if his decomposed corpse has a passing resemblance to Ambrose.”
The Duke of Kent punctured his rant by gulping down the wine.
“Does Mark know who the mastermind of this investigation is?” Jane asked, leaning forward, her eyes becoming wide as she was certain that George would not be making this up. He did not take things concerning his sister or her children for that matter lightly.
“No but I have a suspicion that it is the Duke of Suffolk,” her husband growled.
“George, whatever you’re planning, don’t. Being impulsive---” began Jane.
“Oh, I don’t plan on being impulsive. To catch a rat, I must set a trap even if it means acting more like my father--- God, I think I just threw up,” George muttered, drinking more wine as if to drown out the bad taste those words left in his mouth.
“The more you drink, I am certain that you will not be able to be your father in any sort of way,” Jane noted with a derisive chuckle.
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“My apologizes, my lord, I am sure you are exactly like your father,” drawled Jane.
“I am serious about sending James to Ludlow. I hear it is very far away,” George informed her coolly.
“Using my son to threaten me? Hmm, it’s like your father is back from the dead,” Jane remarked, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Why do you insist on antagonizing me, woman?” George demanded.
“Because I have come to notice whenever you are in one of your dark moods that the quickest way to get you out of it is to start an argument,” she explained.
“Oh.” He was not quite sure what to say to that. “Well, I suppose that does work at times. Sometimes a goblet of wine helps too.”
“Does it, George, does it really?” inquired Jane, trying not to roll her eyes. In her opinion, the only thing the wine did was make her husband boorish and hot-tempered.
“Sometimes,” George replied, putting the goblet down. “Mary’s gone, Jane. I am all Anne has left. I have to protect her legacy for no one else will.”
“That isn’t entirely true,” the duchess contradicted, wincing as she realized her husband would not be too happy to hear what she would suggest. “There is someone else who would be willing to help you protect Anne’s legacy especially considering it involves Ambrose’s legitimacy.”
August 23, 1544
The last time King Henry’s expression was so murderous, it was when his wife decided to be a spiteful bitch and had insulted Anne, Elizabeth, and Ambrose.
“Tell me the name of the man you suspect is behind this slanderous plot and I promise you that I will get a confession from him within minutes even if I have to tear it from his throat,” declared Henry, banging his fist against the table, his eyes flashing dangerously. “He is conspiring against the Prince of Wales, and he will not get away with it,”
“I do not want to accuse anyone unfairly, you understand, Your Majesty, which is why I am hoping to trick this man into coming forward on his own volition,” George explained calmly. Although he was certain that the monarch would believe him if he said it was Suffolk, he wanted to be sure to have evidence backing up his claim least he be accused of purposely trying to get his rival killed. “I beg your indulgence while I do so.”
Henry nodded, knowing that George was not the type to wait around while someone was determined in cooking up bad feeling against his sister, his niece, and his nephew. “If you do not wish for me to make sure that this bastard is brought to swift justice, what do you require of me?”
The fact that George had told him about this despite wanting to keep things quiet was surprising and Henry had a feeling it was not simply because as of right now he was the only one who George could say for certain had nothing to do with the secret investigation into his beloved Anne’s fidelity.
To Henry, the idea that his wife would choose any man but him to share her bed was ludicrous for many reasons chief among them, she would not risk her neck no matter how bad things got between them.
“Well Sir Mark is going to try to find out who these men work for and when he does, I shall allow a letter to fall into his hands which he will give up for a price,” George explained, his tone becoming awkward. “A love letter from Anne to someone she hopefully does not identify and considering she has only one lover…” he trailed off, finding himself unwilling to finish that statement.
King Henry could not help but laugh at that. He summoned his steward to retrieve a box he always commanded to be put under his bed. Inside where the letters Anne had sent him, letters he had read when he was missing her most and thinking of the days of the past.
Although many stated his name or his title, there were a few where she had only referred to him as sweetheart and my love.
“Your sister was a remarkable woman. She sometimes spoke to me as I was just an ordinary man who was courting her. There were times when I loved it and other times when it offended me. When we married, I felt like she could use a reminder that I was a King not someone who could be treated as her equal. Now I wish we could go back to the days when I felt thrilled when she called me Henry instead of Your Majesty,” he reminisced almost wistfully as he pulled out a letter that would be perfect as bait. He read over her words, touching the long-dried ink forlornly before folding the parchment and handing it to the Duke of Kent. “Make a copy of it and bring it back to me.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” George replied, bowing as he tucked the letter into his wallet.
He bowed again when Henry dismissed him, leaving the red-haired monarch alone with Anne’s love letters.
Henry briefly wondered if his letters to Anne were still at Hever underneath her bed. Perhaps he would ask George about it later or once this nonsense about Anne being unfaithful to him was dealt with.
“Ambrose is our son, Anne, and Elizabeth is our daughter. Those who say otherwise are fools. I will find these fools and have them hanged, drawn and quartered whether they are gentlemen or not,” King Henry proclaimed firmly as he took out another one of Anne’s letters and studied it, committing every word to memory, getting lost in the memories it contained.
Notes:
As usual Henry has very idealized version of the past.
Chapter 15: Daughters are so Forgetteble
Summary:
The noose around Charles Brandon's neck begins to tighten.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
September 2, 1544
Ludlow had been rather damp and dreary when Prince Ambrose had first arrived. Perhaps it was because there hadn’t been a Prince of Wales living there for the past forty years. Or maybe it was just Ambrose’s perception as he was aware his uncle had died here all those years ago.
Over time though, Ambrose become more comfortable in Ludlow, enjoying exploring it and finding whatever secrets the old castle held. He often went with Tommy Howard and Gilly Dudley to find hidden passageways and today they found one that seemed the most promising.
“We could use this to sneak out of the castle,” Ambrose declared as he peered outside. The passageway led to the outside, the door hidden behind a large tree, hiding it from anyone who might be prowling about.
“My father wouldn’t like that,” Tom pointed out. His father oversaw Ludlow and part of his duties was keeping an eye on the three boys.
“I didn’t mean now,” Ambrose told him. As proud as he was of his fighting abilities, he had yet to use a real sword and if robbers were to capture him, he would be defenseless. “But someday, we could sneak out and explore further than we’re allowed.”
“That does sound like fun,” agreed Gilly.
“However, we must make a promise never to reveal this passageway so nobody can stop us,” Ambrose said solemnly, giving Thomas a pointed look. After all, if their caretakers found out about the passageway, they could seal it off, ruining the boys’ future plans.
Being the youngest of the boys had made Tom desperate not to seem like a baby especially not one who went off telling tales. Even though he was certain his father would be upset if he ever learned that Tom had known about this secret passageway and not told him of it, he was certain his friends would never forgive him if told on them.
“I promise breath a word of this to anyone,” he vowed reluctantly.
Gilly nodded in agreement. Ambrose smiled at his friends before they made their way back to the castle before they could be missed. As they walked up the stairs that led to their schoolroom, they were greeted by one of their tutors.
“There you three are. I thought I had lost you,” Roger Ascham greeted them with cheer. “And I would prefer to keep my head on my shoulders if that is all right with you.”
“Forgive me, Master Ascham but I just wanted to continue exploring,” Ambrose explained apologetically.
“Again? Your Highness, it has been a month, I would think you have managed to found corners of this castle that not even the mice know about,” Ascham jested, giving Ambrose a rather found smile.
Still chuckling at his own joke, he led the three boys to the school room for their first lesson of the day.
Ambrose glanced at the portraits on the wall as he walked by, and he stopped for a moment when he saw the portrait of the late Prince Arthur Tudor. He wondered what his uncle thought of Ludlow.
What did he think of the role his father had hoped he would grow into by sending him to reign over the Council of the Welsh Marshes? Did he ever feel afraid that he wouldn’t live up to the legacy his father had envisioned for him even going so far as to give him a special name? Did he ever wonder if he would be able to be half the king his father and others would say he was going to be?
Meanwhile in Oatlands Palace, Annie Stafford was trying to find a distraction from the grief she felt at her mother’s death. She had always known that someday she would be separated from her parents as she was to travel with her cousin to Denmark once Elizabeth was old enough to get married and she would probably be married off to a Dane nobleman so she could continue to be at Elizabeth’s side, but she had hoped she would have more time with her mother.
Shaking her head to clear it from her self-pitying thoughts, Annie turned her head to observe her cousin, wanting to ask if they could take a break from their needlework and instead go riding. However, the words died in her throat and a smile tugged at her lips as she spotted the fond look on the princess’ face, she read a letter. Growing up with Elizabeth had allowed her to spot her cousin’s various facial expressions and notice which ones came with what person.
“What does Prince Fredrick have to say today?” inquired Annie innocently, not even bothering to hide her knowing smile.
A faint blush appeared on Elizabeth’s cheeks. “Oh, he’s just describing the garden outside Bygdøy Royal Estate in Norway, he thinks I shall find it lovely there and he promises that when he is king, he will make sure that there are bushes of red and white roses as far as the eye can see.”
“Such a sweet boy,” Kat remarked, smiling at her charge. “You two have been writing a lot to each other.”
“Well of course we have. He’s my future husband and it’s only right that I get to know him,” Elizabeth declared wisely. “We might not be able to meet until after we are wed but we can meet through letters. Look he even drew a picture of himself so when I come to Denmark, I shall know him.”
Eventually they both would sit down with an artist who would paint their official portraits but for now they could only describe each other and make little drawings in their letters.
“Well, he looks as handsome as he is kind,” professed Annie as she studied the drawing Elizabeth was pointing at.
Certainly not professionally done but the ten-year-old boy clearly had some talent.
“He is kind, isn’t he?” Elizabeth agreed, reaching up to play with the B necklace that was hanging around her neck. “When I told him about my mother’s necklace, he asked if I would like a T necklace so we could give it to our first daughter to remind her of her mother.”
“You’re discussing children already?” Kat’s mock horrified expression was ruined by her giggles.
“No. of course not. I was just telling him about how her necklace is like I have a tiny part of her with me at all times, something to remind me of her even though I never truly knew her,” Elizabeth whispered, her smile slipping.
Annie reached out to take her cousin’s hand in hers, squeezing it gently. Her older sister had said that they should count themselves lucky that they would have memories of their mother and she would always be alive in their hearts.
Elizabeth had not even been two when she lost her mother and she and Ambrose knew her only through stories.
Annie wondered if not remembering a deceased loved one made thinking about them easier. From the look on Elizabeth’s visage, she could guess it did not.
“Are you certain?” Philip asked, a grin threatening to split his face.
“I am,” responded Mary, a smile tugging at her lips. “Cat and Liz shall have a brother by the end of next spring.”
Her husband embraced her, kissing her before reaching down to touch her belly. “Whether it is a Mary or a Phillip, I will love them more than anything.”
“You don’t have to say that” Mary assured him.
“Yes, I do,” Phillip contradicted earnestly, “because you still don’t believe me.”
“Can you honestly tell me you don’t want a son? One to carry your legacy even if he won’t have your surname?” questioned Mary, giving him a searching look.
“Of course, I do but I don’t want you to feel pressured into giving me one,” Philip explained, stroking her face. “Mary, you are the love of my life and the last thing I ever want you to feel is like you failed me.”
“I don’t feel that way, but I still would like to have a son especially when it will be your son. One who has his father’s beautiful eyes, handsome face,” she gushed.
“Oh, be careful, Madame, I shall become a very vain man if you continue to compliment me,” Philip scolded her playfully.
“And here I thought that was want you trying to do to me,” Mary jested.
“Oh no, my nefarious plot has been found out,” Philip exclaimed, in mock horror. “Whatever shall I do?”
“Well, you could silence me with a kiss,” Mary suggested coyly, bending her finger in a come-hither gesture, inviting him to do so.
Unfortunately, they were interrupted by their daughters bursting into their living room, followed closely by their governess.
“Mama, Papa! Liz is being mean!” Liz cried.
“You’re just upset because you know I’m right!” Cat shot back, looking furious at her sister.
“I am so sorry to disturb you, Your Graces,” Mistress Mabel Hart told them apologetically, worried that she would be blamed for her charges’ bad behavior.
“It’s quite all right, Mistress Hart. Would you mind waiting outside?” Mary requested with reassuring smile. Waiting for the woman to leave before she turned to her daughters, a stern expression on her face. “Now what has gotten you two so upset you have completely forgotten your manners?”
“We’re sorry, Mama,” Liz said softly. “But Cat was saying that I was as mad as our Great-Aunt Johanna.”
“Now that’s not very nice to say about your great aunt let alone your sister,” Philip admonished his daughter.
Cat’s face went from a scowl to one of guilt. “Well, it’s true. That’s why they locked her up.”
“Regardless, that is a very mean thing to say,” Mary told her firmly.
“But it is the truth! I am supposed to tell the truth!” Cat protested.
The Duchess of Somerset fixed her daughter with a stern glare. “There is a difference between telling the truth and saying hurtful things. And besides while it may be true about my aunt, it is not true about Liz, and you should apologize to her for calling her mad.”
Cat looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but she knew that she might be sent to her room without supper otherwise, so she turned to her sister and said she was sorry. Her sister accepted it, equally aware that her parents would not allow them to continue squabbling.
Mary decided not to ask what had caused the argument as they had ended it and she would rather not restart it.
“Now your Mama and I have some news that might make you both happy,” Phillip announced with a pleased grin, bending down so he was eye-level with their daughters.
“Perhaps we should wait a while before telling them,” Mary suggested, a slight edge to her tone.
After all, she could miscarry this babe just as she had the last one. Liz and Cat were not even two-years-old when she had miscarried the boy, she had hoped to call Philip or John after her mother’s brother---not Henry, never Henry.
Her daughters hadn’t even known she was pregnant, being too young to notice the change in their mother’s body or that she had lost their baby brother or how she had not wanted to leave her bed for almost a month afterward.
“Good news like this cannot wait,” Philip told her, practically beaming. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Mary could not help but smile back.
“Oh, please tell us, Mama,” Liz cried dramatically. “I cannot bear the suspense.”
“By next May, you will have a sibling,” Mary explained.
“That’s wonderful! Will it be a brother or a sister!” Liz asked excitedly, her eyes wide as they darted from her mother to her father.
“We don’t know yet, sweetheart but I shall be happy either way,” Philip answered.
“Well, I hope it is a brother,” Cat declared, shooting Liz an irritated look. “Sisters can be so annoying.”
“Mama, Cat is being mean again!” Liz exclaimed as if Mary had not been standing a few feet away and hadn’t heard her say it.
“Tattletale,” Cat grumbled.
“Cat,” Mary warned.
“Sorry, Mama.” She averted her eyes before cocking her head and giving Mary a thoughtful look. “Did you ever think Auntie Bessie was annoying?”
“Never,” Mary replied earnestly.
Oh, perhaps she was a little envious that Elizabeth had replaced her and humiliated that she would have to be Elizabeth’s servant. But she had loved her little sister, never once letting any of her feelings color her interactions with the innocent babe.
“Your mother has always been a very good big sister, and I think your aunt and uncles would agree with me,” Philip commented. “I hope you will follow her example and just as loving as your Mama is to her siblings.”
“Yes, Papa,” Cat and Liz said in unison.
Edward felt lonely.
He wasn’t alone in Windsor, he knew that. He had a full household of servants tending to his every whim. He had a few companions from good families, one was even his cousin.
But it just wasn’t the same as having his siblings with him. And without Ambrose and Elizabeth, he felt his mother’s absence even more than he had months ago.
She wrote to him constantly, telling him how she loved and missed him, giving him updates on how his little brother was doing, asking him to pray for a brother and for his father’s heart to soften. Sometimes he wondered why his mother was so instant that she carried another son, thinking he wouldn’t mind a little sister.
Regardless, her letters made him miss her more and he couldn’t help but feel a bit angry at his father for continuing to shun her. In fact, he even said that she could not come to court for Edward’s birthday. Edward hated the fact that his mama was being kept away indefinitely. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever see her again.
The worst part was he was alone. Alone in his misery. No one else seemed to care about his mother or understood how frustrating all this was for him. Lady Parr had tried to be sympathetic, but in the end, all she could do was promise to speak to his father.
“Your Highness, we best be going. We will be leaving for court soon,” his tutor called.
“No,” Edward said so softly he might as well have been whispering. He raised his voice a little. “I am not going.”
“But Your Highness, it is your sister’s birthday,” John Cheke pointed out, sounding a bit worried.
Despite knowing it was not Elizabeth’s disappointment that Master Cheke was concerned about, Edward shook his head. “I am not going unless Papa allows Mama to come to court for my birthday.”
“Your Highness, she will be heavily pregnant by then and travel will be taxing on her and the child,” Master Cheke informed, relived that there was a logical reason for the Queen not being able to come to court even though he knew that if she weren’t pregnant, the king would still not invite her.
Edward frowned but realized it was pointless to argue and began to get ready to leave, thinking that soon he would have a sibling and maybe then his father would forgive his mother and maybe Edward wouldn’t feel so alone.
September 7, 1544
It maybe Elizabeth’s birthday but it was clear that Henry was more excited at seeing Ambrose than he was about anything else.
The Duchess of Bedford marveled at how Elizabeth seemed to be content with her father doting on her brother, choosing instead to talk to her older half-sister, chatting excitedly about the baby she was carrying. It seemed that while Edward could barely conceal the resentment of playing second fiddle to the love his father lavished on Ambrose, Elizabeth barely seemed bothered about it.
She was a smart girl and knew more about the Great Matter than Henry would have liked reaching her ears. Perhaps she knew that had her mother not had a son, her father might have treated her as coldly as he once did with Mary. Perhaps she was just relieved that Ambrose was her brother and that even if her father didn’t love her for herself, he loved her for being the daughter of the woman who gave him his heir.
Catherine sighed. She knew her brother had often hoped that she would get pregnant with the king’s son, as a royal bastard would only mean good things for their family especially if he inherited his mother’s Dukedom.
The duchess hoped she would never fall pregnant, as she was certain Henry would not dote on her child, male or female for he had Ambrose now and he needed nothing else. A bastard son, he might parade around just so people would know he had three sons, four if the queen birthed a boy. A daughter he would ignore. She would never gain her mother’s titles and would only be used to boost someone’s status. And yet Catherine could not help but smile at the thought of having a daughter as beautiful and smart as Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth.
Had he known of his mistress’ thoughts, King Henry would have refuted them. Well, he’d actually scold her for daring to think she could criticize him and be offended that she did not want to have his child.
His motives for praising his son--- reminding everyone just how clever and strong he was---were not just to highlight how amazing his heir was but also because he was watching every one of his courtiers, gauging their reactions to how they reacted to his words.
Somewhere among the throng was a knave eager to stir up trouble, to plant seeds of doubts in everyone’s mind about Ambrose’s legitimacy.
“Look at him, does he not have my jaw, a strong Tudor jaw!” he proclaimed as he glanced about the room.
The Duke of Kent rolled his eyes when a few of the courtiers agreed enthusiastically, probably thinking that they were just trying to please their king. Henry had often noticed that after his sister’s death, George had grown tired of court life and had only come back on orders of his father. No, not just that. Kent was determined to protect Anne’s legacy. It made Henry certain that he had chosen the right man to as Lord Protector. For he would never stop fighting those who tried to dispute Ambrose’s inheritance.
“Does Elizabeth not have the Tudor jaw as well?” Ambrose asked, perhaps a little uncomfortable at being praised so much. He was not a shy boy, and he did lap up the attention showered on him, but he didn’t like it coming in the expense of someone else.
“Better than the Hapsburg jaw!” someone jeered, much to the Imperial Ambassador’s and Mary’s displeasure.
Henry laughed loudly at the joke, before patting his son’s shoulder. “You and Elizabeth have parts of Tudors just like you have parts of your mother!” he declared. “The best of both of us.”
When he looked back at Kent, he saw the man was scowling. Henry followed his line of sight until his eyes landed on Suffolk. It felt like someone had dropped a bucket of ice-cold water on him.
If it had been the Seymours or even Norfolk, George wouldn’t have wasted time telling him his suspicions. But Suffolk? Even though he and Charles weren’t as close as they used to be, he was still Henry’s childhood friend and former brother-in-law.
Perhaps George had worried Henry might not believe him or he would ask Charles about it, ruining their trap as Suffolk would certainly realize that he had been found out and he would cover it up. Or maybe he thought the red-haired monarch’s temper would prevent him from being patient.
If it were the former, Henry hated to admit it, but he could believe Charles would be capable of something like this. Brandon was a stubborn fool and he probably had convinced himself he was doing the right thing. He had already accused Anne of sleeping with Sir Thomas Wyatt, believing she was a loose woman and his opinion of Anne had not gotten any better over the years.
It seemed that even though she had died, he still saw her as a whore and now it seemed he was determined to bring down her children. The urge to call his guards to arrest Charles and for him to be sent to the tower to be interrogated was a strong one but Henry determinedly stamped it down.
If George Boleyn could be patient than so, could he. When the time came, he would make Charles pay but for today, he would focus on his daughter’s birthday.
September 18, 1544
Subtly had never been Charles Brandon’s strong suit and this time, it might be the literal death of him. Thomas Cromwell shook his head as he stared at letter sent to him by Sir Thomas Wyatt.
The poet had been outraged when he found a man, claiming to be sent by the king, interrogating his wife about her husband’s alleged relationship with the late Queen Anne. A dagger pressed to his throat had soon loosened that man’s tongue and he spilled everything. How his master, the Duke of Suffolk, had sent men to those who knew Wyatt, Northumberland, Smeaton and, even more shockingly George Boleyn.
Cromwell had choked on his wine when he read that part, thinking not even Suffolk could be that stupid.
But no, apparently, he was that stupid, and he wasn’t the only one. Mary Talbot, the Dowager Countess of Northumberland had been eager to fill Suffolk’s men’s heads with lies about her husband. According to the wife of the traitorous Thomas Percy---who was eager for her sons to regain their ancestral lands--- Mary had informed her about what she had done, believing that she would save England from ‘the bastard whelp birthed by that bitch Boleyn.’
He had already sent his men to search the Suffolk’s estates, bribing the servants for their silence and threatening them with the King’s displeasure if they thought of betraying him.
Suffolk had made his grave and very soon he would lie in it. Cromwell almost pitied him as he pictured the king’s reaction when he was told about what his oldest friend was doing.
October 16, 1544
The Earl of Essex decided postponing telling the red-haired monarch of Suffolk’s plotting until after the Duke of York’s birthday. He was a bundle of nerves when he came before the king, dreading his reaction, only to become shocked when his master seemed almost indifferent.
“I already know.”
Of all things he thought King Henry would say, that was not one of them. After all, wouldn’t Suffolk already be in the Tower of London by now if the ruler knew what he had done?
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but how?” Cromwell asked, closing his mouth, realizing he must look like a floundering carp with his jaw hanging so low.
“Sir Mark Smeaton informed the Duke of Kent. Kent devised a trap for Ch---Brandon,” Henry amended, having no wish to say his former friend’s name.
Cromwell’s brow furrowed as the cogs of his mind turned, trying to figure out what the plan would have been that George would involve King Henry in it. Soon his expression cleared as realization dawned on him. “Ah, so Lord Kent believes that Suffolk will present you with one of your old love letters as evidence.”
Henry sighed. “We believe so. But Mark Smeaton has already given him the bait and yet he has not come forward with it,” the red-haired monarch remarked.
“I have a feeling he is waiting until the children have left for their own residences,” Cromwell guessed shrewdly. “After what better time to instill doubts in your head when your children are far from your sight.”
“And I will suddenly forget what they look like,” Henry huffed, wondering if Charles thought he was stupid. Of course, clearly, he had overestimated Charles’ intelligence if he thought he was going to believe lies about Anne.
November 24, 1544
Suffolk had almost fainted when his men brought Sir Mark Smeaton to him as he had learned what going on. To Suffolk’s surprise the musician offered to give information about Anne Boleyn for a price.
At first Charles thought it might be a trap, but Mark admitted that Anne had seduced him and then discarded him when a better lover came along. He only asked for safe passage out of England in exchange for his testimony.
Charles had of course refused, wanting all of Anne’s lovers to be punished for their crimes. So, the former court musician sweetened the deal. He told the duke he had gotten his hands on a love letter written by Anne. He said he had been afraid that Cromwell was in the Boleyn’s pockets, and he was unsure that anyone else would not seek to destroy this letter and himself to cover up Anne’s affairs if he came forward.
Suffolk wanted to kiss the man. He promised Smeaton that he would smuggle him out of England if he cooperated---although he had no intention of following through on that promise. The next time Mark visited, he gave Suffolk the letter and upon reading it, Charles almost fainted for the second time.
The letter was dated ten months before Ambrose was born.
It did not name the lover, but Charles was certain he knew who it was. The fact that letter mentioned a moment in Hever where they had almost copulated in her bedchamber confirmed his already rising suspicions.
Her paramour was her own brother, George Boleyn.
At the mere idea of Anne sleeping with her brother disgusted Charles as surely not even Anne and George Boleyn could be so vile but the more, he thought of it, the more he realized it actually made a degree of sense.
After all, Anne Boleyn was a clever and conniving woman who knew her every move was being watched. She would have had to be careful about who she let in her rooms least someone got suspicious. With Smeaton, as her musician, he was almost always in her chambers and could easily sneak into her bedchambers if he were sneaky enough about it.
But with George, there was no need to be sneaky as no one would suspect anything amiss if the Queen were alone with her brother.
If George fathered Ambrose, that would make it obvious why he looked so much like a Boleyn instead of a Tudor. It would also explain why George was so protective of Ambrose and Elizabeth---perhaps he had fathered her as well.
But once the glee and disgust had faded, Charles began to think a bit more rationally. He had to handle this delicately. The king’s favor was a slippery slope and Charles’ footing was not as steady as it once was. If he was not careful, he might fall and die. After all, everyone knew how much the monarch loved his son and he would not welcome the news the bastard was the product of incest let alone an affair.
However, this was an opportunity that was too good to pass up. If it meant the downfall of the Boleyns and their spawn than it would be worth the risk.
Charles waited until the royal children were sent away, not wanting them to present when the dam broke. He then waited until Mary had retired to the countryside, thinking it would be for the best if she also didn’t have to deal with the news of the evils of her stepmother, although Charles was certain she would celebrate the Boleyns’ long overdue downfall.
Once the court had settled in at Greenwich where they would soon celebrate Christmastide, Suffolk finally got up the nerve to ask for a private audience.
He took a deep breath when he walked into the king’s private chamber. The red-haired monarch was not looking at him, his shoulders tense as he leaned over his desk, apparently consumed by a piece of parchment.
Charles frowned, wondering if he had picked a bad time. Perhaps he should try again when the king was in a better mood---no if he didn’t do it now, he would never regain the courage to try again.
“Your Majesty, as your oldest friend as well as your most loyal subject I feel it's my duty, however painful to report some truths to you,” Charles spoke the words he had rehearsed in front of mirror at least five times.
Henry straightened but he didn’t turn around. “Say on.”
“I have heard some distressing rumors about the late Queen Anne and the men she entertained in her rooms, and I felt I must look into them for I feared that the people who are spreading the rumors might be plotting against your sons,” Charles continued. “I never for a moment dreamed they would be truth.”
“Are you saying that my wife was unfaithful?” Henry inquired, his voice deathly low.
Assuming Henry’s anger was at Anne and not him, Charles pressed on: “I am afraid so, sire. I even have a love letter from her.”
Henry spun around, his expression dangerous and he snatched the letter from Charles. “This looks like her handwriting,” he observed.
“Yes, Your Majesty, and while the person is not named, I have reason to suspect, it is George Boleyn,” Charles explained, swallowing the bile in his throat. “I also have reason to believe she was sleeping with Thomas Wyatt and Mark Smeaton.”
“Not Henry Percy?” jeered Henry. “After all, his wife keeps insisting they were married. But then again, I suppose you have nothing against him like you do the Duke of Kent.”
Charles’ insides froze. Something was not right. Henry was not reacting the way he should. “I am afraid, I don’t understand, Your Majesty.
“Your agents are not very loyal and the ones they talk to don’t know how to keep their mouths closed,” Henry remarked, laughing mirthlessly. “I am surprised you didn’t mention how Mary Talbot gave your agents a detailed report about how she was certain her husband was sleeping with the Queen and how they had married secretly.”
Oh God, it was a trap. Mark Smeaton must have been working with either Cromwell or Boleyn, perhaps both.
“Your Majesty, I swear, I was only trying to find out the truth---”
“LIAR!” Henry bellowed, throwing his fist at Charles’ face, sending him sprawling. “You always hated her. You tried to plant such doubts in my mind before, lying to me about Wyatt. You dare try again and this time, you had the gall to accuse her of sleeping with her brother. God’s teeth you wanted me to think Ambrose was a product of incest, you sick bastard!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I swear, I truly thought she had been unfaithful to you,” Charles pleaded, ignoring the blood flowing down his face, to kneel at King Henry’s feet, knowing that his life now hung in the balance.
How could he have been so stupid? Mark Smeaton cared for his own neck, and he wouldn't put it in jeopardy even for revenge on a lover who had supposedly spurned him.
“So, if she had been alive, you would have told me of your suspicions,” Henry spat, rage filling him as he realized what that meant. Charles probably would have done this a lot sooner if Anne were alive, perhaps when Elizabeth and Ambrose were still toddlers. He would have told Henry, knowing that the king’s rage and wounded pride would demand blood as payment for Anne’s crimes---condemning an innocent woman and innocent men to their deaths.
“Forgive me.”
“Forgive you?! Would you forgive a man who hated your wife so much that her death wasn’t enough for him to stop slandering her?!” Henry roared. He did not give Charles time to respond, kicking his back, toppling him over again. “You are a despicable knave. My sister, God rest her soul, must be weeping over how she married such a rogue. You deserve to be hanged for your actions.”
“Your Majesty, please have mercy,” Charles pleaded, his voice shaking. Had he not possessed an ounce of dignity, he might have grabbed Henry’s robes and kissed them, completely debasing himself.
“I am growing tired of showing mercy to people who slander my wife,” Henry snarled thinking of Jane and her dratted brother. “No Charles, you would not have asked for mercy had it been her life on the line so you will not get it now.”
“Your Majesty, in the name of our friendship, for my daughters', for Mary’s daughters’ sake, please spare me!” Charles implored, a note of hysteria in his tone.
Henry was no longer listening, instead he shouted for his guards to come and put Charles Brandon under arrest.
“Oh, and Charles, that letter that you so horrendously assumed was for George Boleyn. He wrote that letter by copying from a letter Anne wrote to me when we were courting. I am surprised you didn’t recognize it, considering that was the only one I ever showed you,” Henry remarked coldly, before ordering his guards to take his ex-friend away.
November 25, 1544
By now everyone knew of Charles Brandon’s downfall. The arrest warrant had been drawn up already so the soon to be former Duke of Suffolk was escorted to the Tower by a group of guard’s lead by a gleeful George Boleyn.
Cromwell was busy ordering the arrests of those who had helped him or were suspected of helping him. Among the ones, he was planning on interrogating was the king’s nieces and Brandon’s wife.
King Henry had decided to have his trial after Christmastide, not wanting the holiday to be marred by the reveal of Charles’ vile plots, not even announcing why the Duke of Suffolk had been arrested, allowing speculation to run rampant.
Thankfully, Elizabeth Seymour, who had been allowed back at court thanks to her father-in-law, had learned from her husband, Gregory what Charles Brandon had done, and she made sure to tell Edward.
Knowing that his sister had put their family in jeopardy, Edward decided that maybe the piece of information he had on Suffolk would help boost his status, allowing him to be climb further up the ladder. It was a risky move that could backfire, but Edward was certain that it would not do him any harm, perhaps a short exile. Nothing he couldn’t come back from, unlike Suffolk who would never be able to recover from losing his head.
King Henry had locked himself in his chambers, only letting Cromwell and the Duke of Kent see him. But Edward would not be deterred, telling the sentry that he had some treason to confess, knowing that would get him an audience.
The Duke of Kent was standing next to the King, a bemused expression on his face. The Earl of Hertford paid him no mind as he dropped to his knees in front of the red-haired monarch.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I have done you a great wrong,” he cried, trying to sound truly repentant.
“And what wrong have you done?” Henry questioned, sounding more confused than angry.
“I conspired with Sir Nicolas Carew and the Duke of Suffolk to put Jane under your nose,” reported Edward.
Sir Nicolas had already been executed for his alleged helping of the Pilgrimage of Grace so he would not have to suffer the ruler’s wrath as Charles Brandon would.
“I see. Did Jane know about it?” King Henry interrogated, his nostrils flaring at the idea of being so used.
“No, Your Majesty, we thought it would be best to keep her unaware. I swear to you, I had no intention of displacing the true Prince of Wales, I only wanted to be the new queen’s brother,” Edward confessed, half truthfully.
He had hoped that maybe just maybe his nephew would become the Prince of Wales either because of an accident or illness or something of that nature, but he was not an idiot, and he knew better than to plot against the king’s beloved son--- the fact that his siblings’ actions made his family the number one suspects certainly helped him with that decision.
It didn’t matter whether it was his nephew or Ambrose who became king as long as Edward got what he wanted, he didn’t care.
“I thank you for your honesty, my lord, I will ask that you speak to Cromwell and tell him what exactly you spoke about with those traitors,” Henry commanded.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Edward said dutifully, hiding his smirk.
The more His Majesty trusted him, the easier it would be to bring the Duke of Kent down.
December 10, 1544
It was freezing cold. Of all days for King Henry to visit Ludlow, it had to be today. Instead of standing in front of a warm fire, Ambrose was standing in the Great Hall, waiting for his father’s arrival. How was the Earl of Surrey not cold? He could see the servants shivering and hear the teeth chattering of those standing next to him. Why did his father decide to visit him today anyway? He would be going back to court for Christmastide in a fortnight so why would his father feel the need to come.
To Ambrose’s surprise when his father entered Ludlow, Elizabeth accompanied him.
As he was nine now, not three, Ambrose did not run to hug them, instead he bowed and greeted them with all the grace of a true Prince of Wales.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness, I am honored by your visit.”
Henry looked pleased by his son’s greeting, ruffling his hair before giving him a bear hug.
“Come, I want to talk to you and your sister,” Henry said with a strained smile.
He ushered them into a room with a great big fire roaring in the fireplace, ordering the servants to leave them alone.
“Is something amiss, Father?” Ambrose asked, glancing at Elizabeth, trying to guess from her expression what was going on. Unfortunately, she was passive as she always was.
“This has something to do with the Duke of Suffolk’s arrest.”
Henry nodded. He was glad he had brought Elizabeth along. Originally, he was only going to tell Ambrose, feeling that as Suffolk had only been trying to displace him, it had nothing to do with her.
Catherine, with all the fierceness of a mother, disagreed, pointing out that as Anne was Elizabeth’s mother too, it did have something to do with her. Although he knew Elizabeth would not have held it against him, Henry realized it was better that she heard this from him instead learning about it through rumor.
“The Duke of Suffolk has been caught trying to find evidence that your mother was unfaithful to me,” Henry explained, his words no higher than a whisper.
“Why would he do that?” Ambrose demanded.
“Because he thinks we’re---” Elizabeth began.
“Bastards. I know that!” Ambrose snapped, throwing his sister an angry look. “But why now? If he hated Mother so much why wait for so long?”
It took Henry a few minutes to retain the use of his tongue. They knew. Had Mary---no, while his daughter might explain it to them, she would never bring it up. He had always known that Elizabeth and Ambrose were observant, he had never guessed they were so perspective, they might learn a few unpleasant things he had never wanted them to know.
“I don’t know why Brandon chose now,” Henry admitted, although he had a suspicion that it might have something to do with his declining health and the rumors that Ambrose would become king as a small child. “But I wanted to make sure you know that lies he came up with about your mother are just that. Falsehoods.”
“Do you think people will believe it?” inquired Ambrose, his brow furrowed.
“If they do, I will deal with them,” Henry growled. “You are my son and Elizabeth is my daughter. Anyone who thinks otherwise are fools.”
“We know, Father,” Ambrose assured him. “We know.”
“Good,” Henry said with a smile.
“Can you tell us a story about her?” Elizabeth implored. “Uncle George and Aunt Mary told us so many, but you only told us one story about the spears she gave you.”
“All right. How about I tell you how we first met,” Henry suggested, opening his arms so his children could lie on him. “It started with masquerade...”
Henry decided to spend a few days at Ludlow before making his way back to London with Elizabeth and Ambrose at his side. The sting of Charles’ betrayed would be washed away as he told Ambrose and Elizabeth all about the times he had with Anne, downplaying the more sensual parts, and leaving out the bad parts entirely.
December 31, 1544
It had taken Queen Jane all day to deliver Edward and it seemed that this baby would be just as long. Hours went by with Jane convulsing with the contractions, her pained screams wrenching from her throat.
She kept having to remind herself that soon it would be worth it. For once she had her son, Henry would come running, He would not be able to stay mad at the woman who gave him two heirs. He would realize the folly of his actions, regret his cruelness towards her and perhaps even realize that Edward was the one who should be at Ludlow, learning how to be a King after his father.
As night fell, Jane was finally able to rest as the midwife cleaned up her newborn baby.
“Bring me my son,” Jane commanded as her maid helped her sit up, propping the pillow up against her back.
“Your Majesty has given birth a healthy baby girl,” the midwife announced gently, knowing her words would come as blow to the forsaken queen who had pinned all her hopes on reconciling with the king on her unborn child.
Jane tried not to weep as they put her daughter in her arms, her hopes of winning her husband’s love again dashed. There would be no more chances as Henry would never return to her bed.
“Her name will be Margery,” Jane whispered, kissing the top of her daughter’s head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
At least Henry was more likely to let her keep her daughter with her.
Notes:
Henry has his moments where he is a good dad but I think Catherine speaks for us all when she says he's more likely to celebrate a son than a daughter.
You'll notice that Philip is the anti-Henry and he strives to be so.
And Cromwell and Henry speak for us all as they comment on Suffolk's intelligence.
Chapter 16: Anne Boleyn: Saint or Sinner
Summary:
Jane's daughter is taken from her. Mary contemplates on how her father isn't like the man she once admired. Charles Brandon might be dead, but the intrigue and conspiracies of the Tudor Court continue.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
January 13, 1545
The occupants of Kimbolton Castle held their breath as they waited for a message from court to tell the fate of the new princess. Although none were very fond of the forsaken queen either because they were supporters of Anne or because they found her words against Ambrose and Elizabeth to be harsh and cruel, they still felt some pity for her.
Queen Jane had pinned all her hopes on birthing a boy, certain that if she gave the king a third son, he would have to forgive her and welcome her back to court, along with the newborn prince. She had expected that if she birthed a second son, King Henry would have ridden to Kimbolton with great speed and he would see her lying in her bed, holding their boy. It would be a sight so beautiful it would melt his heart and he would not be able to continue to be cruel to her.
Even if he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive her, he would be so pleased with her for giving him two sons, something not even the harlot had been able to do, he would reward her by allowing her to keep their newest boy with her for at least a few months and he would give her permission to visit Edward whenever she wished.
With a girl, the red-haired monarch would not forgive her or even think of rewarding her despite the child being very healthy.
But at least there was a silver lining. A boy would be taken away, as the Lord Boleyn would be whispering in the king’s ear that she would poison the boy against his half-siblings. At least her husband would be more willing to let the Princess Margery live with Jane, and they would not be separated from each other.
Or so she thought.
“Your Majesty, the Viscount of Lisle is here,” a servant announced.
Jane swallowed, realizing that Henry must have sent the man to see the baby, and report on her health and appearance. She went over to the cradle, and scooped Princess Margery up in her arms before nodding to her maid to let the man in.
Lord John Dudley was quite deferential, doffing his cap, bowing lowly, and kissing her hand. They exchanged pleasantries before the man informed the queen of why he was here.
“His Majesty King Henry has sent me to take the Princess Margaret to London,” the Viscount announced.
“For her christening,” Jane guessed, stamping down the dread she felt at his words. She had been wondering about how she could have Margery's christening while she was in exile.
She supposed that perhaps it would be a good thing for her daughter’s christening ceremony to be held in London as it would signify that despite his feelings towards her mother, King Henry loved his daughter for she was a true born princess.
And perhaps upon looking at their sweet daughter’s face, the red-haired monarch would recall happier days when he courted Jane, and those memories would soften him to his wife, rekindling the love he had for her, to the point where he would end her unjust banishment, bringing her back to court to reunite with their boy.
John Dudley looked deeply uncomfortable, wishing that King Henry had chosen any man but him for this unpleasant job. He had a feeling that despite being related to Jane, Sir Francis Bryan would not have felt a quiver of guilt when he passed on this news.
Hell, the Earl of Hertford had volunteered to do this---despite the fact that he was separating his niece from his sister. He had only been refused on account that he had to give testimony against the Duke of Suffolk.
“I am afraid not, my lady, the king has decreed that Princess Margaret will be given her own household in Hatfield,” he explained, lowering his gaze to the floor so he did not have to see her face fall.
Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. “No, my lord, I beg of you, please, do not take my daughter from me,” she implored. “She is all I have left.”
Despite feeling sorry for her, John Dudley could not help but feel a flash of annoyance. She was acting as if he had any say in the matter, if she wanted to beg someone than she would have to beg the king. There was nothing the Viscount of Lisle could do, well nothing he could do that wouldn’t cost him his head.
Still, he kept his tone as pleasant and gentle as he could, hoping to convey his sympathy for her plight. “Your Majesty, I promise you she shall be well cared for. I have a wet nurse waiting outside and King Henry has already made all the arrangements to ensure that Princess Margaret will be comfortable and happy.”
To his utter dismay, Queen Jane dropped to her knees, holding her child tightly. It would be a touching sight if not for the fact that she was doing this to a mere Viscount who had no say over what happened. He merely carried out his liege’s orders whether he liked them or not.
“Please, I beg of you, I am but a sick woman who has been separated from her son for months, do not take my only daughter when she is at my breast. Please have mercy and let me keep my Margery!” Jane wailed.
“Your Majesty, the King demands his daughter be brought to him at once. I have no choice, but to do as he commands!” John exclaimed, the sympathy he felt for her fading fast.
Jane’s sobs soon upset Princess Margaret and she began to wail as well, failing her arms about as if to attack whoever was disturbing her mother.
The Viscount of Lisle could do nothing more but summon the servants of the household to help him take the child from her mother. Two servants had to hold Jane back as she struggled to get her daughter back, carrying on about how she had nothing but her daughter.
As he handed the Princess Margaret to the wet nurse, John wondered if there was a special place in hell for men who forcibly separated mothers from their babies. If there was, he was most certainly destined for it.
January 20, 1545
If Mary had needed any more proof that it was her father and not Anne who had decreed that she be separated from her mother, she would only have to look at the fact that in a fortnight after the birth of her half-sister, the poor princess had been whisked away from her mother. How could her father be so heartless? For all of Jane’s faults, she did not deserve to be kept away from her children especially the one who would have no memories of her.
To do him credit, her father didn’t seem to care that his newest child was female. Unlike the births of herself and Elizabeth, there were already two princes in the nursery, so her father was quite overjoyed with the birth of his third daughter. When Princess Margaret had arrived at Hampton Palace, King Henry had the entire court wait on the Great Lawn to greet her carriage. When she was brought out to him, wrapped in the warmest fur, the red-haired monarch took her from her wet nurse and carried her himself all the way to the nursery where she was introduced to Mary, Elizabeth, Ambrose, and Edward.
Then Edward innocently asked if his mother would be returning to court after she was churched.
King Henry had scowled, given a sharp no before spinning on his heels and storming away, slamming the door behind him.
Margaret’s wet nurse had to rush her into another room, so she could soothe her sobs. Ambrose and Elizabeth comforted Edward, assuring him that their father was not angry at him, he just was in a bad mood right now.
Mary wondered if it was better that her half-siblings were exposed to her father hot temper and vicious mood swings now or should they be sheltered from cruel actions like she was, only to be crushed when she realized the truth later.
“You’re disappointed in me,” Henry observed, drowning the glass of wine he had poured for himself.
“I would never seek to lecture you,” Catherine replied, as she took a sip of wine from her own glass.
“Don’t play dumb, Madam, it is beneath you,” admonished Henry playfully, leering at her.
Good. When he’s lustful, he usually doesn’t get angry, Catherine thought, leaning forward so the king could get an eyeful of her bosom. “Are you asking for my opinion, Sire?” she inquired innocently.
“I am,” Henry replied, his eyes no longer on her face.
“I think you should let the Queen visit her children,” Catherine told him.
“So, she can fill their heads with nonsense about Edward being the true Prince of Wales,” snapped Henry, looking away.
“You thought the same of Katherine of Aragon and yet within the months of her living with Mary, they signed the oath,” Catherine pointed out.
Henry decided not to tell her that he was certain that they had only done it in fear that they would be punished for the Spanish Ambassador’s crimes if they did not.
“Only because it is not in Katherine’s nature to slander anyone,” Henry remarked.
It took all of Catherine’s willpower not to snap at him that if he knew that, then why would he have kept them apart for so long?
“Keep a close eye on Her Majesty’s visits then, but I think keeping Edward and Margaret away from their mother would be a cruel thing,” she said softly, placing her hand on his cheek so he would turn and look at her pleading eyes.
The red-haired monarch let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, all right, I shall let her visit them,” he decided, nuzzling her arm. “I shall make you a godmother of Princess Margaret for I have no doubt you would raise her right.”
Catherine smiled at him. “I would be honored to be your daughter’s godmother,” she professed.
Of course, she was certain this would not go over well with the Seymours especially not Queen Jane, but she hardly cared.
For whatever, the Seymour thought of her, she cared for King Henry’s children, all of them and she would do her best to help them.
“Good. I will also make the Duke of Somerset and Mary godparents,” Henry remarked, thinking his daughter would also be quite pleased if she and her husband were godparents of her newest sister.
Perhaps she would be so happy that when she birthed his first grandson, she would name him Henry.
“Your Majesty, the Countess of Cumberland begs for an audience,” the herald announced.
The scowl reappeared on the king’s face, knowing full well why his niece was here: to beg for her father’s life.
Cromwell had sent men to question her, her sister, and their husbands about their involvement in their father’s crimes. Thankfully, they were quickly cleared as was Lady Catherine Brandon. Frances and her stepmother had already tried to plead with him to spare their father and now it seemed it was Eleanor’s turn.
“Tell her that I am busy and can’t be disturbed,” Henry commanded, his mind now on the treason of his best friend.
Of all the people he counted on, he trusted, he never thought Charles would betray him.
January 31, 1545
Despite his earlier words, the red-haired monarch decided not to hang the former Duke of Suffolk even though he did strip him of all his titles, leaving him to walk to the execution block as Charles Brandon.
In a way it was poetic, he was born simply Master Charles Brandon and now he would die as peerless man just as he had begun.
Mary Talbot had been arrested for bearing false witness and it was only because of her father’s pleadings that she was able to spend the rest of her life imprisoned instead of being executed like Charles.
The men who he had hired to search for evidence against Queen Anne were not so lucky. They did not even get the mercy of a beheading as Charles did, instead were hung, drawn, and quartered. Perhaps their deaths were merely to set an example for anyone who was foolish enough to help their masters plot treason.
Charles was alone as he walked up to the scaffold and chuckled darkly. A swordsman from Calais had been hired to cut off his head. Queen Anne would have liked that, she was always so fond of anything French.
As he turned to give his final speech to the crowd, he looked around, wondering who had come to see him die. His daughters were at his wife’s side, all of them crying; a part of him felt glad that his sons were not there as they were too young to have to watch their father die. The Lord Chancellor, Audley, the Lord Treasurer, Cromwell and the Solicitor General, Rich, were watching him with somber faces, knowing that if they ever did something to anger the red-haired monarch, it would them on the scaffold. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Hertford were watching him with stoic expressions, neither one of them looking sorry: the former for pronouncing him guilty and the latter for testifying against him.
However, the sight of them did not enrage him as much as the sight of the smug Duke of Kent, the whore’s brother, the head of the vile Boleyn brood.
“Good Christian people, I have come here to die. I ask forgiveness from King Henry, the most gracious Prince in all of Christendom. I was only trying to protect him from the vile heretics that are destroying England from within. Anne Boleyn bewitched our good King, destroying not only good Queen Katherine, the Princess Mary, but also our bounds with the mother church. Even with her burning in hell, we are not safe from her evil. Her son, spawn of the devil, will destroy England, finishing what his mother started. I beg of you, as loyal and brave subjects of His Majesty, to revolt against the Boleyns before they destroy your souls! God save King Henry, Queen Jane, Princess Mary, Prince Edward and Princess Margaret!” he shouted passionately, his chest heaving with labored breathing as he knelt down and rested his head on the scaffold.
The crowd booed after his speech, calling him a traitor and a liar. Then suddenly a hush fell over them.
Charles looked up and realized the monarch was striding towards the crowd and his heart leapt in his throat. Perhaps King Henry had come to stop the execution, perhaps he had decided to show mercy to his childhood friend.
He felt like crying in relief when the red-haired monarch came closer only for his hopes to be dashed when the ruler stopped at the edge of the crowd and nodded at the executioner to continue before his eyes locked on Charles, looking at him as if he was a lowly worm.
Charles felt his heart plummet as he knew that while the monarch had regretted the death of Thomas More, he would not regret the death of a man he had once called brother.
The executioner swung his sword, and the last thing he saw was the hatred on King Henry’s face. His last thought was that Anne Boleyn, and her hateful brother should have been the ones beheaded instead of him.
Mary was glad she was in her own estates for she could grieve here without anyone accusing her of sympathizing with a traitor.
She was certain that some people would claim she was sad that Charles had not succeeded in his plot to cast doubt on Ambrose’s legitimacy. Even though, she had once thought Elizabeth and Ambrose might not be her father’s, ---perhaps hoped was the more accurate word---but she would never want them to have deal with such rumors that they may have been fathered by a poet, a musician, or worse their own uncle.
Instead, she cried over the death of a man who had been an uncle to her, a man who had been kind to her when her father had not. He had always been loyal to her. It devastated her that he would die today.
The worst part was what his death meant. When Charles had married her Aunt Mary without the king’s permission, her father hadn’t even imprisoned him, instead simply exiling him---for only a few months.
King Henry saw the former Duke of Suffolk as a close friend and yet just like Wolsey and More, he ended up being marked for execution.
The part that scared Mary was the fact that her father would kill a man who he once called his brother. It just proved to her that had things been different and had she refused to sign the Oath of Supremacy, she might have found herself lying her head on the execution block, dying with an axe to her neck.
“Mary, you’re shivering.” Philip’s concerned voice broke her out of her thoughts. He took her hands in his and brought her closer to the fire, wrapping his arms around her. “Are you all right, my love?”
“No,” Mary admitted, resting her head on his shoulder, placing a hand on her swollen abdomen.
Philip did not ask her why; he just held her close.
March 2, 1545
King Henry might not regret the death of his former best friend, but he at least pitied the former Duke of Suffolk’s family. Henry Brandon and his younger brother Charles would be given as wards of the Duke of Kent and the Earl of Buckingham, respectively. Of course, there was an underlying motive of keeping the two sons of a convicted traitor loyal to the Boleyn faction as well.
However, after the execution of Charles Brandon, the king was becoming increasingly paranoid, ordering Cromwell to investigate various nobles to make sure they weren’t plotting something against Prince Ambrose.
This was enough for the Earl of Hertford to feel quite apprehensive when the Duke of Norfolk summoned him.
“I can assure you that if any of my men are working for that black rook Cromwell, they would be found out and dealt with immediately,” Norfolk sneered nastily.
“You never can be too careful,” remarked Edward, glancing about before returning his gaze to the old duke. “King Henry seems to only trust two men, Boleyn and Cromwell.”
“Bah, they are both jumped up fools who think they can do anything because the king ennobled them,” Thomas Howard growled, snorting in derision.
As am I, Edward thought, keeping his expression neutral. He had no illusions that the Duke of Norfolk was merely using him and that he hated Edward as much as he hated the other “new men” of the council. He was certain that Norfolk would stab him in the back the first chance.
Luckily, Edward had taken precautions just in case he needed to save his own neck.
“Forgive me for being blunt, my lord, but why have you summoned me?” the earl asked.
“I have heard it whispered that king’s whore has convinced His Majesty to let Queen Jane visit her children. I know that your wife is one of her ladies and I hoped that perhaps she could be swayed to help us turn the king against George Boleyn,” Thomas Howard replied, a dark glint in his eyes.
Unlike his stupid brother, Edward was fully aware that Catherine Parr had a tender heart for all the king’s children including Edward. He doubted very much that the Duchess of Bedford would be interested in helping the Seymours any more than she would be interested in helping the Duke of Norfolk especially when she was friends with his disowned niece, Kitty Culpeper.
“I shall speak to my wife immediately,” Edward told him, deciding not to point out the futility of trying to convince Catherine Parr to get involved when she clearly had no interest in either faction, preferring to focus on the royal children instead.
“Good, my son and my grandson are gaining the young Prince of Wales’s trust and hopefully we can start turning him against his uncle,” Norfolk noted with a frown. “My son wrote to me that the boy is even more devoted to his uncle than his father is so it shall not be an easy task.”
“We will find a way and once we get rid of Boleyn, you shall be the Lord Protector of England,” Edward declared.
Now Norfolk was smiling, pleased that soon he would have the power he so craved, he wouldn’t be king, but Lord Protector would be the next best thing.
Just as soon as they ousted his foolish nephew, taking him down as he had taken down the former Duke of Suffolk.
Hever Castle was nice, but it wasn’t Westhorpe Hall the place Hal had called his home for nearly ten years.
The worst part was why he had to live at Hever Castle. His mother and half-sisters had not wanted to tell him, but he found out anyway. His father had been executed as a traitor and he now had to live with the Duke of Kent because King Henry wanted to keep an eye on the sons of a traitor.
Hal Brandon didn’t know what upset him more. The fact that his father, his beloved papa, had committed high treason and that was why Hal was no longer called the Earl of Lincoln, son of the Duke of Suffolk. In addition, he was being separated from his mother and brother just so men the King trusted could keep an eye on them.
To the Duke of Kent’s credit, he did not seem to blame Hal for his father’s crimes, crimes against his sister, the late Queen Anne no less, greeting the young boy cheerfully, grinning at him with such boyish charm Hal might have mistaken the duke for a younger man were it not for the grey of his hair and beard and the wrinkles on his face that crinkled when he smiled.
“Welcome, lad, welcome to Hever Castle, I hope you will find yourself comfortable,” George declared jovially.
Hal bowed awkwardly, remembering his manners. “I thank you, Your Grace, for inviting me to stay at your lovely home,” he said formally, hoping his desire to return home was not palpable on his face.
“It is our please, my boy,” George assured him before ushering him inside where his wife and children were waiting. “Allow me to introduce to you, my wife, Lady Jane Boleyn, my son, the Earl of Ormond and Wiltshire and Viscount of Rochford, Lord James Boleyn and my daughter, Lady Anne Boleyn.”
The young boy turned and bowed to each person as George spoke their name. When he looked back up, the Duke of Kent’s daughter had stepped forward and was smiling winningly at him.
“Hello Henry, you’re going to love it here, I promise,” Anne Boleyn told him, taking his hand in hers.
Hal believed her.
April 9, 1545
Prince Ambrose was ten years old today. Very close to being on the cusp of manhood when God willing, he would have many children with his Spanish bride. That is if the marriage was allowed to happen, as the Dauphine of France had just given birth to a girl and King François was quite eager to use Anne Boleyn’s love of France to push for a French match for her son, allowing him to stop the English and Spanish alliance especially now that France was in another war with the Holy Roman Emperor.
King Henry spared no expense for the celebration, making up the subdued celebration of Ambrose’s birth by throwing the most lavish feast.
The only member of the royal family who were not there--- aside from baby Margaret and Queen Jane of course--- was Princess Mary who had gone into confinement. However, her husband had delivered her gift personally, expressing that Mary and their daughters had all but ordered him to do so, unwilling to have the present and birthday wishes be delivered by messenger.
That got a laugh from King Henry. “But I assume you shall ride back to Palace of Beaulieu the moment the festivities are over,” he guessed.
“Your Majesty knows I am my wife’s most loyal servant,” the Duke of Somerset jested, causing the court to laugh.
Ambrose wasn’t quite sure why that was funny. In fact, he found it rather sweet, his sister deserved a man who loved her so much he would call himself her servant.
After the courtiers had finished presenting their gifts to Ambrose, his father had arranged a play to be performed: a play called Saint Anne.
It started off as a young girl playing with her siblings, loudly declaring that the Catholic Church is full of nothing, but corruption and sins. The girl wished that she could save England from evils that had come from Rome.
The next act was years later when the title Anne was a woman grown and she was being courted by a handsome monarch who had a wicked advisor who was keeping him trapped in a sinful marriage to blind the monarch to the true faith.
Once she had opened the king’s eyes, they were married to great rejoicing. She then gave birth to a daughter who even at birth was declared the most brilliant and beautiful of princesses, destined to be a great queen. Then she birthed a boy, the future king who would bring peace and prosperity to England. However, she died in the process of birthing the boy much to the ruler’s devastation.
At the end of the play, the now widowed king made a speech. “She shall be Saint Anne for she fought valiantly against the wickedness of the Catholic Church, only to die a martyr to bring us a precious prince who will one day continue her work in spreading the true religion. God bless Queen Anne Boleyn the Saint!”
The moment the curtains went down, King Henry was on his feet applauding the play with great cheer.
Ambrose and Elizabeth stood up as well, clapping just as loud although they exchanged a rather amused look, thinking that the portrayal of their mother was just a touch overdone.
Still having their mother being portrayed as a saint after hearing so many nasty rumors was a welcome change.
Ambrose glanced over at the Duke of York to see he was not quite as happy. He had stood and was clapping, but he had a scowl on his face, having not quite enjoyed the play as his father and the rest of the court had done.
The Prince of Wales hoped his father didn’t notice Edward’s look otherwise he might change his mind about letting Queen Jane visit Edward.
At the least everyone seemed to be having a good time, drinking, and eating. No one expected a fight to break out.
“You will take that back or I shall duel you right now!” the Duke of Somerset shouted, causing the banquet hall to fall silent. He had leapt up from his seat, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword.
“My lord, I was merely stating the truth,” the Duke of Kent told him calmly.
“You were insulting my wife and you best take back your words before I make you,” Philip growled.
George Boleyn only scoffed and turned his back to the furious duke. “You are making a fool of yourself. I will not fight you over such a small matter.”
Ambrose’s brow furrowed, perplexed by his uncle’s behavior. If Ambrose was confused, Philip was enraged. He grabbed George’s shoulder and forcibly turning him around and then punched him in the face.
“Guards, throw this man out at once!” Henry bellowed, on his feet.
“There is no need, Your Majesty, I shall take my leave of court and returning home,” Philip decided, stepping away.
“Good and stay there until you have regained your manners!” Henry decreed, glaring at his son-in-law.
With that, the Duke of Somerset bowed before backing out of the room.
“I wonder what that was about?”
“The Duke of Kent causing trouble again, no doubt,” the Earl of Surrey replied, tutting disapprovingly. “Sometimes I think power has gone to his head and he thinks he can say anything and get away with it.”
Ambrose frowned. While it was true his uncle was hotheaded and impulsive, he didn’t usually just randomly insult people for no good reason.
He studied his uncle’s expression as his aunt checked his face to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. The Duke of Kent didn’t look upset, well he looked annoyed, but judging from the fact that he was pushing his wife away, that might have had something to with Jane fussing over him.
Why wouldn’t he be more upset that the Duke of Somerset had just berated him and punched him in front of all these people?
Then again, now that Ambrose was thinking about it, why would Mary’s husband punch the most powerful man at court? Everyone knew that the Duke of Kent was the highest in King Henry’s favor as he was the beloved brother of late Queen Anne. Yelling at him would have caused the red-haired monarch to get angry let alone punching him.
Something did not sit right with Ambrose and judging from the look on Elizabeth’s face, she was thinking along the same lines.
However, it didn’t matter right now. What did matter was his birthday. It wasn’t every day he turned ten.
Ambrose quickly becomes absorbed in a conversation with Thomas Howard about the new design his father was considering for his coat of arms, not even noticing the Earl of Hereford slip out the door.
April 18, 1545
The Palace of Beaulieu was full of excitement as Princess Mary went into labor with her third child.
Philip, the Duke of Somerset, had not revealed to his wife about the incident at court for fear what he told her would upset her enough to cause harm to their unborn child. He had vowed to tell her when she was churched. Hopefully before someone, either her father or Elizabeth, sent her a letter telling her what they saw happen.
For now, he waited with his daughters, deciding to bring them with him to greet their new sibling. He also had the grooms write up announcements to be copied and distributed once Joan Brown told them the sex. It would either be Philip if it were a boy or Mary if it was a girl.
“It’s a girl, Your Grace,” Joan declared, curtsying as she came in.
“But I wanted a brother!” Cate exclaimed, outraged that she hadn’t gotten what she wanted.
Philip, knowing exactly how his wife was feeling right now, decided to crouch down and have a few words with his daughter least she repeated her disappointed to her mother. “Sweetheart, your mother just spent a long-time laboring to bring your sister into the world. We must be happy that she and your new sister are healthy and unharmed instead of being upset that the baby isn’t a new brother.”
“Are you disappointed, Papa?” Lizzie asked, cocking her head curiously.
“Disappointed that I now have three little girls to spoil. Not at all,” Philip laughed merrily, kissing the tops of their heads before he took both of their hands and led them to their mother’s room.
Mary was propped up on the pillow, holding her newest daughter in her arms. She glanced up and gave him a mock glare that was ruined by the smile tugging at her lips.
“We have a Mary now, my lord, are you satisfied?” she teased him.
Philip beamed at him. “I have never been happier in my life,” he told her earnestly.
A son was good. A son named Philip who would someday be the Duke of Somerset would be grand.
But he had his Mary, and he had his three beautiful daughters.
King Henry might feel that his daughter had failed, but in Philip’s humble opinion, the red-haired monarch could stuff it.
Notes:
What do you think? Did George put his foot in his mouth (not exactly unlikely) or did something else happen. By the by, George was doing his best not laugh throughout the first act of the play (although he was crying by the third).
Mary has realized just how lucky she is to have married Phillip, although she will not be happy when she finds out what happened at the feast or more to the point, the reason it happened.
Chapter 17: Stuck in the Past
Summary:
Jane gets some good news. Mary and Philip have an argument. Ambrose and Elizabeth comfort Edward when he feels insecure. Meanwhile his uncle and aunt plot while Henry gets a nightly vistor.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
April 24, 1545
The sun was shining down on Kimbolton today. It seemed that the sky had been filled with dark clouds from the moment the exiled Queen of England had arrived, banished from court, sent away by snakes who had poisoned her husband’s ears.
For months, Jane had sent hundreds of letters to King Henry, begging him to let her see her children if he would not forgive her. She was certain that the Duke of Kent or perhaps that whore Catherine Parr had destroyed her desperate pleas, not wanting to take the chance that the monarch’s heart would soften, and he would allow her to return to her rightful place.
Oh, how angry they would be when they learned that despite their plot to turn Henry against her, her husband had found that he could not continue to be cruel to the mother of his son and his daughter---his trueborn children.
A page had arrived this afternoon and unlike that black-hearted vagrant, Lord Lisle, he brought her the best news Jane had heard since the day she learned she was pregnant for the second time.
After almost a year of exile, King Henry was allowing her to leave the gloomy castle that had been her prison. She would be allowed to visit Windsor and see her son. Princess Margaret would also be there, and Jane could not wait to see how big her daughter had gotten since she was ripped from her mother’s arms.
“My lady, His Majesty wishes for me to stress that you will only be able to stay at Windsor for a fortnight, and then you are to return to Kimbolton,” the page informed her politely, looking deeply uncomfortable.
Jane’s smile dropped, her heart feeling heavy in her chest. “Surely His Majesty is satisfied with my punishment after such a long time away.” She bit her lip so she did not burst into tears.
The page kept his eyes downcast. “My master says that as long as you do not debase the late Queen Anne, Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth, he may be willing to grant you future visits to the Duke of York and his sister. But he feels it would be for the best if you remain away from court, so you do not stir up unpleasantness.”
“Well, if that is my husband’s wish than I must obey. Please tell him of my deep gratitude at being allowed to see my children and my dearest wish that we will be reunited. I pray twice daily for his health and the health of Prince Ambrose, Princess Elizabeth, Prince Edward, Princess Margaret and Princess Mary,” Jane proclaimed in the sweetest tone she could muster, hoping King Henry would believe that she spoke earnestly. She then extended her hand for the messenger to kiss.
Knowing that she was dismissing him, the boy kissed her hand, bowed, and then backed out of the room, his gaze low.
Jane fell back on her bed and let out a delirious laugh. “The Boleyn’s hold is weakening,” she murmured. “He is softening, and soon he will send for me, and we shall be together again.”
Queen Katherine of Aragon had not been able to free herself from an unjust exile, but Jane would soon be returned to her rightful place at her husband’s side. Her enemies though they had beaten her, but soon they would learn that king’s love for her would soon melt his heart of ice.
“Soon all will be well again,” the blonde-haired woman proclaimed as she wept for joy, happy that she would be reunited with her son and her baby daughter.
Hudson House was not nearly as grand as the Palace of Beaulieu---although as a royal residence it was not lacking in its opulence---but it had a certain charm to it. Out in the country where the birds sang their melody, and a sense of peacefulness that washed away the stress after being at court, watching a war of factions desperately vying for the red-haired monarch’s favor.
Philip was in his study, looking over a report from his steward regarding some nonsense of involving two fishermen feuding over the cost of a new boat when he heard the door open and close. Suddenly a piece of parchment was thrust under his nose before he had even gotten a chance to greet the newcomer. With a feeling of foreboding, the Duke of Somerset looked up to see the furious expression of his lovely wife who had been churched only a few days before. She was now healthy, out of her bed, and ready to unleash the full extent of her wrath.
“Letter from your father,” Philip guessed, smiling charmingly at her. Unfortunately, after five years of marriage, his charisma did nothing to soothe Mary’s ire and instead her glare became even fiercer.
“No---although I did get one from him as well. However, this letter is from Elizabeth, and she apparently is a bit more observant than my father was,” Mary began, her eyes narrowed, causing Philip to feel dread creeping up his spine, guessing exactly what his shrewd sister-in-law had observed---only eleven-years-old and she was smarter than a room full of seasoned courtiers. “She noted that during the play Saint Anne, which she has tactfully called a piece of propaganda nonsense that even her mother would have found silly, you and the Duke of Kent seemed quite friendly. In fact, it looked as though you were both laughing and chortling. Imagine her surprise when at the feast you punched him out of nowhere especially when moments before you two had been whispering about something, seemingly getting along swimmingly.”
“When people insult my wife, I tend to seek retribution no matter how friendly I was with them earlier,” Philip said earnestly. It didn’t happen often, thank God, but in the early days of their marriage, he had come across some people making snide remarks about Mary taking after her mother; those men soon learned to have better manners when the vengeful duke demanded they take back their words if they did not want his sword to skewer them.
“Philip.” It was clear by the look on Mary’s face that he was not getting out of this one.
“All right, sweetheart, I didn’t want to upset you, but the Duke of Kent had a theory, and he needed my help to test that theory,” the duke explained vaguely, waving his hand dismissively as if it were a small matter of no importance whatsoever.
“And what theory would that be?” inquired the duchess, her eyes narrowed into slits.
“Whether or not the Earl of Hertford would approach me with a plan to discredit the Boleyns,” Philip replied sheepishly, averting his eyes as he knew what was coming.
“I thought we agreed we would be staying out of the Boleyn-Seymour fight,” opined Mary coolly, her arms folded across her chest, her gaze piercing into her husband’s very soul.
“I know that my love, but whether we like it or not, we are already involved. Our daughters are involved. If we ever have a son, he will be involved as well,” Philip pointed out.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is we cannot choose sides because that would mean picking either Edward or Ambrose,” Mary snapped. “You should not have done this without discussing it with me first.”
“Madame, I do not need your permission to protect our family.” Philip was growing angry at the notion that he needed to ask his wife for her blessing before deciding.
“Protect,” scoffed Mary incredulously, her eyes rolling to the ceiling before looking at her husband again. “You have not protected us. You have thrown us into the middle of a battlefield.”
“I did not give up my whole life just to be treated as if I was an erring child. I have given up my home, my title, and my surname just for you. All I want in return is respect from my wife!” Philip shouted, jumping up out of his chair.
His wife did not even take a step back, uncowed by her husband’s sudden movements and the volume of his voice. “It was your decision to stay in England, Philip. I never asked you to do anything for me,” Mary reminded him through gritted teeth. “If you think that I have disrespected you so greatly, then why don’t you just return to Germany so you can have everything that I cost you?”
“Well, if that is the way you feel then maybe I will,” Philip snarled.
His wife stuck out her chin defiantly, her voice shaking as she spoke. “Then leave, my lord, I shall not stop you,” she hissed before turning on her heels and storming out the room, leaving Philip to collapse in his chair, wondering what had just happened.
The Duchess of Somerset kept her head held high as she stalked away from her husband’s study, the wet sting of tears prickled her eyes, but she refused to allow herself to cry until she was in her own chambers. Once she arrived, she sat on her bed, placed her face in her hands and wept.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been crying for before her husband came into the room and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m not going back to Germany,” he assured her. Mary only hiccupped in response, pressing herself against him. Silence followed as the duke chose his next words carefully, rubbing comforting circles on her back. “I am just so frustrated not knowing what is going on and whether or not it will impact us. When the Duke of Kent came to me with his plan, I saw a chance for us to keep on top of things, to know what was happening so we could prepare for it. I will not apologize for wanting to keep us informed, but I do acknowledge that I should have least spoken to you before making my decision.”
“I would have never agreed to it. I would have felt that we should stay out of all matters of politics and intrigues, so we do not have to pick sides,” Mary remarked, before laughing mirthlessly. “You know ten years ago, this would have been so simple. I would have said that as much as I loved them, Ambrose and Elizabeth were bastards and any son birthed by Jane Seymour was my father’s true heir. It wouldn’t have had anything to do with my opinion, it would have been just a fact. The minute my father died, I would have declared Queen Jane’s son the true king. Now, I don’t think I can do that. I don’t want to choose between my brothers.”
“You won’t. I promise you that we shall remain neutral. All I want to do is keep abreast of the situation. I won’t repeat anything Kent or Hertford tells me unless it is something dangerous or treasonous,” Philip explained, stroking her hair. “I know this is complicated and perhaps I should have done a little more thinking before agreeing, but this way we can protect your siblings as well as our children from becoming pawns of power-hungry men.”
Although Mary wasn’t completely convinced that her husband hadn’t just put them in the thick of the drama instead of ensuring they would be safe from the consequences of the war between the Seymour and Boleyn factions, she nodded and buried her face in his shoulder before turning her head to study him for a few moments.
“Why did you do it?” she inquired curiously.
“Do what?” he asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.
“Leave Germany to live here?”
“Because I love you,” Philip replied with a fond chuckle as he tucked a stray strand of hair, which had fallen on her face, behind her ear.
“I love you too. But we could have lived in Bavaria. Why did you decide that I was worth uprooting your entire life just so I could be content?” Mary inquired.
“My answer is still because I love you. However, if you need a little more than that: I did it because I came to England, expecting a bi----actually, it is not important what I thought you were,” Philip amended quickly. His wife quirked an eyebrow but let him continue without commenting. “The point is when I met you, I saw a lonely woman who had very few people do right by her. In the beginning, I think I saw myself as a knight who would save the princess from the tower of despair. Over time, I realized that I was happier in England than you would have been in Bavaria.”
“I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t have been missing and worrying about my siblings,” confessed Mary as she traced his chest through the fabric of his shirt. “But I would have been pleased to live in Bavaria as long as I had you and our girls.”
Philip said nothing, he just closed the gap between them as they fell back onto the bed.
April 29, 1545
The royal children would not be staying at Whitehall Palace for much longer. Ambrose, Elizabeth, and Edward would be returning to their own residences in just three days time. And for once, the Duke of York was glad to be returning to Windsor.
King Henry summoned them to his apartment wanting to show them a portrait he commissioned of the royal family. Edward had been so excited as his father had Hans Holbein take off the velvet cover to present it to them.
The portrait portrayed King Henry standing in front of a tapestry with the Tudor crest, dressed in gold. To his left was Mary, dressed in black and red, holding baby Margot in her arms while Edward stood a few feet closer to his father, dressed in yellow and red. On his right was Elizabeth who wore a green demask dress, her mother’s necklace displayed prominently around her neck, her hair mostly hidden by the French hood she wore. Closer to the dais with a dainty hand on his shoulder was Ambrose, wearing an outfit of purple and gold, a feathered hat and tall stature.
Then standing directly at King Henry’s side, wearing a dark green and gold dress was Queen Anne Boleyn. She had dark hair, a sharp nose, small lips, and eyes that seemed to be like hooks for the soul.
Edward knew who she was despite never meeting her because of the portraits of her that hang in every castle his father held court in and because of the miniatures he had given to Elizabeth and Ambrose.
This wouldn’t have upset the Duke of York that much had he not noticed that his mother was nowhere to be found.
Edward swallowed a lump in his throat as he stared at the portrait, trying not cry as his father gushed about the perfectness of the painting. A part of him felt angry. Anne Boleyn was dead. So why did she get to be in the family portrait when his mother, his father’s very much alive wife, was excluded? Did his father really care so little about her that he didn’t even consider her family?
Thankfully, the only person who noticed he was distraught was Elizabeth and she waited until it was the three preteens had returned to the nursery and were left by themselves.
She asked him what was wrong in a gentle, beseeching voice, her eyes full of concern, making it impossible for Edward to lie to her.
Once he started to speak it was like a damn bursting and all his frustrations and sadness over this situation just flooded out of him.
“What is going to happen if I or even Margot displeases him, is he going to get rid of us like he got rid of Mother?” Edward demanded, fat tears trickling down his face and so matter how hard he rubbed his eyes, they kept coming.
“No, of course he wouldn’t do that,” Ambrose assured him, for once not calling him a baby for crying.
“Wouldn’t he?” Edward challenged, thinking of Mary.
Although the whole business surrounding the Great Matter was still very murky for Edward, he had gotten some tidbits of information such as Mary refusing to acknowledge her mother’s downfall and her disinheritance, making their father so angry that he refused to speak to her and ever forced her to become a servant to Elizabeth when she was only a few months old.
What would stop him from being sent away in disgrace? It was once said that King Henry loved Charles Brandon like a brother and yet the former Duke of Suffolk was executed while his boyhood friend watched. It was clear that his father’s love could fade, and his warm embrace could turn into a cold shoulder. Edward wasn’t sure what he would do if he were exiled like his mother, being cut off from his family completely.
“I would convince him to bring you back,” Ambrose said firmly, missing the glare Elizabeth shot him.
Edward tried not flinch, knowing Ambrose had not meant to remind him how their father would do anything to make his crown prince, his special boy, happy. In fact, the Duke of York was certain that if Ambrose had asked for Jane’s return, their father would have granted his request in an instance.
Perhaps seeing that he was not convinced, Ambrose reached out and put a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We’re brothers, Ned, we stick together. I promise you that I will always defend you and I will always be on your side,” he proclaimed earnestly.
“And I will always be on yours,” Edward agreed, managing a small smile, touched at Ambrose’s conviction.
While his brother could be hot tempered and arrogant sometimes, he could not deny that Ambrose seemed to have the most faith in him second only to his mother and their sisters.
“I’ll be here for you too,” Elizabeth spoke up, drawing Edward into a tight hug, pulling Ambrose along with her.
Lady Ashley called the siblings to the dinning chamber so they could have their midday meal with Ambrose suggesting that afterwards they take advantage of the beautiful spring day to do some playing outside. He good-humoredly suggested that perhaps today would be the day Edward finally beat him in a sword fight to which Ned responded that he had practicing so he wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked Ambrose on his bum. Elizabeth scolded him for that, but he didn’t care, finding himself in a good mood again.
In their apartments, Ann Seymour watched as her husband read a letter, gauging how he was feeling from the slight changes of his face and the expressive gleaming of his eyes. Many people, including his own family would say Edward was a cold fish, but Ann knew him well enough to make a shrewd guess.
She saw his jaw clench and his eyes narrow, and she knew exactly who had sent Edward the letter. “I take it that your sister thinks she will soon be welcomed back to court with much fanfare and joy. With the king begging for her forgiveness on his hands and knees and her enemies kissing her feet as she steps on them,” the Countess of Hertford sneered, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
Perhaps she was being a bit hard on her sister-in-law who was always kind to her. And it wasn’t like Ann didn’t know how it felt stepping into another wife’s shoes---although Catherine Fillol had made it easy for her by sleeping with her father-in-law.
Regardless, whatever sympathy she had for Jane was squandered by the queen's constant mistakes, refusing to keep her mouth shut and correct her actions when it was clear His Majesty was growing angry at her.
Jane, Thomas, and Elizabeth were the reason why the Seymour family, instead of being virtually untouchable like the Boleyns, were walking on a knife’s edge. One slip and they would cut their own throats.
Because of them, Edward was constantly changing his plans, trying to calculate every eventuality, not wanting to be caught off balance. If he were gain the king’s ire than there would be no hope for the Seymours, and they would lose everything.
“Thankfully, Jane is not that naive,” Edward replied, shaking Ann out of her musing. His expression was dispassionate, but there was a trace of annoyance in his voice. “But she does suspect that George Boleyn and Catherine Parr’s hold on Henry must be slipping, and she wishes for me to take advantage of this chance to get them both sent away.”
“Oh? Did she give you advice on how to do so?” Ann teased, a smirk tugging at her lips as she wondered what Jane’s reaction would be if she learned that it was her husband’s mistress who had convinced the king to allow her to visit her children in the first place.
Edward did not respond as he went to a nearby candlestick and placed the letter on the flames before throwing the now burning paper in the fireplace, not trusting his servants to simply throw the letter away.
He watched it burn pensively for a few moments before he spoke. “Do you know how the Earl of Essex and I are the same?”
“You both have a receding hairline,” Ann jested playfully. Her eyes lit up with delight when it seemed that her shaft had landed a blow on her husband’s ego, breaking his impassive façade.
Edward stiffened and he ran his fingers through his hair as if to check to see that it was still there. He didn’t turn and glare at her, even though she could not smother her titter, but even a small reaction was something of a victory.
“No. We both don’t care who is giving us favor and if we have to stand in the shadow of men we dislike as long as we are given some crumbs of power,” Edward began coolly, placing his arm on the mantle of the fireplace, continuing to stare at the flickering embers. “However, while Cromwell is satisfied with the scraps he is thrown. I, on the other hand, will not rest until I am eating as richly as the highest peer in the land.”
“Wolsey reached for more than scraps as well, Ned. And the king kept Suffolk and More well fed. Then he killed all three men like they were hunting dogs that had gotten too fat to be of any use,” Ann remarked as she stood up and walked over to him, standing adjacent to him.
The Earl of Hertford looked up at his wife with a rare smile as he went over to his desk, taking the key that he wore around his neck and opening a locked drawer. Inside were a stack of parchment. “This shall be my payment for the meal I seek. These will take down a certain duke and the king will be falling all over himself trying to thank me for saving his son from a vulture who would have taken all the power of ruling England for himself, overthrowing the government for his own ends. Not only will not endear me to the king, but I also have no doubt that Prince Ambrose will feel indebted to me for protecting him when his own family members turn out to be scoundrels. And those who suspect my motives are not quite as pure will have no choice to keep their big mouths shut, least they are suspected of betraying their prince,” Edward proclaimed, a spark of deviousness in his eyes.
“Careful, Ned, if you become too arrogant, you will also become as blind as your foolish brother or the Duke of Kent,” Ann cautioned, trying to contain the shiver of excitement that went through her body.
“You speak wisely, Ann, and I shall not forget the fates of Wolsey, More and Suffolk. But for now, I shall wait for my chance to feast,” Edward told her as he closed and locked the drawer.
Like a vulture, Anne couldn’t help but think with a fond smile as she stepped closer to her husband.
“In the meantime, I think I know of a meal you can sample,” she purred, licking her lips as she shortened the distance between them.
As Jane’s letter burned in the fireplace, Ann and Edward made their own heat.
That night, King Henry was sound asleep in his bed, his wife running through his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
He was at a masquerade, standing in a makeshift castle with the other players, dressed in red with a decorated mask covering his face.
In front of him were ladies dressed in gold, a trumpet sounded, and they ran to the cardboard castle, climbing up the towers to the men.
A woman dressed in green grabbed Henry’s hand, her dark orbs connecting with his blue eyes.
“Lord Desire, you are my prisoner,” she whispered.
“Always,” the king breathed, knowing almost instinctively who was behind that mask.
As they danced, Henry noticed that the other courtiers seemed to fade away, leaving him and Anne alone.
“Look at you, so stuck in the past, you can’t even see the future,” she laughed, her voice sounding musical to his ears.
“What is there to see? Our daughter shall be the Queen of Denmark and Norway, she will dazzle her husband’s court, outshining all those who came before her. And our son, our boy, Anne, he shall be our greatest achievement, a renaissance prince, ushering in a golden age,” predicted Henry with a proud smile.
Anne frowned suddenly and her widened as she stared behind Henry’s shoulder. Her husband whirled around to see what was frightening her.
There was Ambrose holding a snake in his hands, petting it, hugging it, putting it down. But then when Ambrose had turned his back on the creature, the snake struck him, its poisonous fangs plunging into his neck.
Henry let out a shout of terror and tried to run to his son who was writhing in pain as the poison slowly killed him, but Ambrose seemed to get further and further away so matter how fast he ran.
“Our son is danger, Henry, from someone who close to him. Please, you must protect him,” the late queen implored him. Her voice sounding far away.
The red-haired monarch shot up in his bed, breathing heavily. He waved away the groom who leapt up, thinking something was wrong. Henry rubbed his face with his hand it had been a long time since Anne appeared in his dream like that, warning him to be wary of those who plotted against Ambrose and Elizabeth.
He wasn’t sure if she really were warning him from the grave or if it were his own paranoia conjuring up their nightmares, but either way, he realized perhaps it would be best if Ambrose stayed at court a little longer and perhaps, he would make sure the household was only filled with people he was certain he could trust.
Better safe than sorry.
Notes:
I forget who asked me for another Anne visits Henry in his dream but I felt this chapter was too short and I want to lengthen it a little bit so wish granted.
The next chapter is going to be when things get sticky so this is basically the calm before the storm.
Please read and review.
Chapter 18: Beanth the Mask
Summary:
Prince Edward gets to enjoy his birthday with his mother, but the rest of the court is not too happy about seeing the queen again least of all her husband. Edward Seymour makes his move which have unforseen consequences.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
October 3, 1545
Windsor Palace was like a prison. It might not have any bars on the window nor was he implicitly confined to his rooms although he did need an escort whenever he went outside.
However, to Edward the great stone walls of the castle seemed to close in on him, cutting off his oxygen, suffocating him just as his loneliness did.
When his mother came to visit him after them being separated for almost a year, Edward was overjoyed and suddenly Windsor didn’t seem so drab and dull. It was like the myth of Persephone when his mother would return from the underworld, spring would return to the land.
True, she would only stay for six days instead of six months, but it still was filled with light and happiness that would stay with him for weeks later even when she had returned to Kimbolton Palace, assuring him that soon she would return to his father’s side, and they could see each other more frequently.
Edward wasn’t quite sure if that would be the case, but he was pleased that King Henry was letting his forsaken wife visit her children every month. He even sent a letter to his father, warmly thanking him for giving him his mother back.
This must have touched his father’s heart because he decided to allow Queen Jane to return to court for the Duke of York’s birthday.
“Of course, he agreed, my darling, boy, he loves you very much and wants you to be happy,” Jane assured her son lovingly as she held baby Maggie in her arms, unwilling to let her go until she had to leave again.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Mama, our whole family will be together again,” Edward gushed.
The blonde woman’s smile slipped for a moment. “I fear your sister and your brother might not be too happy to see me,” she said sadly. She briefly wondered if the same could be said about Princess Mary who replied to her letters in a very formal and detached tone.
She shook her head. No, Mary was just being cautious, not wanting that awful Duke of Kent to use her letters against her. If she were not afraid of that wicked man, her messages to Jane would be full of sympathy towards her stepmother’s plight which was similar to hers and her mother. The queen wouldn’t put it past George Boleyn to frame Mary just as he had the poor late Duke of Suffolk.
Edward’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, Mama? Why would Ambrose and Elizabeth not like you? You are their stepmother and I told them that you hadn’t mean to be cruel to them or their mother. You just were misinformed.” His manner was compassionate, not understanding the horror and outrage that flickered in his mother’s eyes.
How dare they! How dare they try to turn my son against me! How dare they lie to him, trying to make me look stupid! They are the liars and the vipers, not me, Jane ranted to herself, trying to keep a serene look on her face so her true thoughts weren’t palpable to anyone in the room.
It was maddening that Henry had people in the room to observe her interactions with her son and daughter, reporting every word she and Edward uttered. It hurt that he didn’t trust her.
As much as she wanted to tell Edward that despite what others said, she was not misinformed. Perhaps it was cruel of her to say that Elizabeth and Ambrose were bastards, but it was the truth. The laws of man did not supersede the laws of God. By the ruling of the Holy Bishop of Rome, the “marriage” of Anne Boleyn and King Henry was not valid.
Ambrose might be the Prince of Wales under the laws of England, but by God, the Pope and justice’s demand, Edward was his father’s heir and that was the truth.
She was not misinformed. Those who thought otherwise were!
But she could not say any of that. Not even if she and Edward were alone. One day she would tell him the truth of the matter. One day, she would make him understand that his brother was not who should be sitting on the throne after his father.
Therefore, instead she cupped Edward’s chin with her hand, keeping a firm grip on Margery with her arm. “Oh, my darling boy, I am glad to hear you say that. I hope one day your father will forgive me for those terrible things I said. I hope he knows how much I love your sisters and brother.”
“I am sure he does know, Mama,” Edward professed, his eyes lighting up. “Maybe I can convince him to let you and Maggie stay here. That way we can all be together until Papa wants you to come back to court.”
Jane’s heart clenched as she could guess what would happen if Edward were to suggest that. Either Henry would assume that she had put Edward up to it or worse, he would get angry at his son for even suggesting it. No matter what, it would end with her being cut off from her children again.
“That is a sweet thought, darling, but your father thinks it would better if I stayed at Kimbolton for the time being,” she explained. Edward’s face fell and he grabbed her hand. Hating seeing her son looking so devastated, Jane quickly continued. “I am sure this will only be a temporary measure. Soon your father will forgive me, and we will all be a family again, I promise.”
“But it is not fair, I hate it here! I want to be with you!” Edward shouted, burying his face in her dress.
Hearing her brother’s raised voice caused Margaret to cry and Jane now had to comfort with her two upset children, speaking to them reassuringly, making them promises, she wasn’t evens sure she would be able to keep.
Damn you, Anne Boleyn, this is your doing. You created a monster who separated mothers from their beloved children. Burning in hell is far too good for you, Jane thought viciously, wishing that the ship that had brought that damned witch from France had sunk to the bottom of the sea.
October 12, 1545
King Henry was not looking forward to seeing his wife again. Catherine, dear sweet Cate had begged him not to call the whole thing off, insisting the Queen would be on her best behavior for her son.
Oh, if only she had been his wife. She was a remarkable woman, not even flinching when the Seymours and their allies looked at her. Some with disgust, hating her for taking Janes’ place by the king’s side. Others with smugness as they believed that Jane’s return would be the beginning of her downfall.
They were fools if they thought he would send away Catherine when she was the one who soothed his temper, distracted him from the pain of his leg, cared for all of his children, acting as a friend as well as a mother.
Meanwhile Jane, pretended to be angel, but had proven to be a headache who dared speak ill of his precious Anne and their children. She had shown her true colors and it was only the love he had for Edward did he allow her in his presence let alone the presence of Ambrose and Elizabeth. Tomorrow, she would leave, returning to Kimbolton as Henry had no wish to keep her here for more than a day.
“Her Majesty, Queen Jane!” the herald announced as she made her entrance.
She was dressed in a dainty and plain yellow gown, her hair underneath a matching gable hood. She looked more like a subject than a queen.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Cate moving. He had wanted her to sit next to him on the queen’s throne, giving Jane a clear message, but she had refused, not wanting to stir up any trouble or bad feeling. So instead, he had asked that she stand next to him.
Realizing what she was about to do, Henry reached out to grab her shoulder, stopping her. “Nay Cate, you do not need to curtsy for her. You outrank her in every way that counts,” he whispered.
The Duchess of Bedford looked uneasy, but she nodded and stood up straight.
Henry glanced at the crowd of courtiers, watching their expressions as Jane walked up the aisle, seeing who was happy to see her and who wasn’t.
Edward Seymour watched his sister with an almost bored expression, but there was a glimmer of unease in his eyes as he feared that Jane would make a nuisance of her, sending her family further in disgrace.
Elizabeth and Dorothy Seymour looked happy to see their sister, but they were also busy sending daggers at Catherine, hating how she had the nerve to stand there by the King’s side without the slightest bit of shame.
Thomas Howard and his son kept their expression composed, looking at Jane, shrewdly, perhaps wanting to see how the land lay so they adapt their plans accordingly.
George Boleyn and those who were loyal to the Boleyn crowd stared at Jane with undisguised hostility. Some even looking put out that she was here at all, perhaps hoping that she would never be allowed to return.
Mary and her husband, welcomed back after a bit of groveling, smiled politely and yet they were detached, acting as though they barely knew her and therefore, they had no real reason to want or not want her to return to the king’s good graces.
Elizabeth and Ambrose stared at their stepmother wearily with a bit of suspicion, wondering what she would do and say and how their father would react.
Edward was perhaps the only person out of the onlookers who was actually pleased to see his mother, beaming at her in a way that made Henry’s heart swell. Yes, Cate was right, it was good for Edward to be able to see his mother. His boy was much too gloomy for his age, and it was nice to see him smile.
Jane had finally stopped at the foot of the throne, staying on her knees as she curtsied to him.
Henry did not bid her to rise, instead studying her, thinking about the last woman who had been on her knees before him, begging him not to end their cursed marriage, stalling him from being with the woman he loved.
God, Katherine had been cruel, masking her heartlessness by acting like a meek and submissive wife when really, she was a selfish creature, wanting England to swallowed up by the Holy Roman Empire.
The reminder of Katherine’s defiance angered the monarch and his gaze become harder.
“Rise, Jane, I have brought you here for our son’s birthday. But I think before we celebrate, you have some apologizing to do, Madame,” he ordered in a clipped tone, vindictively refusing to use her title.
The queen looked up at him shakily, her pale cheeks turning pink as she stared at her husband, perhaps hoping he was making a jest. When he did not soften, she swallowed before speaking.
“Your Majesty, I humbly beg your forgiveness for those horrid words I said about the late Queen Anne, Prince Ambrose and Princess Elizabeth. I bitterly regret them, and I know I was wrong to do so. I only ask that you allow me to make amends,” she declared, sounding as though she had rehearsed this many times.
“Amends to who? After all I am not the one who you should be apologizing to as I am not the one you insulted,” Henry told her, recalling the incident five years ago on Ambrose’s birthday with the still banished Thomas Seymour.
From the horrified look on Jane’s face, she remembered it as well. Henry nodded towards Ambrose and Elizabeth; his eyebrow quirked as if he was surprised that she was not already crawling towards her stepchildren.
Jane drew in a deep breath before she turned and took a few steps towards the Tudor children, dropping to her knees again, her eyes low.
“Your Highnesses, I beg your pardon for uttering such wicked and untrue things about both of you and your mother,” recited Jane. “I was wrong to do so and if I have hurt you, please know that was never my intention.”
Henry saw Elizabeth and Mary exchange a look while Edward glanced at his siblings, then his mother and then his father worriedly, unsure if things were going wrong or not. Ambrose just stared at Jane with a look of haughty judgment, his chin sticking out defiantly.
The king’s chest puffed out in pride, feeling like his son appeared more like a ruler than a child.
“Then why did you say it?” Ambrose inquired, his voice cold.
Jane stiffened, clearly having not expected that question and she seemed to be unable to come up with an answer---at least one she was willing to reveal in public.
Sensing that this could not end well, Elizabeth quickly accepted Jane’s apology, giving her brother a hard look when he tried to argue.
Henry, for his part, decided to leave things be. Forcing Jane to answer would only make things more awkward and he didn’t want to spoil Edward’s special day.
However, Jane would return to Kimbolton as soon as possible for as Ambrose pointed out if she didn’t mean what she had said about him and Elizabeth being bastards, why would she say it?
January 25, 1546
After months of peace, George had been lulled into a sense of security. Neither Lisle nor Somerset had reported anything out of the ordinary, so he had not expected to be summoned the king’s chambers where Edward Seymour was standing there with a gloating smirk tugging at his lips.
“Your Majesty,” George greeted his liege, ignoring the Earl of Hertford completely, To his discomfort, this didn’t seem to upset the vile rat in the slightest. If anything, it seemed to make him even happier. He had the air of a man who knew something Kent didn’t know and was enjoying making him squirm.
“George, Lord Seymour has some grave news to tell, but he wished for us to both be present,” Henry told him, looking rather perplexed.
“I see.”
“Well, your Majesty, for the past few years, I have been complying a case about treason against a high lord that I had grown suspicious of,” Edward explained, his eyes averted when King Henry span around, his face like a storm cloud.
“Treason! And it took you years to come forward!” he bellowed angrily, fists clenched as he looked as though he wanted to punch the earl.
“Forgive me Your Majesty, but I did not think I would be believed as the duke I suspected was related to Prince Ambrose and higher than myself in rank, so I wanted to be sure that I had evidence,” Edward revealed, as he locked eyes with George.
The Duke of Kent froze, wondering what game his rival was playing at. The Earl of Hertford was no Duke of Suffolk. There was no way, he would be stupid enough to try and frame George for treason.
“I have spent much time, gathering what evidence I could that would show the true colors of this black-hearted vagrant. In fact, here are letters that show just what type of man he is,” Edward continued never breaking his gaze with George as he pulled some parchment out of his wallet before he handed them to the red-haired monarch.
George watched as the king’s face grew red with rage as he read the letters and he began to wonder if somehow Edward had discovered his illicit relationship with Mark. For that was the only thing he could think of that could be used against him. But he and Mark had never written letters to each other, too fearful of being caught.
Finally, the red-haired monarch threw the letters across the room and stormed to the guards at the door. “Tell Cromwell to draw up two arrest warrants now!”
“Your Majesty?” George questioned, trying not to sweat. Although he knew he was guilty of nothing, he had no idea what lies Edward Seymour was spewing to defend himself from them.
“Tell him! Tell him what you discovered! Tell him what you learned about the people my son trusted. The people I trusted because they were Anne’s flesh and blood!” Henry roared, banging his fist on the wall. “God damn Norfolk and Surrey! I will have their heads!”
“You see, Your Grace, it seems that your uncle and cousin have decided that you are not fit for Lord Protectorship, and they are planning on coup the minute His Majesty dies so they can take control of the government, decrying you as an unfit traitor,” Edward declared, his tone matter of fact, but there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “And if that does not work, they will instead declare Prince Edward as his father’s true heir. I must admit it takes truly cold men to turn on their family so thusly,”
George gaped at the other man, his brain trying to process what was happening.
Almost two years ago, John Dudley came to him, telling him how Edward had approached the Duke of Norfolk. He had known they were both trying to take him down and he had spent a long time for the day when they would try.
Why would the Earl of Hertford betray them? And if they really wanted to support Edward instead of Ambrose, would he be glad for that instead of stopping them?
Then it hit George. He wanted to play hero. Get into the king and Prince Ambrose’s good graces by foiling a plot against the Duke of Kent who was favored by them both, making them feel beholden.
And if the Duke of Kent tried to convince either King Henry or even his nephew that the Earl of Hertford was not being earnest, he doubted they would listen, believing that he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if he weren’t truly loyal.
That’s why the slimy bastard looked so smug. He knew George didn’t trust him. Nonetheless, he would never be able to prove that he had anything but Ambrose’s best interests in his heart.
Even if George were to tell King Henry that Edward approached Norfolk and not the other way around, he had no doubt that the earl would spin it to his favor, saying that he merely was testing Norfolk as he had heard rumors that Kitty Howard was being used to turn His Majesty against the Duke of Kent and that’s why he started suspecting Thomas Howard’s duplicity.
Besides, he still needed John to remain unsuspected by Hertford as a spy.
As much as George hated to admit it, he would have to keep his mouth shut and go along with this farce.
He waited until he and Edward were dismissed before calling out to the other man, extending his hand for his rival to shake.
“That was well played, my lord,” observed George as he looked Edward directly in the eyes and lowered his voice. “I shall look forward to bringing you down.”
Edward Seymour smirked. “The same to you,” he replied.
Afterwards George returned to his apartments where his wife was knitting. He immediately called for some wine. A lot of wine.
Jane waited patiently for her husband to finish his third glass before asking him what had happened.
“Well, you have to give him credit for his ingenuity,” she commented after he had finished telling her the whole story. “Do you believe it?”
“Believe what?” George questioned; his brow furrowed as he drained his goblet.
“That your uncle would really try and put the Duke of York on the throne?”
The Duke of Kent’s expression turned pensive, and he set his goblet down instead of demanding a refill. “I know he would kiss the cloven hoof of the devil if it gave him power, and I have no doubt that he would have supported Edward if he felt he had no other option.”
He licked his lips before continuing. “I think that he said it, and God above was he arrogant as well as stupid to put that in writing, as a means of ensuring the Earl of Hertford’s loyalty,” George hypothesized ruefully. “After all, we don’t have Seymour’s letters to my uncle and therefore have no idea what prompted him to say such a damning thing. Seymour has control of the narrative and has let the King see what he wants him to see.”
“So, what do we do about it?” enquired Jane.
“For now, we do nothing. We let things play out,” George replied, rubbing his face in annoyance. “I have faith that Seymour’s ploy will not endear him to Ambrose as much as he thinks it will. After all, Ambrose listens to two people, me, and his sister. If I tell him that Seymour is not to be trusted, he will believe me.”
“I think there is another thing you should do: make sure the Duke of Norfolk and your cousin don’t get their heads chopped off so when the king dies, you can pardon them and welcome them back to court,” Jane suggested.
Her husband stared at her as thought she had grown another head. “You want me to do what? After everything they have done to undermine me, you want me to welcome them back as though nothing happened.”
“Well, I am certainly not saying you should trust them. But if anyone will be more than willing to take Edward Seymour down, it will be them,” Jane pointed out. “True, their egos will be bruised. But I have a feeling their hatred of the man who outwitted and betrayed them will make them quite eager to help you in any way they can.”
George grinned at her. “What a clever wife I have,” he complimented.
The duchess sat up straight, preening like peahen. “Well, it was about time you noticed,” she sniffed haughtily.
Edward Seymour thought he could use the entire court as his pawns. Well two could play at that game and George would see to it that the tables would be turned.
Hopefully, the king would live for a few more years so his uncle and cousin could spend some time in the Tower of London, thinking about what they had done like naughty children in a time out.
January 30, 1546
The Duke of Kent had not witnessed the arrest of his uncle, but he had heard that Norfolk had been incensed, shouting curses at Edward Seymour, promising retribution to the guards who took him into custody, demanding to speak to the king and reminding everyone that he was the highest peer in the land.
Now as they waited for the Earl of Surrey to be brought to London, King Henry had called for a session of a privy council to discuss how to proceed with the trials.
“Norfolk insists that as the highest peer in the land, there is no court that can try him,” Cromwell announced.
“Both Norfolk and Surrey’s lands and titles shall be attained,” the red-haired monarch declared, his eyes dark with malevolence. “I think most of the land shall go to Kitty and her husband.”
George could barely contain his snort at that, knowing how angry his uncle would be at his disowned niece getting his land. Of course, considering King Henry hadn’t quite forgiven his former mistress for eloping, it was clear that was exactly why he was giving her this gift.
“What of Surrey’s son, will he be gaining his grandfather and father’s titles?” Sussex asked curiously.
“Ambrose has often spoken highly of the young Thomas Howard. I believe the boys are good friends,” George spoke up, deciding that even if that wasn’t true, he still didn’t feel right allowing the poor boy suffering because of the stupidity of his grandfather and father.
“Then when I’m dead and buried, Ambrose can give it back. According to his letters, you might be out a title too, my lord,” Henry remarked good-naturedly, managing to find some humor in a grim situation.
Knowing what his liege was referencing, George put his finger to his lips. “If we ruin the surprise, Ambrose will never forgive us,” he said in a stage-whisper.
The members of the Privy Council looked quite bewildered and discomforted at the mention of their monarch’s death. Although Ambrose did write of what he was planning to do when he was the ruler of England, even he was too superstitious to mention the king’s death.
Before they could get the discussion back on track, Artur Huxton, leader of the group of guards who were ordered to arrest Surrey came bursting into the room, his face ashen white.
“Your Majesty, dreadful news! Surrey was warned of his impending arrest!” the man revealed, pausing to catch his breath.
“So, the traitor has fled,” snarled Henry, his eyes flashing dangerously.
Huxton looked as though he might faint as he continued speaking. “No. He has locked himself up with Ludlow, refusing to allow anyone get in or out. He has taken the Prince of Wales hostage!”
Henry let out a wordless scream and then he flew at the guardsman, pummeling him with his fists.
George remembered when Anne had told him of how Henry had beaten a page who had brought him a message from Queen Katherine that had set him off. He had been aghast at how the king had beaten an innocent man just because he couldn't do the same to the true reason for his ire. He had been frightened for his sister in those moments, wondering if Anne’s sharp tongue would one day convince the King to do the same to her.
Now as he watched his liege punch and kick another innocent messenger, he found himself empathizing with Henry, wishing that Surrey were standing in front of him so he could strangle the man himself.
Notes:
Don't kill me for the cliffhanger.
Shout out to those who realized that it wasn't George, Edward was plotting against. I also have to admit that I never thought about Edward finding letters between George and Mark.
Chapter 19: You'll be in My Heart
Summary:
The Tudor family deals with Ambrose' dire situation.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
February 5, 1546
Elizabeth had no memories of her mother, although sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could almost hear a musical laugh, and see dark orbs staring at her, somewhere in the blackness.
She had a miniature of her mother underneath her pillow, taking it out before she went to sleep, and in the mornings before she started her day, spending a few minutes just staring at her face, committing her features to memory, whispering “I love you” before returning it under her pillow.
It was childish, but it comforted her.
And then sometimes over the years, she would dream of her mother. Tonight, was one of those nights.
“Sweet girl, oh my darling daughter, my Elizabeth, I love you so much,” Anne murmured, enveloping her in a hug. She wore a white dress and a glittering gold tiara upon her head. The B necklace, she had passed on to Elizabeth, was around her neck instead.
“Mama,” breathed Elizabeth as she sank into her mother’s embrace.
“I love you. From the moment I held you in my arms, I loved you,” the dead queen murmured as she always did, desperate to convince her daughter that she was never a disappointment.
“I know. I wish I could have known you. I suppose I’m lucky, I got a little more than a year with you. Ambrose didn’t have that,” Elizabeth mused, letting the tears she would never shed in the waking world, spill out onto her cheeks. “It is so unfair. Everyone has a million stories about you. But that’s all we have: stories, nothing else.”
“Oh sweetheart, you have so much more,” Anne told her, getting on her knees so she could be face to face with her daughter. “You have my eyes, you have my intellect, you have my heart.”
“Your heart?” Elizabeth repeated, confused.
“You always had my heart, since the day you were born,” Anne told her, stroking her hair.
“I wish you were really here. With me and Ambrose,” the princess sniffled, averting her eyes, hating how forlorn she sounded.
Anne placed her free hand under Elizabeth’s chin, lifting her face. “I am here. Always here. Watching you, loving you, being so proud of you. Ambrose may be the next King of England, but you? You are already so wise, so clever, so beautiful. You will be glorious, my sweet girl, as Denmark’s queen,” exulted Anne. “And I shall be by your side even though you can’t see or hear me, I’ll be there, I promise.”
When Princess Elizabeth woke up, she immediately noticed that her cheeks were wet, and hurried to dry them off before Annie and Kat woke up. She then did as she did every morning, taking that miniature out, saying the four words she had never been able to tell her mother before she died: I love you, Mama.
She did not move from her bed even after she had returned the portrait in its’ hiding place---well it wasn’t so much a secret as the maids would see it every time they changed the linens and Kat knew to take it with them whenever they moved to a different residence, but they were kind enough not to say anything about it --- instead she waited for Kat to wake up so they could begin getting her ready for the day.
As she waited, watching the sky go from inky black to dark purple, her mind drifted to the Duke of Norfolk’s betrayal and the consequences of his plotting. His son had taken Ambrose hostage, hoping to use him and the son of the Viscount of Lisle, as leverage to get him and his family out of England.
How is this possible? She lamented. A month ago, we were celebrating Christmastide. Now he is trapped in Ludlow, betrayed by our cousin. Oh, Ambrose, sweet brother, I pray that you are well. Father and Uncle George will save you.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, sending a prayer to heaven, begging God to save Ambrose, hoping that her mother was really watching over them as he needed her protection.
In Wales, King Henry was not letting Surrey just waltz out of England, not after that cur had taken his son, his precious heir, captive. He would be lucky if a swordsman executed him. The temperamental monarch was fully prepared to hang, draw, and quarter the traitor. That is if he didn’t decide to just strangle him himself.
“If only I had not accepted the Earl of Buckingham’s resignation," Henry grumbled. "Then at least we could be assured that someone tried to stop Surrey’s treachery."
“With all due respect, sire, I do not think he could have done anything more than the occupants of the Ludlow did,” George pointed out, not wanting anyone who wasn’t working with Surrey to be punished for not being able to stop the traitorous earl’s coup.
Henry grunted, glaring up at the castle, that was just on the other side of the trees, hating it for standing in the way of rescuing Ambrose.
Lord Lisle came up to them, bowing first at Henry, then a shallower bow at George. He stood there mutely until the king signaled for him to speak.
“Your Majesty, John and Ambrose have requested to act as scouts in the forest. They say their brother was quite descriptive when telling them about the castle. They think they might find another way inside,” he explained.
They had surrounded the castle, making sure their camps were out of the sight, just in case Surrey decided to hurt one of his two hostages. They would cut off all exits to ensure that he did not escape, but while Ambrose and Guildford Dudley were still inside, they could not siege the castle, so their top priority was finding a way to ambush the earl and his men before they knew what was happening.
“Tell them that if they find anything that could help us, they are to come back and inform me immediately,” Henry commanded, not wanting the older boys to try and attempt a rescue of their brother and the Prince of Wales. The last thing they needed was for Surrey to have more hostages, or worse to use the boys as a way to distract the king’s forces while he made his escape.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” replied Dudley with a bow, knowing how dangerous this situation was.
After all, Henry wasn’t the only one whose son was being held captive. The Viscount of Lisle knew that if worse came to worse, his son would be maimed or killed to send a message to the army waiting outside, using a boy who was scarcely eleven years old to cow grown men into submission.
“This is all my fault,” George muttered as Lisle departed.
“Nay, it is mine,” contradicted Henry, causing the duke to stare at him in shock. “I learned nothing from Suffolk. You are the only man who I can trust completely, for I know you are solely on Ambrose’s side, not for the power or prestige, but because he is your nephew, one of the last remaining links we have to Anne.”
Had the situation not been so dire, George might have made a joke about how the power and prestige he got from being the Prince of Wales’s uncle was a perk. Instead, he simply swallowed, following the king’s gaze to castle, half hoping for miracle and that one of the lookouts posted there would have a white flag, signaling that they would surrender, not allowing a drop of blood to be spilled.
I hate feeling so useless. Ambrose is less than a mile away, and I can’t get to him. Instead, I must wait, blind to that villain’s movements. Surrey has to know that he has no chance, and that just him more dangerous as a desperate man has nothing to lose. George thought darkly, wishing he for a goblet filled with wine right about now.
Of course, he could have brought a flask, but he knew that he could not afford to become drunk. He needed his wits about him should the tense situation change. He would not let his nephew down.
Once the boys were safe, he would get down on his hands and knees and beg the king to let him be the one to drive his sword through his cousin chest, right through the black rock he called a heart.
Over at Hudson, Philip was not surprised to find his wife on her knees in the chapel. However, it did worry him, for that had been where he had seen her last night. Her side of the bed was made so he could guess even without seeing the bags under her eyes, that she had not slept a wink.
“Mary, sweetheart, it is morning. Aren’t you exhausted?” he asked, crouching besides, grasping her chin, lifting her face so he could study it.
“Once I spent the entire day in front of the alter. I did not eat or rest. Just stood before the cross, and beseeched God to help his devoted servants,” Mary reminisced with a mirthless laugh.
“When was this?”
“The day, the Earl of Wiltshire came to my household and told me that my father’s pet archbishop had made my parents’ marriage null and void. That my father was to marry Anne Boleyn, and she would be queen,” answered the duchess, bitterness seeping out of her tone. “I prayed to God to open my father’s eyes so he would see the evil of what he was doing, I prayed that he would protect my mother for surely the ha---the Boleyn woman would harm her. Then when I heard the servants gossiping about her pregnancy, I prayed that she would learn the pain my mother went through every time she lost a child.”
“Oh Mary,” Philip murmured, wrapping his arms around his wife.
“I wished her dead. I wished for my sister to die just because I wanted her mother to feel agony,” Mary murmured, tears welling up in her eyes as she recalled that day where her heart had been broken, and she had nothing left but spite. She didn’t hold on to it, and she loved her half-siblings despite who birthed them. Now that she recalled that day, she couldn’t help but feel aghast for her wicked prayer.
“You were angry and hurt, you wanted to lash out,” her husband opined, rubbing soothing circles into her back.
“Back then I couldn’t believe that I would ever see the children of Anne Boleyn’s siblings. I’m not even sure I truly thought they would be my siblings because I refused to believe that she would be able to give birth to my father’s children,” Mary continued, her words slightly muffled as she buried her face into his shirt.
“And now?” Philip prompted, holding her closer.
“If I could take his place, I would in a heartbeat,” declared Mary passionately. “I am so scared that I will lose my brother, that I would gladly switch places with him.”
“Surrey isn’t stupid, he knows that if one hair on Ambrose’s head is harmed, your father will hunt him down for the rest of his miserable life,” Philip pointed out, closing his eyes so he could put out the image of his wife, of his Mary, being held hostage by that despicable earl. I would strangle the life out of that bastard if he so much as looked at my wife or my daughters for that matter.
“I pray that you are right, love,” Mary whispered, unable to keep her eyelids from dropping.
Soon she had fallen asleep in her husband’s arms. The Duke of Somerset picked her up, and carried her to their bed, quickly removing her shoes, jewelry and then her dress before tucking her in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.
He would see to it that the maids brought up some food for her in an hour, but for now, he would let her rest.
A shiver went up Philip’s spine as he thought of how Mary would react if he turned out to be wrong about Henry Howard. God only knew what that villain would do to gain his freedom.
It was almost amusing how Edward had often complained about how he felt that Windsor was like a prison when his brother was being held captive in his residence.
“I swear if Amby makes it out alive, I will never complain about Windsor again, and I will be a better brother to him. No, the best brother,” Edward proclaimed, staring out the window, half-hoping he would see the royal badge of the Prince of Wales coming up the road, and Ambrose would show up unharmed, teasing Edward for being worried about him.
“That is a very sweet promise to make, Your Highness,” complimented Catherine Parr as she come to sit by him.
King Henry had feared that someone might try to kidnap his other four children, and had sent more guards to all of them, having Cromwell’s agents interrogate the members of their households just in case.
The Duchess of Bedford had decided to visit each of their residence, intending to spend a few days with them to ensure that they were all right. She even decided to do that for baby Maggie despite the princess being under two-years-old and therefore had no idea what was going on.
Edward, for one, was pleased by her visit, taking comfort in her earnest nature, never trying to coddle him, but at the same time, giving him the truth as delicately as she could.
“I just don’t understand. The Earl of Surrey is Ambrose’s cousin, and the Duke of Norfolk is his great-uncle, how could they do something like that to him?” Edward asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I don’t understand it myself,” Catherine replied, letting out a heavy sigh, patting Edward’s head. “Only they can speak of their true thoughts.”
The idea of the Howards betraying their blood relatives so utterly was astonishing, had he not known from reliable sources that Norfolk and Surrey were conspiring against Ambrose and the Duke of Kent, Edward would never have believed it.
He thanked God that his Uncle Edward was far more noble than these two men, working to protect his nephew’s half-brother despite only being related to him through marriage.
How could Ambrose possibly trust his family ever again after something like this happened?
No. He can trust his family. Elizabeth, Maggie, Mary, and I would never betray him. And it is clear that while his Howard relatives are traitors, his Boleyn relatives are not. And I know that my mother, uncles, and aunts will always be loyal to him. Edward amended inwardly, nodding resolutely.
But then a far worse thought occurred to Edward, and he looked up at Catherine worriedly. “Do you think he is going to be all right?” he questioned, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.
The woman pulled him into a hug, tightly holding him close. “Of course, he will. Your father will not rest until the Prince of Wales is safe and sound,” she told him firmly.
“I hope so. I miss him,” Edward admitted before his eyes widened and he looked up at Katherine almost desperately. “But you must never tell him that or he will never let me live it down.”
The duchess giggled and caressed his face. “I promise, Your Highness, your secret is safe with me.”
Edward smiled at her and returned his head to her should, glad that he had such a good friend in Catherine Parr.
There were no bars in the window, the doors weren’t locked, but there could be no mistake that Ambrose and Guildford were prisoners.
Since that fateful day when Henry Howard and his men suddenly separated the two boys from Thomas Howard, telling them that they could not leave their rooms unless they had a lesson or were eating their meals in the banquet hall. But they would have to be accompanied everywhere they went.
At first, Ambrose had thought perhaps there was another rebellion like the Pilgrimage of Grace or maybe there was suspicion of an assassin lurking at Ludlow. Only for Thomas to tearfully admit what was really going on when he came to visit them.
Guildford had been furious and took his anger out on Tom, calling him a traitor.
Ambrose had been unable to speak, he was so flummoxed by this betrayal, not understanding why it happened, and how he had been unable to see it coming. For the next two days, he walked around as if he were in a daze, not quite sure if this actually happening or if it were some bizarre nightmares he was having, from which he would wake up at any moment.
But it was no dream, it was reality. His cousin was a traitor, and he had taken all of Ludlow hostage until he could find a safe way out of England.
“I’m not going,” Guildford snarled, breaking Ambrose out of his musing.
“What?” he inquired, only to realize a second later what the son of the Viscount of Lisle was talking about.
“I’m not going to our lessons. I refuse to be in the same room as that traitor!” the boy declared, a glob of spit flying out of his mouth, and onto the floor.
“Tom isn’t a traitor. Just his father and grandfather are,” protested Ambrose tiredly, getting sick of having the same conversation the past five days in a row.
“And didn’t the Duke of Norfolk’s father and grandfather fight against the late King Henry. It just goes to show all Howards are untrustworthy knaves,” Guildford snapped.
Anger bubbled up to the surface as the Prince of Wales retorted: “And remind me why your grandfather died?”
His friend’s face turned red, but he did not speak again, realizing that this was not an argument he could win.
The boys were interrupted by Roger Ascham, coming into the chambers with two guards flanking him.
“I have come to collect you. We are having your first lesson in a different classroom so I thought I should escort you personally. Thomas is there already so we should hurry,” their tutor told them, his tone sounding odd.
Suddenly the two guards were distracted by a crash outside. They quickly left, making sure to lock the door behind them as they went to investigate.
Immediately Master Ascham lowered his voice. “Listen, I don’t have much time. I know you boys have explored this castle from top to bottom, and I have no doubt you have found a way out. So here is what is going to happen: you are going to point me the way, discreetly, and then when we have reached the corridor, tug on my sleeves. Do you understand?”
Guildford and Ambrose exchanged surprised looks before nodding.
“Good boys.”
The guards returned, looking rather annoyed, muttering something about careless servants knocking over vases. Master Ascham informed them that they were ready to go.
Knowing that the two men following them were watching carefully, Ambrose could feel his heart thudding loudly in ears every time he jerked his head or his arm, signaling which way to go as he feared that they would catch on.
Finally, they arrived at the corridor that held the hidden passageway, and the young prince tugged at his mentor’s sleeve.
“Now!” Master Ascham exclaimed, without even turning around.
There was a muffled shout, and a gurgling sound. Ambrose turned around to see two servants had cut the throat of one guard with what looked like a sharp piece of a broken vase. The other guard had been hit over the head with a serving tray.
“What are you two waiting for? Run! NOW!”
“But what about you and Tom?” Ambrose objected.
“Surrey won’t hurt his own son,” their teacher affirmed. “Now go! Your father is on the other side of the woods. Keeping running until you get to him. I’ll try to throw Surrey off your trail. But it won’t matter if you don’t leave before anyone gets here!”
Guildford grabbed Ambrose’s arm and started to half drag him through the passageway.
The two boys were thankfully wearing furs as Ludlow Castle would get very cold during the winter. However, the chill still hit them fully as they ran outside. They did not stop until they were certain they were far enough away, they could not be spotted.
“Are you well?” Guildford questioned, putting a hand on Ambrose’ shoulder as they both panted hard, trying to catch their breath.
“I’ll be better when this is over,” answered Ambrose, looking back at Ludlow, fearing that Surrey would take his anger out at losing his two hostages out on the people inside.
“We should keep moving. I’m sure my father and brothers are looking for the secret entrance,” Guildford informed.
Ambrose gave him an incredulous look. “You mean the one we swore not to tell anyone about?”
“You really want to do this now?” demanded Guildford hotly. “Thomas is probably going to tell his father which means we better hope my brothers find us before they do. Now let’s keep moving.”
The boys both took a greedy gulp of air before they started running again, their shoes crunching in the snow, leaving footprints behind.
Unfortunately, they had not explored the woods, so they had no idea where they were going, and their panic was not helping their sense of direction. In fact, they seemed to have passed the same rock three times.
Just when they stopped to catch their breath and figure out where they were, they heard someone shout: “I think they went this way!”
Well, that caused the two preteens to bolt liked panicked deer, no thought in their minds as they sprinted away.
Before they could get far, Ambrose tripped over something, and fell down a slope, landing on his ankle painfully. He tried to stand up, only to fall down again.
“Go get help!” Ambrose ordered Guildford, deciding that at least then one of them would get away.
“I am not leaving you!” his friend contradicted.
“Gilly, now is not the time to be pigheaded,” stressed the auburn-haired prince, feeling a rush of affection at the loyalty of his friend.
Suddenly their pursuers burst out of the thicket, one of them, grabbing Guildford before he could run.
The ten-year-old boy struggled, and tried to bite the person holding him, barely even seeming to hear what the person was saying to him.
“Stop that. Gilly, stop it! It’s me, you idiot! It’s your brother!” John Dudley the younger shouted as his other brother quickly made his way over to Prince Ambrose.
“Can you walk, Your Highness?” Ambrose Dudley asked.
“I don’t think so,” the boy who shared his name replied.
According to Gilly, when the older boy had learned that the Prince of Wales was named Ambrose, he was quite sure that the new heir had been named after him even though King Henry barely even knew his father at that point.
“Guildford! Your Highness!” the Viscount of Lisle shouted, sounding completely relieved as he arrived upon the scene, grabbing his younger son into a bear hug before going over to the two Ambroses. “Come on, let’s get you boys back to camp.”
Exhausted physically, emotionally, and mentally, the Prince of Wales fell asleep in the man’s arms.
Meanwhile, Thomas was sitting in the chamber, Roger Ascham had decided to use for today’s class, waiting for his friends and teacher to appear.
When he heard the yelling outside, he got a sick feeling in his stomach, knowing something was wrong. That feeling got worse when his father strode into the room, a face like thunder.
“Thomas, your friends are missing. I know you boys have explored every nick and cranny of this castle. Is there any way they could have gotten out?” Henry Howard interrogated his son.
The ten-year-old boy felt his stomach sink like a rock as he recalled the secret passageway that Ambrose and Guildford had made him promise not to tell anyone about. What should I do? Father said if Amby and Gilly don’t stay here, he will be executed. But Gilly already thinks I’m a traitor and Amby looked so hurt when I told them why my father wouldn’t let them leave.
Swallowing, Thomas looked his father in the eye and said in a voice, he hoped wasn’t shaking. “No, we never found a way out of the castle.”
“Then they must be hiding somewhere!” Surrey deduced, sprinting out of the room, leaving his conflicted son behind.
Thomas prayed that his friends were safe, and that one day, they would forgive him.
Ambrose blinked, looking around, trying to understand why he was in a field, outside of Uncle George’s manor in Kent when the last thing he remembered was being in Ludlow, running for his life. But then his gaze fell on the woman whose arms were wrapped around him, and nothing else mattered.
“Mama,” he breathed.
“My baby boy. Oh, how I love you,” Queen Anne Boleyn gushed, tears welling up in her eyes that were the exact shape and color of Elizabeth’s.
For a few minutes, they just stayed together, the warmth of the sun’s rays was nothing compared to the happiness that glowed within them.
“I’m sorry,” Ambrose sniffled, pushing her away, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?” inquired Anne, cocking her head with a perplexed expression on her face.
“If it weren’t for me, you’d still be here. I killed you,” Ambrose whimpered.
At once his mother’s eyes narrowed, and she almost looked angry, she cupped his face with her hands. “No, darling, no. Never say that. You were my victory. If it weren’t for you, I have no doubt, I would have been buried as concubine and your sister would be thrown away just like Lady Mary,” she told him ardently. “You two are my legacy.”
“I know, Mama, I know. Uncle George has told me many times. I want to live up to it. I want to make you proud,” Ambrose vowed.
“You have already made me proud, just by being you. You don’t have to be whatever people tell you. Be who you want to be. I know there is a lot of pressure on you, don’t let yourself get overwhelmed. I believe in you sweetheart, I know that you will be amazing,” Anne predicted with a loving smile.
“I love you, Mama,” Ambrose whispered as he lay his head on her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her neck, inhaling her scent as he closed his eyes.
“I love you too, sweetheart, always."
When Ambrose opened his eyes, he was lying in a cot in a tent, his ankle wrapped, and his father sleeping in a chair next to his bed, holding his hand tightly.
Notes:
My original plan involved Ambrose managing to jump from the ledge of his window to the ledge of the window of an adjacent, then he was supposed to switches clothes with one of his friends.
I hope I found a less convoluted way to get them escape.
Please read and review.
Chapter 20: Castles Crumbling
Summary:
Ambrose's freedom comes with a heavy cost.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
February 6, 1546
His son was alive and safe. Henry could hardly believe it when John Dudley arrived at the camp carrying a sleeping Ambrose in his arms. He had wanted to kiss the man as he brought Ambrose to Henry’s tent, laying him down on a cot.
Dr. Butts checked Ambrose and Guildford over while the latter told the king, his father, and the Duke of Kent how he and Ambrose had escaped Ludlow. Afterwards Henry had sent everyone away, wanting to spend some time alone with his son.
With all of Ambrose’ companions now out of Surrey’s control, it was decided that they could storm Ludlow, bringing the traitorous earl to justice.
George was leading the charge while Henry stayed behind at Ambrose’s side. Although he longed to cut down the men who dared hold the Prince of Wales captive, he felt he needed to be there when his son woke up, just to confirm what the physician told him, aside from a sprained ankle, Ambrose was unscathed by the nightmare he had lived through for the past couple of days.
“Father?” a voice roused the red-haired monarch from his half-asleep state. He blinked wearily around until his eyes fell on Ambrose who was rising from the cot.
“No, no, stay there, Ambrose,” he ordered, sending a guard to send for Dr. Butts. “You’re safe now, son.”
“What about Gilly?”
“He is with his brothers,” Henry answered, letting go of Ambrose’s hand so he could place it on his son’s shoulder, trying to get him to lie back down. “Everything shall be well now. Just rest.”
“What about Master Ascham? And the servants who helped us?” Ambrose demanded, his eyes wide as he realized the danger, they were in.
“Your uncle is storming the castle now. Once Surrey and his men are captured, everyone will be freed. And don’t you worry, Amby, I will be rewarding those who helped you escaped,” he promised. Knighthood, and perhaps a barony for each of them.
Unfortunately, it is doubtful that Surrey would have let them live. If they are alive, I shall make sure they are set for life, if not, they shall be knighted posthumously and I will make sure that their families are given a hefty pension, Henry decided inwardly. As for John Dudley, I shall see to it that he has an Earldom, and a Dukedom for his and his sons’ actions.
“Father, I don’t understand why though? Why would Surrey take us hostage?” Ambrose questioned, as he finally stopped fighting with his father, and laid back down.
The red-haired monarch scowled. “Because your cousin, and his father were discovered plotting treason. Once Surrey found out I was coming to arrest him, he thought to use you to keep me from punishing him,” he snarled, already picturing all the punishments, he had planned for Surrey.
A simple beheading would not due, and even being hanged, drawn, and quartered did not seem brutal enough for Surrey’s crimes.
Perhaps he should be burned at the stake like heretic. Or boiled alive like a poisoner.
Not to mention that creative way, his Great-Uncle George was killed. What was it again? Drowned in wine.
So many options. Henry would have to think long and hard just which one he wanted to impose on the man who he had trusted with his precious heir’s wellbeing. A knave so unscrupulous, he was willing to use a boy of ten, his own flesh and blood, the future King of England, as a human shield.
I shall make sure your death is the most painful moment of your life, Surrey. Hell will be a relief compared to the torture I shall put you through.
“Father?” Ambrose called, shaking Henry out of his dark thoughts.
“Forgive me, Ambrose, what did you say?”
“I said I think I hear Uncle George. I wanted to see him,” Ambrose answered.
Henry blinked, not having realized that there was shouting outside. As he listened, he did indeed hear the Duke of Kent, barking orders for the prisoners be placed in secure location.
“I am sure your uncle will be here momentarily. You are not moving until Dr. Butts says you can,” Henry informed his son, half-seriously, half-playfully.
The Prince of Wales groaned, but he acquiesced, and lay back down, telling his father the story of how he escaped.
Even though Henry had already heard it from the Dudley boy, he enjoyed hearing it a second time, feeling a rush of affection towards the tutor he had chosen for his son, who had proven his devotion to his student. He also felt a sense of pride at how brave and loyal Ambrose had been.
Christ’s blood, Anne, did you see it? Henry wondered. Did you see our amazing boy? Our boy will be a king who will rule over empires. He will be William the Conqueror and Alexander the Great come again. I just know it.
The Duke of Kent came into the tent, and immediately ran over to hug Ambrose, not even acknowledging Henry. Had it been anyone else, any other time, the red-haired monarch might have taken umbrage at George’s snub.
“By God, Ambrose, I never thought the day would come that I would be glad to see your unconscious body being carried towards me, but that is exactly how I felt when Dudley showed up,” George remarked as he tussled his nephew’s hair, laying a kiss on his head.
“Is Tom unharmed?” Ambrose questioned worriedly.
“He is fine. With His Majesty’s permission, I will take him as my ward,” George assured him, knowing that he was concerned about his friend’s wellbeing.
The Prince of Wales swallowed as he clearly knew he might not like the answer to his next question. “What of the people who helped us escape?”
George sighed, looking down at his shoes. “I’m sorry, Ambrose, we couldn’t get to them in time,” he admitted sorrowfully.
The ten-year-old’s face crumbled. “I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have left. If I had stayed, they would still be alive,” he cried, looking as though he might burst into tears. “They are dead because of me. I get everyone killed!”
Henry and George exchanged meaningful looks, suspecting it was not just those people whose deaths for which the prince blamed himself.
“Amby, do not say such things. They made their own choice. They chose to put their lives on the lines for you,” Henry told him soothingly.
“And did mother have any choice?” Ambrose shot back, angrily, turning away from his father.
George placed his hand under his nephew’s chin and lifted his head up. “No. But I know my sister, she would have chosen your life over hers every time,” he admitted empathetically.
“What were their names?” Ambrose asked, still not looking very convinced, but at least willing to let the matter drop.
“Whose names?”
“The servants who helped Master Ascham,” the Prince of Wales replied, almost tonelessly. “They were part of saving my life so the least I can do is know their names and pray for them.”
Henry looked over at George, hoping he knew the names of the two brave servants.
“I don’t know, but I will look for them,” the Duke of Kent vowed, patting his nephew’s head before hurrying out of the tent, leaving father and son alone again.
“Ambrose, how long have you been feeling this way, about your mother?” Henry questioned, trying to keep his voice neutral so not to upset Ambrose further.
“Does it matter?” came the gloomy response.
“Of course, it matters,” exclaimed Henry. He took a breath, reminding himself that losing his temper would only make it harder for his son to open up. “Ambrose, my son, I want you to know that no one blames you for your mother’s death.”
“Because I am the Prince of Wales, the heir. That’s the only reason,” his son declared, averting his eyes. “If I were a girl, you’d probably have hated me.”
“My mother also died in childbed, and I promise you if your aunt had lived, no one would have blamed her either.” Henry pointed out. If anything, he would have cherished his sister more, knowing she was the last piece of his mother. His brow suddenly furrowed in confusion. “What makes you think that it would have made a difference whether you were male or female?”
When his son was silent, Henry pressed him sternly. “Tell me.”
“I once heard some people say that it was lucky that I was a boy because if I weren’t, Elizabeth and I would have been bastards,” Ambrose answered, averting his eyes. The fury and outrage must have shown on Henry’s face because the boy quickly added: “It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember who said it. I just…it is true, isn’t it? If I weren’t a boy, you would have hated me, discarded both me and Elizabeth.”
No, I wouldn’t have, the king contradicted. Not when Katherine was still alive, and people wanted me to return to her. If anything, Anne’s death would have given me an excuse to find another wife without having to get another annulment.
Of course, he could say none of that to Ambrose. Instead, the monarch let out a sigh. “I loved your mother very much. I won’t deny we went through a rough patch before you were born, but I still loved her, and losing her like that would have made me even more attached to her daughters,” Henry pointed out, smiling sadly. “I would have probably called you Anne if you were a girl, in her honor.”
“Then I would have had the same name as Aunt Mary’s daughter and Uncle George’s daughter,” Ambrose observed. “We would be the three Annes.”
“Yes, you would,” Henry agreed with a chuckle before sobering. “I won’t deny that I was glad that you were a boy, Ambrose. Because England needs a Prince of Wales to one day take the throne of England. However, I am also glad you are Anne’s son because that means your mother’s legacy will forever stay in England.”
Ambrose smiled bashfully, embracing Henry, who bear hugged his son, thanking God for protecting him, and bringing him to safety.
“Don’t be afraid,” his father had whispered when George Boleyn had led the king’s men into Ludlow.
Thomas Howard tried not to be afraid, he tried not to shake and shiver as the men took his and his father prisoner, tying them both up. They were put in carts like they were cattle being taken to the market to be slaughtered.
“He is just a child, and you put him in chains. Will you lock him in the cells of the Tower of London too?” The Earl of Surrey demanded.
“If the king demands it, I would,” the guard replied as he shoved Surrey forward. “Now hurry it up, traitor, the king wants us heading off to London before daybreak.”
Henry Howard glared at the man before climbing up onto the cart. His lip curled in disgust as he looked past the guard’s shoulder, seeing the Duke of Kent exit a tent, looking widely around, racing over to one of the servants that had come from Ludlow, and talking to him a low voice.
“With any luck, the bastard is deathly ill,” Surrey snarled, making Thomas feel sick, thinking of Ambrose being on death’s door because of his father.
“You better hope not. His Majesty already wants you dead. I can only imagine the kind of pain he will unleash upon you if his son…” the guard trailed off, unwilling to complete his sentence. Instead, he just grabbed Thomas and hoisted him onto the cart before calling for the man in front to start moving.
Thomas wished his hands were free just so he could wrap his arms around himself, giving him some sort of comfort.
There was a part of him that was angry at his father for putting him in this situation where he was being treated like a traitor because of what his relatives had done. There was another part of him that was scared he would witness his father’s death.
February 11, 1546
Whitehall never looked more beautiful. Glistening in the sun, it was a welcome relief for Ambrose as the carriages draw near.
On their way from Wales to London, the roads had been crowded by people who once they had learned he was coming had dropped what they were doing, racing for a glimpse of their prince who had escaped from the clutches of traitors.
“God save Prince Ambrose!”
“Our Lucky Prince!”
“Our Prince Ambrose the Fortunate!”
“Death to the traitors who dared try to harm him!”
The cheers from the streets of London were nearly deafening, calling out well wishes, and entreaties for him to be protected from his wicked relatives.
If rumors could be trusted, the Howards were being scorned and hated for their actions against their own blood.
However, Ambrose did not want to think about them, instead he beamed as his carriage went through the gates of Whitehall, and he caught sight of his sisters, and his brother standing on the lawn, looking quite relived when they saw him.
King Henry got out of the carriage first, helping Ambrose down, placing an arm around his shoulders as he faced the crowd watching them.
“The men who conspired to take my son from me have failed! God protected Prince Ambrose, safeguarding him from deceitful knaves, showing him the way to the camp of his allies,” he proclaimed, causing the courtiers and commons alike to cheer.
Had Ambrose been younger, he might have run from his father into the arms of his older sisters, weeping in relief. Instead, he waited until his father walked towards Mary, Elizabeth, and Edward, keeping his emotions composed as he hugged them.
“It is good to see you, sweet brother,” Mary murmured, burying her face in his hair, inhaling his scent.
“Well, I knew I had to be here for your birthday,” Ambrose jested weakly, a smile tugging at his lips when that got him a small snort as he and Mary parted.
Elizabeth’s turn was next, and for a girl who also stressed the importance of keeping oneself composed especially in public, she practically grabbed Ambrose into a hug, wrapping her arms around him so tight it was as though she were afraid, he might fade away if she didn’t hold on.
“Never do that to me again,” she hissed.
“I’ll try,” came the half-dazed reply as Ambrose tried to catch his breath. Does she think that I wanted to be held hostage? He wondered dryly.
When he moved to Edward, he noticed that his younger brother was shifting uncertainly, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to move in for a hug like their sisters had, or wait for Ambrose to hug him first.
The Prince of Wales was much too emotionally drained to tease his brother, and instead embraced him just as tightly as Elizabeth had done to him, whispering comforting words as he sensed the Duke of York’s fear. “I am fine, Ned, I swear.”
“I missed you,” Edward admitted softly, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“I missed you too,” Ambrose told him, ruffling his hair as they separated.
“Amby, Amby!” little Maggie cried from Catherine Parr’s arms. Although she did not know what had happened, she was just as happy as the rest of her siblings to see her brother.
“That’s right, Maggie, Amby is home again. We shall have a tennis match and a feast to celebrate!” Henry announced patting his son on the head, before reaching out to pink his youngest daughter’s cheek.
With that, King Henry decided that they would go inside the castle, to warm up, and get ready for the festivities, celebrating the Prince of Wales’s safe return.
As soon as Ambrose had changed out of his traveling clothes, and his servants had unpacked his things, he sat at his writing desk, wanting to finish the letter he had started.
To the family of the honorable Richard Paxton, greetings,
I write to you not as a prince or as your future sovereign, but as a boy whose fate could have been deadly had it not been for the bravery of Master Roger Ascham, Maurice Bevan, and Richard Paxton.
With some sadness, I confess I do not know Richard Paxton or Master Bevan for that matter as well as I do with Master Ascham. But their deaths have grieved me as much as losing my favorite tutor has, for they died for me.
I cannot stress my gratefulness for their actions. Their bravery, and their loyalty to me is something I will cherish for the end of my days. Had it not been for them, I do not know if I would be here, writing to you.
I am sure, you think that I shall forget about these men in a short time, forgetting all they have done for me. I promise you that I will remember for as long as I will live.
To prove this, I shall make a vow to you.
I, Ambrose Tudor, son of King Henry the Eighth of England, swear that on this day every year, the families of Richard Paxton, Maurice Bevan, and Roger Ascham, shall receive £100.
I know that does not bring him back. But I feel that is the least I can do for the family of the brave men who put my life before theirs.
I pray for their souls, and I pray that God will bless you.
Sincerely, Prince Ambrose Tudor of Wales, Duke of Cornwell.
Ambrose glanced over the letter, hoping it sounded genuine, and heartfelt. Not like a foolish little boy so racked with guilt, he thought he could throw money at it, and it would go away.
Perhaps he should offer something else. Some land perhaps. More titles than simply granting their deceased loved one’s knighthoods.
Ambrose didn’t know. He rubbed his temples. He would talk to Elizabeth about this before sending those letters. She would probably have a better sense of what to do.
Right now, he wanted to focus on his homecoming, a reminder that he was alive, and he would be all right.
However, as he walked through the corridors, being complimented, and praised by the courtiers outside, he couldn’t help but think while he was home with his family, there were three men who would never get to return to theirs.
At least they died as heroes. I shudder to imagine what will happen to the families of the men who will die as traitors, mused the prince as he began to write again.
February 14, 1546
King Henry had decided that Tommy Howard, along with the other son of the late Duke of Suffolk would be transferred over to George’s guardianship.
I am beginning to think Hever Castle will have to be renamed Kent’s House for the Sons of Traitors. George thought, smiling ruefully as he stepped off the barge, and made his way into the Tower of London. It is becoming daunting being the only man in all of England His Majesty trusts.
“I trust that Thomas Howard the Younger is ready to be moved?” he questioned Kingston after exchanging pleasantries with the man.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is a bit nervous and scared, but all of his things are packed, and ready to go,” Kingston replied, a trace of sympathy in his voice.
“Good. I will see him before we leave. But first, I want to pay a visit to my uncle,” George professed, his eyes cold.
He knew that Surrey had been thrown into the cells usually housed for the lowest of criminals. Norfolk, on the other hand, was given a room that was decently furnished with a bed, a fireplace, a bookcase, a table, and chairs.
Cozy. Far nicer than what he deserved.
“Uncle,” he greeted the man as he stepped into the chamber, waving Kingston out so he could speak to the disgraced duke by himself.
Norfolk did not say a word, and instead continued staring at the fire, his back to his nephew.
“Your son is an idiot. A fool,” opined George as he lounged in one of the chairs, even putting his feet up on the table. “A halfwit. A fopdoodle. A cumberworld. A coxcomb. A bobbolyne. A dalcop. A lubberwort. A---”
“ALL RIGHT! I GET IT” Thomas Howard bellowed, spinning around, his face red with anger and his knuckles white from how hard he had been clenching his fists. “Are you just here to insult my son’s intelligence, or did you have a purpose behind your visit?”
The Duke of Kent shrugged. “I can do two things,” he said nonchalantly.
Thomas made a disgusted noise. “Why are you here, nephew?” he demanded.
The Duke of Kent sat up straight, letting his legs fall off the table, his boots landing on the floor with sharp bang. Suddenly the carefree and foppish boy was gone, and in his place sat a cold and calculating man with eyes filled with fire. The change was so abrupt and disarming, Norfolk almost took a step back.
“To tell you that if it weren’t for your son’s actions, I might have gotten you a pardon,” George answered coldly. “I am angry you were plotting to work against me, Uncle, but I was even more outraged at being played by Hertford, just as I know you are. I thought together we could take him down. Instead, your son took Ambrose prisoner. If he hadn’t, you would be free.”
“If Edward Seymour hadn’t betrayed me, I would be free,” Norfolk countered, banging his fist on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
George let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh sure, Uncle, if Edward Seymour hadn’t betrayed you, you would have been free,” he jeered, a sneer on his face. “Or perhaps if you hadn’t been such a worthless ambitious knave, willing to work against your own flesh just to grasp more power, you wouldn’t be on trial for treason.”
“Oh, spare me the lecture, George,” Thomas groused. Although, oddly, he did not deny the truth of his nephew’s words.
“That whoreson played you like a fiddle. Saving your letters so he could use them against you. Tell me, what prompted you to say you would promote the Duke of York as the true king over Ambrose?” George inquired curiously, leaning back in the chair, his hands folded neatly across his chest.
“Hertford mentioned that if worse came to worse, we could always make this a matter of religion, get the Pope’s support. And considering His Holiness would see the Duke of York as King Henry’s true heir, it would be better to throw our lot in with him,” Norfolk explained with a grimace.
“Except he didn’t say that last part, did he?” George guessed.
The almost inhuman growl that escaped his uncle’s lips was all the answer he needed.
Heaving a sigh, the younger man got up. “Surrey is not the only fool, Uncle. You trusted the wrong person and look where it got you. You will be stripped of all titles even the Earldom of Surrey, and you will die, leaving all the Howards to look at me for support,” George noted, shaking his head sadly. “I hope you are satisfied at how low you have fallen.”
“Wait, nephew, please, speak for me,” implored Thomas Howard, urgency and desperation ringing as clear as a bell in his voice. “I know the king will listen to you. If you ask him.”
To his shock, the Duke of Kent started guffawing, almost falling to the ground he was laughing so hard.
When he finally got control of himself, he turned around with a scornful expression upon his face, holding his belly as if it hurt. “Speak for you. Uncle, I have known since I was twenty if not earlier that if I were to ever be suspected of treason, you would sit on a panel of judges, and you would declare me guilty. Then you would watch as they executed me without a twinge of guilt,” he sneered, his smirk becoming a snarl.
“That is different. I would have had to distance myself from you so not to be caught up from your downfall,” Norfolk protested as if that made it better. “You, on the other hand, have no fear of losing King Henry’s favor. Out of anyone, he would listen to you if you told him to spare me.”
“You are right about that,” concurred George. He paused, letting his words sink in, allowing his uncle to have a few moments of hope before he cruelly destroyed it. “However, would you save me, if the reason I am accused of treason was for conspiring against you?”
Thomas Howard’s shoulders sagged, looking as though he had aged in just a few minutes. He looked so miserable, knowing he was doomed, that George almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Goodbye, Mister Thomas,” the Duke of Kent derided, with a mocking bow before he left, leaving his doomed uncle behind.
March 31, 1546
“There is a difference between justice and butchery,” Mary murmured, glancing about the crowd, almost glad to see that despite the jeering and the booing, many were wincing at the sight of the prisoner.
Philip said nothing, he just stared straight ahead, clutching his wife’s hand in his. There was about his pale and horrified expression that told Mary, he was picturing someone else in the traitor’s place.
Henry Howard---stripped of his titles like his late father---had to be half-carried, half-dragged to the stake. He had been blinded, disfigured, and castrated.
“That bastard kidnapped my son,” the newly made Duke of Northumberland remarked from beside them. “and the Prince of Wales. This is what he deserves.”
And yet, John Dudley winced as the once proud earl fell to the ground and began to whimper pitifully.
As Mary watched as they tied the former Earl of Surrey to the stake, she couldn’t help but think it wasn’t so much that he deserved it as it proved once and for all, just how ruthless her father had become.
Of course, Lord Dudley would already know that, considering what happened to his father, Mary realized with a shiver.
Notes:
I apologize for making the Surrey scene so short, but quite honestly, it was either a short scene or nothing at all because I could not make it work otherwise.
Welp that's a great way to end Henry's reign. A little treat for everyone who said I made him too soft.
Also a sorry to Roger Ascham's sons, I just retgoned you.
I cannot wait for your thoughts and comments especially about George's scene with Norfolk.
Chapter 21: Long Live the King
Summary:
The winter of King Henry's reign ends.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
January 27, 1547
Snow fluttered down from the heavens, covering England with a thick white blanket, a winter wonderland. There was something magical about freshly fallen snow. Something beautiful.
Princess Elizabeth was wrapped up in her furs as she walked down the hallway of Whitehall, unable to stop glancing out at the snowflakes dancing in the wind, barely even paying attention to where she was going.
She collided with Robert Dudley as she rounded the corner, knocking him over in the process.
“Well, I think we can safely say I fell for you,” Robert declared, his scowl turning into a grin upon realizing who he had bumped into.
“Oh Robin, honestly,” Elizabeth scoffed as Kat Ashley helped the boy up. Her sharp words were contrasted by the pink tinge of her cheeks, and the smile tugging at her lips. “Must everything be a joke to you?”
Robert Dudley had been with Guildford at Hatfield with the royal children. He had gone with Edward just as Guildford had become Ambrose’ primary companion.
“Yes,” her friend replied, grinning mischievously. “I was thinking perhaps we could find Ambrose, and Edward, and have a snowball fight. It might be a nice distraction.”
Elizabeth’s face fell as she realized what he was referring. Her father was currently languishing in his chambers for the past few days. Everyone had known for years that Ambrose would become king before he reached his maturity, but as long as King Henry continued to live, they hoped it would not be for another few years.
Alas, it seemed that England would have a new ruler before the ice began to thaw.
Robin seemed to realize that he had inadvertently caused Elizabeth to think of her father’s worsening condition, and the great change that would soon affect her and her siblings.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, I spoke foolishly,” he apologized, his expression losing its guile, and his sympathy was palpable.
The red-haired princess gave him a small smile. “Well, it is good to see that some things never change,” she teased, trying to sound playful even though there was a slight tremor in her voice.
Her sweet friend made an over-the-top offended expression, drawing out a genuine laugh out of her.
“I do not think we will be able to have a snow fight in this weather, Robin, but let us find our brothers. For it will be nice to spend some time in each other’s company,” Elizabeth declared.
Robert offered her his arm, and Elizabeth gladly took it. The two children reminisced about their time at Hatfield as they walked with Kat Ashley trailing a discreet distance behind them.
And for a few precious moments, the tension of the court seemed to matter little, only the sunlit days of their childhood were on their mind, chasing the dark and gloomy thoughts away.
Ambrose gazed at the chess board, his brow furrowed in concentration, swallowing the lump in his throat.
One wrong move, and I lose, he observed, staring at the pieces as if he were willing them to move themselves.
Sitting across from him, Edward was drumming his fingers on the table, only half paying attention to the game itself, his mind elsewhere, probably in the king’s apartment where their father was currently on his deathbed.
No one had dared say that to Ambrose and Edward but gone were the days where the two boys were unable to piece together that something big was happening. The fact that, they had been summoned to court by their father, and had yet to see him did not help the attempts to keep them in the dark.
“Did you know that before the fourteen-nineties, the queen piece in chess could only move one square at a time?” Prince Ambrose quizzed, not even glancing up as he moved a knight forward, leaving an opening for Edward to take one of his rooks.
He hid a smirk when his brother did just that, leaving the spot Ambrose needed unoccupied. His bishop was already in position, just one piece left.
“I did not know that,” Edward admitted, smiling when he saw that in just two moves, he could take Ambrose’s king. “Check.”
“That was a very good move,” praised Ambrose. “Yes, apparently, around fifty years ago, the Spanish changed it in honor of Queen Isabel of Spain.”
“I know about her. She’s Mary’s grandmother,” Edward recalled, remembering how awed he had been when he learned that his sister was related to one of the most formidable women of her time.
“That’s right. Now queens can move vertically, horizontally, or diagonally any number of spaces,” the Prince of Wales explained, grinning widely as he moved his queen. “Checkmate.”
Edward stared open-mouthed at the game board. “You-you tricked me!” he spluttered.
“It is not my fault, you fell for a trap,” Ambrose told him smugly. “If you want to win, you have to use your brains, Ned.”
“I was using my brains. I didn’t think you would pull such a dirty move, distracting me and tricking me,” the Duke of York snarled.
Ambrose scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Christ’s blood, Ned, you sound like a child, crying foul like that,” he jeered. “The point of chess is to win, being ten steps ahead of your opponent.”
“I was. I just didn’t think you play dirty,” Edward huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, a petulant scowl upon his face. “You weren’t being fair.”
“You are such a baby,” Ambrose mocked. “Not being fair. I bet you would say the same if we were fighting in a war. You’d probably go crying to the enemy commander about him not being fair.”
“Shut up!” Edward roared, knocking the chess pieces over as he jumped. “I am sick of you teasing me!” Tears started to leak out of his eyes.
“Oh, just go cry about it to someone who cares!” yelled Ambrose.
“Your Highness!” Kat Ashley admonished having just entered with Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. She quickly rushed over to Edward, pulling him into a comforting hug. “You shouldn’t speak to your brother like that.”
“Well, he is acting like a baby,” the older prince snapped, glaring at Edward.
“Kat, will you please take Edward to the other room,” Elizabeth requested in a gentle voice, giving Robert a meaningful glance.
Robert nodded, and when Kat took Edward out, he followed them, leaving Elizabeth alone with her brother.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded, rounding on him like a parent about to give a naughty child the thrashing of their life.
“I won and Edward was acting like I cheated just because I outsmarted him!” Ambrose exclaimed, kicking his feet, upset that his sister was taking their brother’s side. “He threw a tantrum and knocked over all the pieces.”
“Did he do that before or after you started mocking him?” Elizabeth inquired heatedly, her tone making it clear that she already knew the answer.
The Prince of Wales grimaced, averting his eyes. Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her temples in the same way Mary would whenever her daughters were acting out.
“Ambrose, Papa is going to die soon,” Elizabeth whispered, flinching at her own words, half-afraid she might have just spoken it into existence. “We will all have lost our father, and we need to stick together if we are going to get through this.”
And someday, I won’t be here either. I’ll be in Denmark. Only Mary will be here to keep the peace, the princess mused.
“Edward will still have his mother. I have no one,” Ambrose spat, only to shrink back when his sister’s eyes blazed.
“You have me!” she bellowed. “You have Mary and Margaret. And you have Edward if you stop acting like such a…cur!”
Ambrose’s mouth fell open, never once having heard his sister say such a naughty word. She had once yelled at him for saying arse instead of bum.
“I’m sorry. It is just that I know that we can’t continue to be children,” he told her softly. “I always knew I’d be king one day, but I’m not ready now, and I am not sure if I will ever be ready.”
Elizabeth reached out and held his hand, squeezing it. “Oh, Ambrose, I know things will be difficult, but there are so many people are going to help you through it. Uncle George will be your Lord Protector until you come of age, and after that he will be your adviser. You will have a whole council of advisors. You are going to be fine.”
“You have no idea how it feels to know that soon people are going to be looking at you to lead them,” Ambrose said, turning away from her even though he did not let go of her hand.
“But I am willing to listen. I will always listen to you,” Elizabeth assured him, drawing her brother into a warm hug.
Ambrose smiled at her, only to be surprised when his sister abruptly pushed him away. She gave him a stern expression, pointing towards the door. “Now go make up with Edward. I will not allow you to be angry today!” she commanded, never looking more like their father than she did now.
The eleven-year-old boy bit back a groan as he did as his sister told him, knowing that she was right. Even if she weren’t, he very much doubted he would win this particular argument.
January 28, 1547
The entire court was walking on eggshells. It was treason to imagine the King of England’s death, but that was hard to abide by that when he was on his literal deathbed. The royal physician had confirmed that the English ruler had only hours left.
Thomas Wendy had been very gentle when he summoned the Duke and the Duchess of Somerset, Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, and the Duke of Kent to make the announcement that it was almost time.
Mary had just stood there frozen, unsure what to do. Whether to collapse on the floor, sob loudly. Whether to run to the chapel and pray for her father’s soul. Considering everything he had done, he would need a lot of prayer.
Cranmer and Kent entered the bedroom---the former to give him perhaps the Lutheran version of Last Rites, Kent just in case he had any last orders---leaving Mary and Philip alone.
“How are you feeling?” Philip queried, his eyes searching her face to gage her emotions from her expression.
“I don’t know,” Mary confessed, shaking her head slowly. “I love him, but I hate him. I am angry at him, but I grieve him. He is going to be buried beside her.”
Philip didn’t even need to ask who she meant. King Henry had made it clear that he and Anne Boleyn would have a joint coffin so they could be together for eternity. Her husband embraced her, stroking her hair.
“I want to ask him why,” Mary murmured, her voice slightly muffled as she buries her face in his shoulder. “I want to ask him why he had to do this. I want to ask him why mother and I weren’t enough. I want to tell him that maybe we could have avoided everything if he had just sent mother back to Spain where she could have been happy.”
“No, she wouldn’t have been,” Philip contradicted. “Because she wouldn’t have had you. Something that I personally think would be more devastating. Our daughters would agree, I am sure.”
Mary chuckled despite herself, wiping her eyes. “I am glad that I exist, sweetheart. Forgive me, I am being melancholic again,” she apologized.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Philip reassured her in a soothing voice, kissing her forehead chastely. “I like it when you tell me your true thoughts because in the beginning of our marriage, you would hide them from me. Now you trust me.”
“I do trust you,” affirmed Mary. “You have won over this cynical woman. Now you have her heart, body and soul.”
“And you have mine,” Philip gushed, caressing her face.
The former Princess of Wales smiled tearfully at him. To think, I once wanted to marry my cousin. As much as I still respect Emperor Charles, I cannot imagine him making me as happy as Philip does.
“Can we go to the chapel and pray together?” Mary requested.
Her husband beamed at her as they separated. He put her hand in the crook of his arm. “Of course, we can.”
Once again, Catherine Parr sat by the bedside of a dying man who struggled to breathe. A man, who despite sharing her bed with, she did not love. However, she was glad to be with him as it had allowed her to care for children as if she was a mother.
King Henry could no longer speak, only able to grip Cranmer’s hand when the archbishop asked him for a sign that he trusted Christ for salvation. His time was nearly up, and he knew it.
“I promise to look after your children. Love and protect them as if they were my own,” Catherine swore as she held Henry’s other hand.
The red-haired monarch managed a weak nod of approval.
His lover stared at him with sorrow, feeling pity for the prideful man who now looked frail and haggard. The years had not been kind to him, and now on his last day, that carefully crafted mask he wore to hide his growing weakness had fallen off, leaving him looking like a decrepit old man rather than the once handsome prince he was.
She would stay with him for his last moments as she knew he did not want his children to be summoned, and she doubted Queen Jane could even get to the palace in time had her husband even wanted her by his side. Therefore, it was up to her to comfort him as he left this world to face God’s judgement.
At two in the morning, King Henry Tudor closed his eyes for the last time, his clammy hand grew limp, and his chest became still.
A lone tear trickled down Catherine’s cheek, as she pressed a kiss on His Majesty’s forehead. I hope you will find the peace of mind, you could never find on Earth, she prayed.
The Duke of Kent had sent for the royal children to Whitehall, to make sure they were here when the king died. He was not leaving anything to chance. Not letting anyone get to Ambrose, Edward or their sisters and nieces for that matter, trying to take the reins of government in their hands.
Thankfully, Henry had made George the Lord Protector, not just out of his love for the deceased Anne, but because he had known George for twenty years, and knew that he was not greedy for power.
He had named sixteen executors to be the council of Ambrose until he reached age eighteen, citing that if any of these men proved to be unworthy of their position, it was well in the right of the Lord Protector to dismiss and punish them however he felt fit.
“Now that is not something you might abuse,” Jane commented dryly.
George chuckled despite himself as he continued to read his copy of the will, one that was also given to the sixteen executors so no one could claim that it had been tampered with.
The order of succession had been included. But there was nothing new there as King Henry had already made it official a few years ago. It did make George uneasy though, knowing that as long as Ambrose had no children, his half-brother would be his heir much to the Seymours’ delight.
“I think I will go over the will with Cromwell and Rich, make sure that I am not missing anything that could go badly for us,” George decided, setting the parchment down so he could pour himself a drink.
Jane suppressed a yawn. “Don’t you think we should go to bed, love? It is past two,” she pointed out gently.
“I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep,” George guessed, swirling the wine around in his cup, his thoughts drifting. “Not with---”
Whatever was preventing her husband from even trying to sleep, Jane would never know as Sir Anthony Denny burst in, his grim expression betraying the news he had before he even opened his mouth.
“Go to Lord Cromwell,” George commanded. “Inform him that I shall meet with me in a half hour.”
Denny nodded and left quickly.
George glanced at the full goblet of in his hands, debating whether or not he should drown it in one gulp. To his wife’s immense pleasure, he set it down, and began walking out of his chambers, shouting over his shoulder: “Gloating is unbecoming of a lady.”
Jane’s smirk lasted for a few more minutes before the reality of the situation set in.
King Henry was dead, leaving his not quite twelve-year-old son as his successor. It would an uphill climb, and only God knew how it would turn out.
Strictly speaking as Lord Protector, George should have held a meeting with the appointed executors first and foremost. However, as the uncle of Ambrose and Elizabeth, he felt it was his duty to tell the new king and his siblings about their father’s death instead of letting them be told by someone else or worse, have a careless servant let it slip.
He did wait until the morning light had begun to peep through the glass, not wanting to wake them so early.
He decided to go to his niece’s chambers first, guessing that she would realize fairly quickly why she was being woken up at dawn. Princess Elizabeth shared a room with her two-year-old half-sister, Princess Margaret.
George’s gaze shifted towards the toddler, studying her. She had the blonde hair of her mother and was covered with extra blankets as she seemed to catch colds with an alarming frequency.
She was too young to understand that the concept of death, and she barely even knew her father.
Elizabeth was only a few months younger than she was when Anne died, George mused.
He heard a gasp, and his head snapped towards the other bead. Elizabeth was sitting up, a startled and frightened expression on her face.
“Uncle George?” she inquired cautiously, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dark, relaxing as she realized that the man in the doorway was a friend and not a foe.
The Duke of Kent hurried over to her. “Yes, it is me, sweetheart,” he affirmed soothingly. “I am sorry for scaring you.”
“Father’s dead, isn’t he?” Elizabeth realized, a slight tremor in her voice. Her brown eyes were wide, and pleading, wanting him to deny it.
“I am afraid so,” George replied, embracing her warmly.
His brave niece did not cry; she only clutched his doublet tightly, burying her face in his chest as she tried to control her ragged breathing.
Her uncle waited patiently, allowing her to compose herself before taking a step back, kissing her head as they separated.
Kat Ashley had been roused by Elizabeth’s gasp, and now she got out of bed to dress the princess, whispering her condolences.
George quickly hurried to his nephew’s rooms, barely sparing a glance at the Duke of York, not wanting a reminder of the fact that Anne’s son would forever be in danger of the Seymours thanks to him.
“Uncle?” Ambrose questioned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on?”
The Duke of Kent swallowed, trying to choose his words carefully. “God has called your father to heaven, Your Majesty,” he told him, wrapping his arms around his nephew.
Ambrose said nothing. He didn’t return the hug, staying stiff and limp like a stick in his uncle’s arms. He was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even react. There were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around in him that he felt he was drowning in grief and fear. He felt like he was suffocating.
“Ambrose, Ambrose,” his uncle called, sounding so far away. “Just breathe, lad. Everything will be well, I promise you.”
The preteen looked up at him, fear shining in his blue eyes. “What do I do, Uncle? I don’t know what to do,” he uttered, quivering slightly.
“I know. That’s why I am here,” George comforted him. “I am going to guide you, help you. I promise you; I will be with you every step of the way.”
Ambrose nodded, half-fearing that he might burst into tears if he spoke again. He couldn’t cry. He was a king now and kings didn’t cry. George stayed with him as he got dressed before leading him to the room where Elizabeth was waiting.
To the Duke of Kent’s surprise, his niece was currently in the arms of the Princess Mary.
“Your Highness, I was not expecting you,” the Duke of Kent greeted her with a respectful nod.
“Why would I not be here?” Mary inquired, a slight edge in her tone as she glanced behind him meaningfully. “When Lady Parr informed me of my father’s passing, I wanted to comfort all my siblings.”
The duke could hear the unsaid rebuke, and the only thing that stopped him from bristling was the clear disapproval on Elizabeth’s face. He put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, straightening himself so not to seem cowed by the young woman Anne once believed would be her death.
“My apologies, Your Highness, but I thought it best to inform King Ambrose about his father,” George explained, knowing full well it was a lame excuse for not making sure both Mary and Edward were told about their father’s death.
Ambrose flinched at the reminder that he was king now. Mary caught with her peripheral vision and shot him a sympathetic look before schooling her features back to cold haughtiness as she returned her gaze towards George.
“With your permission, my Lord Protector,” she drawled, her tone dripping with barely hidden disdain. “I would like to be alone with my siblings. I would hate to keep you from your duties.”
The Duke of Kent opened his mouth, perhaps to remind Mary that he was Ambrose and Elizabeth’s uncle, the only link they had to their mother, and therefore he should be the one to stay with them at time where they needed family.
However, his father’s voice rang in his ears. Your enemies are waiting for to make a mistake. They are waiting for you to prove irresponsible so they can take you down and take the power you wield for themselves.
George Boleyn made a shallow bow, gave both Elizabeth and Ambrose a quick pat before leaving the temporary apartments for the privy council.
“I’m sure he meant nothing by it,” Elizabeth whispered to her older sister as Ambrose walked towards the window, not paying attention to anything as he processed this new normal, they had been suddenly thrust into.
Mary made a non-committal noise. Not quite believing Elizabeth, but at the same time not wanting to insult her uncle.
She glanced back at Ambrose; the gloomy expression looked so out of place on her brother’s face. She wanted to draw him in a hug, but she had two other siblings, she had to focus on as they seemed not to matter to men like George Boleyn.
Did he think that Elizabeth and Ambrose were the only ones who King Henry’s death affected? He was not the only one who seemed to forget that the late monarch had more children than the ones by Anne Boleyn. Despite the physician having told Mary that her father had mere hours to live, no one thought to tell Mary aside from Catherine Parr who had even apologized for not coming sooner as she was under the impression that Mary was being kept informed about the state of her father.
This does not bode well for the future, bemoaned Mary. Will I, my children, Edward, and Maggie be sent away from court, never to be allowed back? Kept out of sight so everyone can pretend that only Ambrose and Elizabeth existed?
As if Elizabeth could sense her thoughts, she took Mary’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “Ambrose will never let you leave,” she proclaimed.
“You’re leaving?” Ambrose asked, spinning around, sounding anxious.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mary reassured him sweetly. “I will be here for as long as you wish for me to stay.”
“Thank you, sister,” Ambrose said gratefully, the relief pouring off him in waves. “I know it would be one day. I just hoped it wouldn’t be today or ever.”
Before his sisters could say anything, Sir William Sidney and Lady Blanche Milborne brought in their young charges per Mary’s earlier request.
“What’s going on?” Edward inquired, his eyelids dropping, covering his mouth to catch a yawn before it escaped.
Instead of answering, Mary went to collect her baby sister from Lady Troy, dismissing the governess along with the steward of her brother’s household, wanting to alone with her siblings.
“Come here, Ned,” she commanded softly, as she sat down, shifting Maggie so there was room on her lap.
Edward’s gaze darted from Mary to Elizabeth to Ambrose, trying to gage from their expressions what was wrong. His heart hammered in his chest as he slowly stepped towards Mary, biting his lip so not to burst into tears.
Ambrose and Elizabeth sat down next to Mary, pulling down a reluctant Edward with them.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” the Duke of York quizzed shakily, growing frantic every minute no one answered him.
“Now, I need you to brave, Ned,” Mary began, kissing the top of Maggie’s head as the girl began playing with her hair, blissfully unaware of the tension. “You will be brave for Maggie’s sake, won’t you?”
“I will be brave.”
“God has called our father to heaven,” Mary explained, unknowingly repeating the words George Boleyn had told Ambrose.
To Edward’s credit, he did not cry. He did close his eyes for several minutes, inhaling sharply several times.
“When will Papa be back?” Maggie questioned innocently, sucking on her thumb.
“I am afraid, he is not coming back, sweetheart,” Mary told her softly.
“Why not?” Maggie wondered, cocking her head in confusion. She did not seem perturbed by it, and why would she? She had only seen her father a handful of times in her young life, not enough to have any meaningful memories.
“Because God wants him to stay with the saints and the angels,” Elizabeth put in, hoping her sister would not question it further.
“Everything will be all right, Ned,” Ambrose comforted him, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder, not wanting him to think he would call Edward a baby for crying, not this time. “We’ll get through it together.”
The corners of Edward’s mouth turned upwards, blinking away tears. He didn’t even hesitate before he hugged his older brother.
On the day of King Henry’s death, his five children were united, ready to face the world together.
As Lord Protector, George sat at the head of the table and spoke first: “My lords, today is a sad day for all of us,” he began. His expression was solemn, a stark contrast to his usual carefree deposition. “We have lost a beloved prince. However, we cannot lose our self in grief over his death as King Henry trusts us to keep his realm working smoothly until his son, King Ambrose, is old enough to run his kingdom.”
He peered around the council table, trying to see whether or not there was any grimaces at the reminder that he would be regent for nearly six years. Studying the expressions of Cuthbert Tunstall, the Bishop of Dean, Nicholas Wotton, Edward North, 1st Baron North, and of course, the Earl of Hertford especially.
“First order of business is King Henry’s funeral,” he declared, smiling as he saw Tunstall frown, knowing the old windbag was unhappy at learning it would not be a Catholic funeral as he and Stephan Gardiner had been hoping to convince the monarch to have.
Richard Rich began to read from the will despite knowing that everyone at the table had already read it. “His Majesty has requested two thousand mourners; the coffin should have a life-sized effigy with a real crown carried by a gilded chariot. He will be buried in St George's Chapel at Windsor,” he recited somberly.
“Ambrose shall be crowned four days afterwards,” George determined.
“And what of the queen?” Edward Seymour questioned in a cool voice, sounding as though he didn’t care about the answer either way.
“King Henry will be buried next to Queen Anne, of course,” answered the Duke of Kent, affecting a surprised expression as if he really believed that was what his rival meant.
The vein in the earl’s neck bulged slightly, and lip twitched before he could school his features back into an indifferent mask. “Of course, Your Grace. I merely meant what will happen to the Dowager Queen Jane?” he clarified, through gritted teeth.
“Ah yes, well Queen Jane will be allowed to come mourn for King Henry’s funeral,” George replied. “She will also be invited to my nephew’s coronation. Then she can return to Kimbolton Castle.”
If he dared, and after his confrontation with Princess Mary, he did not dare, he would have given the More as Jane’s new residence so she could follow the footsteps of the exiled queen she so adored.
“As I recall, it is customary for Dowager Queens to receive Havering Palace as their primary place of residence,” the Earl of Hertford noted in the same calm voice, but there was a barely concealed undertone of irritation.
“That maybe so, my lord. Nonetheless, King Henry has decreed that Havering Palace shall be given to King Ambrose’s wife,” George informed him smugly.
He did not say that he asked the monarch to put that in his will weeks ago, when he had overheard courtiers speculate whether Jane would be allowed to live in Havering when it was so close to London.
George wanted to put as much distance he could between that shrew and the court. If he thought he could get away with it, he would make sure that she was unable to visit her children, filling their heads with lies about Ambrose.
“Is that all?” the Lord Protector inquired, giving Edward a smile reminiscent of a governess asking the child if they were finished nattering on about some nonsense. His rival nodded so he continued speaking. “We will make the announcement of the king’s death to the parliament in two days’ time than shortly afterwards we will make a public announcement.”
By the end of the council meeting, George felt satisfied that he could handle things.
Don’t worry Anne, your husband is gone, but I will make sure your legacy lives on, he vowed.
February 9, 1547
The news of her husband’s death had devastated Queen Jane. She had barely been able to drag herself out of bed, grieved over the knowledge that she had not been able to reconcile with Henry before he died, abandoning her to a hostile Boleyn court.
She was surprised she was even allowed to return to court to mourn him as she was certain that Kent was spiteful enough to bar a grieving widow from her husband’s funeral.
Queen Jane walked through the corridors of the Palace of Whitehall with her head held high, making sure to look as regal as she could as she passed the courtiers. They curtsied and bowed at her, staring with curiosity, wondering if she would be favored or ousted by the new regime.
She wore was dressed in her finest black gown, trimmed with gold, and a black veil. She did not wear any jewels aside from the necklace King Henry had given her when he was courting her. This was before Anne Boleyn’s relatives had turned him against her, not even allowing her to take the queen’s jewels that were hers by right.
As much as it hurt that Henry was dead and he would never come to the realization that she was his one true love, the worst part was knowing that it would not be her son, the only legitimate son of the dead monarch, who was crowned in seven days’ time.
According to her brother, George Boleyn had already secured the Parliament’s backing for his nephew, the proclamations had been sent out, assuring that all of England knew that they would be getting a Boleyn King.
Not a single person had spoken up for Prince Edward, preferring to remain safe, rather than fight for a just cause.
Cowards, Jane spat in her mind. They were all cowards, and my brother is the biggest coward of them all.
Edward, his wife, Dorothy, Henry, Elizabeth, and Thomas had arrived at Kimbolton to inform her of her husband’s death, and to escort her to Whitehall.
Jane seethed, furious at what she saw as thievery of her son’s rightful position as his father’s successor. “My husband is not even buried, and that wretched falcon and his pet corvid is already swooping in like birds of prey, making sure that his sister’s bastard displaces his trueborn brother,” she snarled, her handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand, her tears were kept at bay by her outrage.
“We won’t let him get away with it, Janey,” Thomas assured her, patting her shoulder gently. “We will raise an army to knock that brat of his throne. Perhaps we will lob his head off along with his wretched family. Marry the little bitch---”
“WILL YOU SHUT UP BEFORE YOU GET US ALL KILLED!” Ann Seymour roared, her eyes wide in disbelief at her brother-in-law’s stupidity.
The Earl of Hertford gave his wife a warning look. “As will you if you don’t keep your voice down,” he admonished her.
“My apologies husband,” Ann said, shaking her heard. “I forgot myself for a moment.”
“Understandable,” Edward replied, throwing his brother a disgusted expression, addressing him with his next words. “Jane’s household is full of spies. Loyal to either Boleyn or Cromwell. So kindly try not to say anything treasonous that will get us all killed.”
“Treasonous?” Jane repeated, anger flaring up in her. “Anne Boleyn’s marriage to King Henry was not a true one. Everyone knows that. The people of England want Edward as their king!”
“Do they?” Edward challenged tonelessly. “Then why dear sister, have they not risen up in his name?”
“If we declare Edward the true ruler of England, the lords and knights of this realm would come flocking to our side,” Thomas speculated.
Edward and Ann stared at him as though he was a particularly annoying fly, they would love nothing more to swat away.
“Are you sure of that?” the oldest Seymour brother demanded. “Can you be sure that if we declare Edward king, that we will win the fight that comes afterwards? I am not going to risk my head on a war that we might not win.”
“Then you are a coward,” Thomas sneered.
The Earl of Hertford’s eyes flashed. “No, brother, I am a realist,” he contradicted. “I will not start a war unless I am sure I can win. After all, the last lord who might have supported Edward’s claim was executed. Now who do we have on our side?”
His piercing gaze shifted between his siblings, daring them to speak up.
“Princess Mary will back us,” Jane declared, sticking out her chin defiantly. “She would never support a son born during the time her mother was alive.” She was aware that Mary loved her siblings despite their mother, but her stepdaughter knew that her father’s third marriage was legitimate in the eyes of God and the church.
“Oh really? Has she told you that?” Ann drawled, rolling her eyes. “When was the last time she even wrote to you? She is not going to stick her neck out for you, not when she and her daughters could get in trouble for it.”
“Brother, you should teach your wife her place,” growled Thomas, glaring daggers at Ann. “She grows too bold much like her predecessor.”
Edward put a restrictive hand on his wife’s arm as she moved towards the youngest brother, looking ready to slap him. “Pay him no mind,” he commanded before turning his gaze back to his siblings. “Listen to me well. I will not allow you to destroy all I have built, putting our family in danger just for the sake of pride.”
Worse, her middle brother, and her two sisters agreed with him. Only Thomas was on Jane’s side, believing that they should right against the unjustness accession of the so-called King Ambrose.
Unfortunately, Edward was right about one thing, Jane had no idea who their allies were, and she feared what might happen if they trusted someone, only to find out they were spies for the Lord Protector.
All her thoughts were banished the moment she strode into the Great Hall, and she saw the most wonderful sight: her children.
“Mama!” Maggie cried, trying to escape her governess so she could run to her mother.
Her precocious boy’s reaction was more subdued, bowing as he spoke. “My lady mother, I am glad to see you,” he greeted her formally, although there was great affection in his eyes.
“My sweet little ones, I missed you so much,” Jane gushed, not caring about the room full of people as she bent down to embrace both of them, kissing the tops of their heads. “Are you well, my loves?”
Maggie nodded enthusiastically while Edward’s face crumpled a little, thinking of his father’s death.
Jane gave him a sympathetic look before getting up, and making her way to the dais, knowing what she had to do if she wished she remain close to her beloved children.
The new King Ambrose was dressed in purple doublet, his father’s rings on his fingers and a golden crown on his head. He sat up straight on his throne, determined to have the appearance of a man rather than a child. He regarded her with bright blue eyes that seemed to freeze into ice.
The Dowager Queen fell into a deep curtsy, not getting up until he bid her to rise.
“My lady Stepmother, I am most happy to see you again,” Ambrose proclaimed, in chilly tone. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.”
“My heart breaks that I could not be at my husband’s side as he suffered,” Jane despaired, pressing her hand on her chest. “I hope that I will be able to comfort our children in this terrible time.”
Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see George Boleyn cough into his hands as if he were disguising a laugh. Her brother had told her of his shameful refusal to allow her to live at Havering Palace, wanting to keep her distant from Edward and Margery.
She would speak to her son, convince him to persuade Ambrose to order that she get her due as the widow of the English monarch.
“Welcome back to court, dearest Stepmother,” Ambrose addressed her, waving his hand, signaling that she could now mingle with the throng of courtiers.
As Jane walked back to her children, she spotted Princess Mary standing in-between Princess Elizabeth and Lady Catherine Parr, her husband’s former mistress. It galled her to see that woman standing there, acting like she had done nothing wrong. If it weren’t for her, King Henry wouldn’t have kept her from her children for two years.
The Duchess of Bedford did not look away or even have the decency to act ashamed. Instead, she made a shallow curtsy and then dared to smile at Edward and Margery as if they would ever be friendly to the likes of her.
Jane put a protective arm around Edward, and steered him away from the slut, deciding to speak to Princess Mary later when she was not in the midst of such horrid company.
With Lady Troy and Maggie following close behind, Jane searched the crowd for friendly faces. It seemed the most people were so afraid of the Boleyn regime that they couldn’t even meet her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Frances Brandon requested, causing Jane to come to a stop. “My daughter would like to introduce herself, if that pleases you.”
The widowed queen smiled at the young woman, daughter of the poor martyred Duke of Suffolk. From what she heard, after Brandon’s death, neither his daughters nor his wife dared to set foot at court.
“Of course, you may,” assented Jane, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of the little girl peeking out from behind her mother’s dress.
The little girl had reddish hair and warm brown eyes. She was small for her age, her eyebrows were arched, and her plump mouth seemed tiny under her long nose. Her mother pushed her forwards, giving her an encouraging look.
“I’m Lady Jane Grey,” she announced in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Jane cooed, bending down, and pushing her equally shy son forward. “Isn’t it, Edward?”
The Duke of York kept his eyes on the floor. “Yes, it is,” he mumbled. “Your dress is very pretty,” he added, his cheeks growing a little red.
The ten-year-old girl giggled, clearly delighted with the compliment. This seemed to break the ice, and soon they were talking animatedly.
Frances and Jane shared a chuckle before returning their gazes back at their children.
Lady Jane is a darling girl, and perhaps she would make a fine queen, Jane noted with a smile.
King Henry’s funeral would happen in three days, and there was still much to be done. Therefore, Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, was still in his office, glancing over his papers when Northumberland, Somerset and Kent came in.
“My Lords,” Essex greeted the three dukes, dipping his knees three times. “What may I do for you?”
“Has your son’s wife reported anything about the Seymours?” George demanded without so much as a good day. It was clear by his expression that the dowager queen had done something to anger him.
“Nothing other than what happened in Kimbolton,” Cromwell answered.
“Speaking of which, I still don’t understand why we haven’t thrown them into prison for talking about such treason,” grumbled George.
“Because as the Earl of Hertford pointed out, they have no allies,” Cromwell observed. “Something that could change, and we must stay aware of it.”
“It might change if you keep forgetting my wife, the Duke of York and the little princess exist,” opined Philip in an almost mocking voice.
The Lord Protector glared back, but he didn’t argue. After all, it was loudly pointed out by his wife, that maybe baiting Edward Seymour was not a good idea. And did it occur to him that if people thought he was mistreating a widow by separating her from her children, they might start grumbling about him enough to riot.
Northumberland cleared his throat. “I think we should stay on topic unless you have something to confess,” he remarked, his gaze flickering to Philip in annoyance.
“We are loyal no matter how many times we are snubbed,” Somerset verified, conviction in his voice.
George threw up his hands. “Oh, for God’s sake, so I forget to send a message! I had other things on my mind!” he exclaimed.
Dudley and Cromwell exchanged an exasperated look. “I think perhaps we should return to the topic at hand,” Northumberland suggested, rubbing his temples.
“That would be best,” Cromwell agreed. “We will keep an eye on the Seymours. Watch them if anything changes. Northumberland, does Hertford still agree to the marriage between your son and his daughter?”
“Most readily,” Northumberland assured him. “Robert has sent me letters of all Prince Edward has said about his mother and uncles.”
“And what of Frances Brandon?” Philip inquired. “Should we be keeping an eye on her? She did like quite eager to push her daughter in front of the Duke of York.”
“I suspect the Marquess of Dorset is only looking for an advantageous marriage for her eldest daughter,” George clarified. “If Ambrose weren’t already engaged, I have no doubt she would be pushing the Lady Jane towards him instead.”
“Speaking of which,” Cromwell announced, lifting a piece of parchment up with a flourish. “A letter from the Holy Roman Emperor. He writes of his sorrow that King Henry has died. He also confirms the betrothal of his daughter, Joanna and King Ambrose.”
Even George who didn’t like the monarch of Spain as he had slandered Anne for many years, was quite relieved by the news.
There had been much speculation that Emperor Charles would break the contract, spurring the boy whose mother had caused so much pain to his aunt, marrying his daughter to her Portuguese cousin instead.
There was something ironic that in a few years’ time, England would have a Spanish queen, one who would hopefully fare better than her great-aunt. God willing.
King Henry’s time is truly over, Cromwell mused as they continued discussing the foreign affairs. Long live King Ambrose, long may he reign.
Notes:
George is riding high on the whole I am powerful and mighty thing, and has already annoyed a few people.
Watch Lady Jane Grey for she is going to be very important.
Chapter 22: Acts of Agression
Summary:
Ambrose deals first his first minor scandal and his first big argument with his uncle. Annie Stafford suffers another loss.
Notes:
I wanted to make this chapter longer, but for some reason, I just felt like the scene I wanted to write was better in the next chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
April 23, 1547
Everyone wanted to believe that their king was eternal; but the truth was less poetic. Great monarchs, chosen by divine will, were mortals like the rest of them. King Henry was dead, and his French counterpart had followed him to the grave, two months later.
Despite not having the history with England as his father did, although some might count that as a good thing, King Henri was just as eager as the late François to see his daughter, the Princess Elisabeth as the Queen of England or failing that, to have a marriage between Princess Margaret and his second son.
“He offers us a babe not born when his heir is the same age as the princess,” Sir William Herbert scoffed, sniffing haughtily. “He wishes to make his own daughter a queen but refuses to do the same for us.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Cromwell drawled. “Prince François is betrothed to the Scottish Queen, and that makes me think it would be prudent to accept the second offer so we can make peace with France.”
“You think the girl is a threat?” George questioned, scratching his bread in thought.
The Act of Succession had put Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen of France’s issue before her older sister, Queen Margaret of Scotland’s descendants to avoid having a foreign heir on the throne. Legally speaking, the child Queen of Scots had eleven people in front of her before she could be considered a claimant for England.
“With French backing, she just might be,” Cromwell informed him, schooling his features into a stoic mask. However, there was a glimmer of unease in his eyes, betraying his true thoughts.
Although, the pope had yet to excommunicate the new King Ambrose, it was only a matter of time before he did so, allowing Scotland to have an excuse to invade. France would jump at the chance to put a half-French ruler on the English throne. Nonetheless, by that same token, the Holy Roman Emperor might try the same with his cousins, Princess Mary, and her daughters.
“I do not think we should rile ourselves up with speculation,” George decided, resisting the urge to lean back in his chair and prop his feet up on the table. “If France wishes to extend the hand of friendship, we should accept it. However, I think it would be best not to make a treaty until the new French queen has birthed a second son before agreeing to a match for the Princess Margaret.”
In truth, George wasn’t sure he felt comfortable marrying Jane Seymour’s daughter to a Catholic prince or really anyone who might be a threat to Ambrose’s rule. King Henry had chosen his daughter’s husband from the Protestant dukes of Germany to avoid any powerful and greedy man who might use Mary’s claim to steal her brother’s throne.
Regardless, the Duke of Kent did not want it to seem like he was purposely consigning the young girl to spinsterhood. “In fact, it might be prudent to look elsewhere for a bridegroom. King Gustav has yet to find a future wife for his son and heir,” George suggested. “Not to mention, Prince Fredrick of Denmark has younger brothers.”
“King John of Portugal is also looking for a bride for his son,” Edward put in, almost casually, making the Lord Protector want to punch him.
On the heels of the confirmation of the betrothal agreement between the Princess Joanna and King Ambrose, were rumors that King John was strongly protesting the notion that his son would be marrying one of Archduke Ferdinand’s daughters rather than the daughter of Emperor Charles, feeling slighted by getting a lesser princess for his son.
The worst part was Ambrose’s reaction to the rumors, believing that this was pretext to him being jilted for the Portuguese Prince.
“I never wanted to marry that Spanish cow anyway,” he had snarled. At first, George had been desperately trying to contain his laughter. Then he saw the Imperial Ambassador’s scandalized face, and it became not so funny.
If it were not for the Earl of Essex’s silver tongue, my nephew would be without a bride, George mused in annoyance.
Thankfully, François van der Delft accepted that this was just an outburst of a young, inexperienced boy who had spoken without thought. His master seemed to agree with him after George forced his nephew to make a public apology.
“Apologize for what?!” Ambrose demanded angrily. “They seek to make a fool out of me. I have heard how the French Admiral dared to act when he dangled the possibility of a marriage between Elizabeth and that late fop, Prince Charles. He acted rudely, insulting England at every turn, before rejecting the match, spitting on my late parents’ hospitality.”
“Do you know what the difference is?” George questioned rhetorically. “Your parents had the brains not to insult King François’ son in the earshot of his envoy!”
“Mark my words, Uncle, Emperor Charles will not allow me to marry his daughter,” declared Ambrose, a scowl on his face that made him look like his father. “Everyone knows how he feels about me and my mother.”
George loomed over his nephew, his eyes flashing dangerously. Later he would realize that he had been emulating Thomas Boleyn and proceed to get very dunk. But at the moment, he was too angry to care.
“You are twelve-years-old; you do not get to tell me what will or will not happen. Everyone knows that Emperor Charles supported his aunt's cause, seeing your mother, as nothing more than a concubine. For him to even suggest a marriage between you and his daughter is a sign that he has accepted her, and this is not something he would do lightly,” he boomed. “He will not try to put any nephews that the Princess Mary births on the throne while his daughter sits there. Therefore, it is in everyone’s best interest that you stop acting like a brat!”
The boy king practically shrank underneath his usually easygoing uncle’s furious expression. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he stammered, trying very hard to look defiant.
“If it stops you from acting like a petulant child, you will be lucky if talking to you is all I do,” George threatened, bringing his hand up and laying it down hard on Ambrose’s shoulder, causing the boy to wince. “If you want to be treated as a king should, then you better start acting like one.”
Ambrose nodded. “Yes, Uncle,” he acquiesced meekly.
“That is true, Hertford,” the Duke of Kent confirmed, trying not to grit his teeth as he met the other man’s gaze. “Your niece has many choices, and we must think long and hard on the best groom for her.”
“And what of my nephew?” Edward asked, a ghost of a smirk upon his face. “After all, I would think as King Ambrose’s heir, it might be best to make sure that he has spares, just in case.”
I wonder if his eyes would pop out of his head if I strangled him, mused George savagely, and that image alone was enough for him to smile pleasantly at the other man as he replied: “I think it would be in our best interest to hold off on finding a bride for the Duke of York until His Majesty has an heir in the nursery.”
The Earl of Hertford did not look happy, but he nodded, willing to let the matter drop for the time being.
“As for Princess Elizabeth, she will be sent to Denmark in three years,” George proclaimed, a smile tugging at his lips as he thought of his niece who was becoming lovelier with every passing day. She was a true credit to her mother.
She would make a fine Queen of Denmark and Norway, just like Ambrose would learn to be a great ruler of England. One who hopefully didn’t open his mouth quite as much.
King Ambrose was currently outside on the great lawn, savagely attacking a training dummy with his sword. His grooms and companions were watching him in silence, not daring to say a word while he was in such a bad mood.
“It could not be move obvious that Spain is just toying with us,” Ambrose ranted under his breath. “Everyone knows that the Holy Roman Emperor sees me as a bastard. He and his ambassador are probably laughing at how I was forced to humiliate myself. They will drag this out as long as they can before marrying that girl to Portugal, leaving England in the lurch.”
Suddenly something brown and wet was flung at the boy-king’s face. Ambrose almost dropped his sword in surprise, spinning around just in time to reactive another face full of what he hoped to be mud.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, wiping the mud out of his eyes.
His grooms and companions’ gazes darted between Ambrose and Guildford, unsure whether they should intervene or not. On one hand, the youngest Dudley boy was technically assaulting their master, but on the other hand, Guildford was not the type to just attack his friend let alone his king, and if Ambrose wasn’t commanding them to stop the boy, then he might not want them to intercede.
“Whenever I was in a foul mood, my brothers would throw mud at me,” Guildford replied, reaching down to grab another handful of mud. “Then I would attack them and let out all my anger and aggression on them.”
“Were you holding a blade when they did this?” Ambrose deadpanned, glaring at the boy.
“I think you’ll feel better if you use your fists,” Guildford answered, flinging more mud in Ambrose’s direction. This time the ruler ducked. “Granted, I would prefer not to be stabbed, but I do think throwing a punch is far better than simply skewering someone.”
“Barnaby,” Ambrose barked, dropping his sword on the ground before he began removing his rings and the locket containing a picture of his mother, he wore around his neck.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Barnaby Fitzpatrick responded meekly, as he took a few steps forward.
“Hold my things,” he commanded, handing the boy his jewelry before stomping over to Guildford. He curled his hands into fists, got into the proper stance and punched Guildford in the face.
To the other boy’s credit, he only flinched slightly, but managed to keep his balance. He then threw a jab of his own. Soon they were in full out brawl. By the end of it, both boys were covered with mud and dirt, panting as they caught their breath as they lay on the ground.
“Feel better?” Guildford asked as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“No,” Ambrose snapped, keeping his voice low so the others could not hear him. “I am sick of being treated like a child. I am the king now so why is everyone treating me like they know better than I do?”
“Because they do,” Guildford retorted bluntly. “Look, Ambrose, my father said it best. If Emperor Charles didn’t want to marry his daughter to you, he would have just said so instead of stringing us along. He doesn’t have anything to gain by pretending to go through with it.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Ambrose muttered, still looking unconvinced.
“I think we should go inside and get you boys cleaned up,” Sir Richard Page suggested, signaling for two sentries to help them up.
“Besides, you know if the Duke of Kent is yelling at you, then you must be doing something wrong,” Guildford continued as the group began to make their way back into the castle. “Him yelling is like if Robin stopped making jokes or if—”
“Or if you started acting levelheaded,” interjected Ambrose as they walked through the corridors, ignoring the stares of the courtiers and the servants alike.
“Yes, and I don’t like it,” Guildford declared, wrinkling his nose. “So please stop acting like such a grouch so I can go back to being the hothead.”
This got a genuine laugh out of Ambrose.
They were halfway to the King’s apartments when a little blur nearly knocked over Sir Page.
“Katie, Mama told you not to run!” Lady Jane Grey scolded her sister, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her backwards. Her eyes widened when she realized just who she and her sister had bumped into. “I am so sorry, Your Majesty, we weren’t paying attention to where we were going,” she apologized as she curtsied, her sister copying her a moment later.
“It is quite all right, little cousins,” Ambrose assured, managing to smile kindly. “Where were you off to in such a hurry?”
“Oh, we were---you’re bleeding!” Jane cut herself off with a gasp as she caught sight Guildford’s appearance.
Ambrose’s scrutiny flew to his friend and saw that there was a trickle of blood from his nose, dripping off his chin.
“I’m fine,” Guildford said firmly, rubbing his face with his sleeve. “It will stop soon.”
“Should we fetch Dr. Wendy? Is it broken?” Ambrose quizzed with concern.
“You didn’t hit me that hard, Amby,” Guildford protested, the dirt on his cheeks were unable to hide the faint reddening of his skin.
“You two were fighting!” Katherine Grey exclaimed, sounding scandalized.
“Just a friendly spar between friends,” Ambrose explained gently before speaking to Henry Radcliffe. “Go fetch Wendy and tell him, I need to see him at once.
“I am fine,” repeated the teenager, growing annoyed as he placed a hand over his nose as if he hoped to shield it from everyone’s prying eyes.
“Here, use this in the meantime,” Jane Grey offered, pulling her handkerchief from her sleeves, and holding it out.
“I thank you, kind lady, but I would hate to besmirch such a pretty thing with my grime,” Guildford rejected, his voice surprisingly tender.
“Don’t you know, it is rude to refuse to take a lady’s favor?” Jane countered with uncharacteristic boldness.
Guildford stared at the young girl in surprise, but he took the handkerchief from her, holding it to his nose.
“Now say thank you,” Jane commanded, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.
“Thank you,” Guildford recited, his expression petulant and yet there was something soft in his eyes.
“Do you think you could stay and convince him to let the physician check his nose?” Ambrose requested, bemused at how this girl seemed to have wrapped the usually stubborn Guildford around her finger.
This broke the trance Guildford seemed to be under and his head whirled around to fix Ambrose with a poisonous glare. “I do not need a doctor. I am fine,” he growled.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, Lord Guildford,” Jane interrupted before an argument could break out. “But our mother is probably wondering where we are. She will be very upset when she learns we have been wondering around without any chaperones.”
“Well in that case, I shall have one of my guards accompany you to your apartments,” Ambrose decided, giving them a dazzling smile. “Lovely ladies such as yourself should never be alone.”
“We’re not alone, we have each other,” Katherine Grey pointed out, getting an elbow to her ribs from her sister.
“We thank you for your kind gesture and your compliment,” Jane said gratefully, curtsying again.
“Walter, if you would see to it that my dear cousins are brought to their rooms safely,” Ambrose commanded one of his guards. He then took Jane’s hand, kissing the back of it before the same to Katherine, causing both girls to giggle and blush. “I hope we shall meet again.”
Sir Walter led the two girls in the opposite direction of where they came. Once they were out of earshot, Ambrose turned to grin at Guildford.
“They were nice, weren’t they?”
Guildford’s response was to take some mud that had stuck onto his shirt and flicked it in Ambrose’s general direction.
Hours later, after the boys were cleaned up and the physician had made sure that neither of them had any injuries, King Ambrose decided he should go talk to his uncle. Ever since their argument, they had been avoiding each other for the past two days.
Thankfully, George Boleyn was in his chambers when Ambrose decided to pay him a visit. Granted as the monarch, he could have summoned the Lord Protector for an audience, but he thought it would make him seem more contrite if he called on his uncle instead of ordering him to come to him.
The Duke of Kent was sitting at his desk, reading a book. He did not rise to greet Ambrose or even acknowledge that he was there, causing Sir Page to bristle in outrage and clear his throat meaningfully.
“Thank you, Sir Richard, I can take it from here,” Ambrose dismissed him with a wave of his hands. His chamberlain nodded stiffly before vacating the room.
George just turned a page nonchalantly, still pretending he was all alone.
“You know I am the king,” Ambrose grumbled. “I do deserve a little respect.”
“When you act like a king, I will treat you like a king,” replied George as he kept his gaze glued to book.
“And how do I do that? Do everything you tell me?” Ambrose queried hotly.
The Duke of Kent slammed his book closed and jumped up from his seat, jabbing a finger at his nephew. “A good ruler listens to his advisors,” he lectured. “More importantly, they do not insult the Emperor’s daughter in front of the imperial envoy. Not to mention making such a petty statement just because you felt jilted should be beneath you. You are twelve, not five. Although even a five-year-old would have the decency to whisper!”
“All right, I admit that maybe I overreacted, and shouldn’t have spoken so rudely,” Ambrose confessed. “But that still doesn’t give you the right to treat me like I am some erring servant.”
“Do you think I liked it?” George asked angrily. “I sounded like my father. I do not want to be like my father. But I will do it if it prevents you from being so stupid.”
“I am not stupid!” Ambrose shouted, his temper spiking.
“You called your fiancée a cow publicly! That is the definition of stupid!” George retorted.
“I wanted her to know that I don’t care if she marries that stupid cousin of hers,” Ambrose spat.
George had a nonplussed expression on his face. “I am sure that the Infanta Joanna is devastated to know that she is being insulted and blamed for something she had absolutely no control over,” he drawled sarcastically.
The red-haired boy scowled, stamping down the little voice in his head that conceded his uncle’s point. Even if the Holy Roman Emperor wanted his daughter to marry Prince João Manuel, Infanta Joanna had no say in the matter.
But Ambrose was certain the Spanish princess he only knew from the polite, yet short letters they exchanged had no wish to marry him. He had tried writing to her like Prince Fredrick wrote to Elizabeth, friendly and open, only to receive no warmth in return.
Mother would have understood, the young ruler thought bitterly, she knows how the Spanish are. She always was brave enough to let her opinion about their double dealings known. She would have probably agreed with me.
“I wish my mother was here instead of you,” Ambrose bit out through clenched teeth, turning his back on his uncle.
He expected the Duke of Kent to shout at him or admonish him for his cruel words.
“So do I,” George Boleyn confessed, his voice no louder than a whisper. “But she is not. She’s dead. I am all that is left, and I will make damned sure that you grow into the role of a wise and just king.”
“Because I am her son,” Ambrose guessed.
George walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “No, because you are my nephew and I want to see you succeed.”
The boy span around and hugged his uncle around the middle, burying his face in the older man’s doublet.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
His uncle ruffled his hair. “I know you are.”
April 30, 1547
When her father had first married Dorothy Stafford, Annie had been weary, fearing that she might not have a good relationship with her father’s new wife.
Dorothy had proven her fears unwarranted by embracing the girl into a warm hug, telling her how beautiful she was, promising that she wasn’t here to replace her mother, and she hoped they could be friends.
Today, Annie was glad for Dorothy’s compassion as she was not sure she would have been able to keep a brace face for her father without her stepmother’s hand holding hers as they buried the coffin of the Viscount of Bidon.
Her father stood a few feet in front of them with the priest as the man said grace over the grave.
“It is not fair. He was too young,” Annie wept, dabbing her wet eyes with her handkerchief.
Her stepmother was a stout woman with dark auburn hair and warm chestnut eyes, which were misty with sympathy and grief. She wrapped her arm around Annie’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head.
“I know, sweetheart,” she murmured. “He was such a darling boy that the Lord Almighty felt he was better suited among the angels.”
“He is eternal,” protested the teenage girl, hating how childish she sounded. Nonetheless she was unable to stop moaning about the unfairness of it all. “He could have waited until Neddie was older than Papa.”
“God has His reasons for all that he does,” Dorothy crooned, bringing her into a tight embrace, practically engulfing her in a sea of black fabric. “We can never hope to understand His will, only take comfort knowing that He loves all His children especially ones like your sweet brother.”
Annie closed her eyes for a moment, trying to get her ragged breathing under control, while Dorothy rubbed soothing circles on her back, whispering comforting words about angels and dead family members.
“Do I have to go to Denmark?” Annie blurted out, wanting to kick herself the moment those foolish words left her lips. She was a girl of thirteen, almost a woman grown. She was not a baby who cried the minute she left her parents’ side.
Dorothy shifted, licking her lips, trying to speak delicately. Thankfully, she was saved when her husband had finished speaking to the priest and was now making his way to them.
When the Earl of Buckingham reached them, she repeated her stepdaughter’s words.
“Is that true, sweetheart?” William Stafford asked kindly, crouching down so he could be eye-level with his daughter as his wife spun her, still keeping her hands on her shoulders. “Do you not want to go to Denmark?”
Annie averted her eyes, shrugging, biting her lip in an effort not to burst into tears.
William grasped her chin, pulling her face towards him. “If you want to stay in England, then I shall petition the princess to make sure you stay with us,” he assured her, patting her hand.
Although this made Annie’ heart soar, she could sense her father had more to say on the matter. “But?” she prompted tentatively.
“There is no but,” her father stated soothingly. “Only that your mother wanted you to accompany Princess Elizabeth to Denmark to take care of her.”
Annie’s face scrunched up like she was wondering if her father had gotten muddled and was referring to another Princess Elizabeth. “Bess doesn’t need anyone. She is the smartest, most talented person I know.”
William chuckled fondly at his daughter’s loyalty to her cousin. “She is highly intelligent and adept for her age. Nonetheless, she, just like most people, needs a member of her family by her side as she navigates a foreign court,” he opined. “She will be surrounded by many ladies, none more important to her than you.”
“Oh,” was all she could say to that, sagging slightly at the idea that Elizabeth, a girl she saw as a sister, would be so far away. They had not been apart since the princess had turned six.
“My darling girl, if you really don’t want to go to Denmark,” William began, embracing her. “then you don’t have to. No one will force you.”
“Elizabeth would understand if you wanted to stay with us,” Dorothy chimed in, having met Elizabeth many times and had always found the girl to the epitome of kindness and warmth.
“But I don’t want to leave her,” Annie decided, shaking her head. However, she still felt conflicted, not wanting to be away from her father for with the death of her mother and brother, they only had each other.
“Why don’t you take a few days to think it over?” William suggested, patting her head as he took a step back, letting go of her.
“Yes, Papa,” Annie agreed, taking the hands of both her stepmother and father as the priest said a final prayer for her little brother.
She hoped Neddie was happy with their mother and their Aunt Anne even though she would have preferred him to be here with her.
Notes:
I know what you guys are thinking. Why didn't I have Elizabeth or Mary yell at Ambrose. The answer is simple, they weren't at court at the time, if they were, they would be having some choice words for their brother especially Mary. I just want to focus a little bit on Ambrose' relationship with George.
What did you guys think of the second appearance of Lady Jane Grey? She is going to be very important.
Chapter 23: Seasons of Love
Summary:
In which, Annie tries to be a good cousin, Philip and Mary are precious, Catherine Parr is a fairy godmother, Ambrose continues to complain, George spends time with his family and Thomas Seymour is a creep.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 8, 1547
“Are you upset?” Annie asked, gazing up at her cousin with eyes as big as a puppy who had just been scolded for chewing up its master’s slippers.
She, Elizabeth, and the other young ladies of the princess’ household were sitting in a spacious room with dark green curtains that seemed to float as a nice cool spring breeze came through the open windows. They sat in a circle, practicing their sewing under the watchful eyes of Lady Kat Ashley.
Elizabeth sighed, smoothing out her favorite red velvet dress with a gold trim, exchanging an exasperated look with Kat. “Of course, I’m not mad,” she affirmed. “If you want to stay in England then you should stay in England.”
“But I don’t want to abandon you,” Annie said softly.
The princess couldn’t help but snort at that. “Oh goodness, Annie, don’t be so dramatic,” she admonished her playfully, placing her hand on her younger cousin’s arm. “You are not abandoning me. Besides, you could always come with me for a few years and then just go home with the rest of my English ladies.”
“I think I would miss England too much,” the younger girl admitted. She winced, realizing that Elizabeth would miss their home too. However, unlike Annie, she would have no choice but to stay in Denmark with her new husband.
“I’ll be fine, sweet Annie,” Elizabeth promised, giving her a one-armed hug. “You don’t have to feel guilty about staying.”
“Are you sure?”
Elizabeth took a death breath, getting a bit annoyed at Annie’s instance. “I’m sure,” she said firmly. She then sniffed and spoke in a haughty tone: “Quite frankly, Lady Stafford, I am appalled that you think that I won’t have charmed the entire Danish court within hours of being there, having mastered everything.”
“Hours?” Annie repeated, a mock-shocked expression. “They would be fools not to love you within minutes of meeting you.”
Both girls dissolved into laughter.
Once they had composed themselves, Kat Ashley spoke up: “If it puts you at ease, my lady, John and I shall stay with the princess for as long as His Majesty King Christian allows us to remain at his court.”
“Additionally, sweet cousin, I will not be leaving for three years,” Elizabeth reminded her. “Plenty of time for you to change your mind.”
“So, you are not mad?” the blonde-haired girl inquired.
Elizabeth bit her lip, trying to ignore the urge to face palm. “I am not mad,” she reiterated, shooting the younger girl a glare when she opened her mouth. “But I will be if you keep asking me.”
Annie’s face turned red as her gaze slid down to her needlework.
Not wanting her cousin to think she was truly upset, Elizabeth playfully bumped shoulders with her.
May 21, 1547
The sight of Hever Castle never failed to bring up bittersweet memories. Even the sight of the ivy clinging to the dusty brown stone, caused him to recall the time when he had dared his sisters to climb it.
“Your dessert is not worth a broken bone,” Anne had informed him. “But if you are so brave, why don’t you give it a try.”
While George had been willing to tease his sisters for being too scared to do it, he was not willing to risk his own neck. In the end, they just played elsewhere.
In the present, the Duke of Kent rode his horse up to the steps, getting off, patting his mount on the neck before handing its reins to his master of the horse.
He then hurried inside the castle where his wife, children and wards were waiting for him.
“Papa,” little Anne cried joyously, running towards her father as he bent down, extending his arms so he could envelop her in a big hug.
“Oh, my dearest Anne, you grow more beautiful by the day,” George complimented, holding her at arm’s length, studying her with a melancholy smile as he noted how severely she resembled her aunt.
His daughter giggled at his remark before kissing his cheek. “We all missed you very much.”
“I have missed you as well, my precious,” George said sweetly. “I am so sorry for missing your birthday.”
He had arranged a week off so he could spend the twins’ birthday in the country, but matters needing his attention had come up, forcing him to delay his trip.
As George greeted Jane, Henry Brandon, and Thomas Howard, he noticed that James was not there.
“I am afraid that James refused to come downstairs, my lord,” Jane stated in a disproving tone. One that George doubted was directed at their son.
The Duke of Kent made his way up the stairs and towards his son’s room, trying to think of what to say. If he had refused to greet his father over a missed birthday, the late Thomas Boleyn would have given him an earful over being a rude brat and made it clear that until he acted with more respect, he would stay in his room with no supper.
James was at his desk, writing something. He did not look up from his work when his father entered. He gave no indication that he realized that he was no longer alone, other than a slight tensing of his shoulders.
“James, I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” George began, as he closed the door behind him.
“Did you? I didn’t even notice,” the eleven-year-old Earl of Wiltshire sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I would never have spoken to my father like that, George mused. However, the resentment felt far too familiar for him to scold the boy for his rudeness.
“James, I am Lord Protector now, I have responsibilities,” the duke argued, striding over to James’ bed, and sitting down on it. “I don’t like having to miss important events in your sister and your lives, but sometimes I will have to.”
“You always had responsibilities that meant more to you than I do,” snapped James, still not looking at his father. He was now staring at a spot in the wall, trying to concentrate on it “If Ambrose needed you, you would be there within seconds. He always comes first over everyone else.”
George opened his mouth and closed it, a loss for words. He had no idea that James felt that way. Did Anne feel he favored Ambrose over her too?
Why would she when you dote on her, acting as though she is your sister come again? A traitorous voice replied.
“What can I do to make this better?” George asked.
“I don’t know,” James muttered, sagging in the chair. “I get you have an important job to do, but sometimes I think you would rather be a father to Ambrose than to me.”
George heaved a sigh, getting up and walking over to his son, placing his hand on his shoulder. “James, you are my son. I would never change that for the world. I asked for an entire week so I could spend it with you and your sister because I wanted to spend time with you both without the trapping of the court getting in the way.”
“Can it be longer?” inquired James hopefully, meeting his father’s gaze, his eyes pleading.
“Well, I did miss your birthday, so I suppose it would only be right if we added an extra few days,” George decided, rubbing his chin.
Cromwell and Northumberland can take care of things during my absence, he thought.
James beamed at him, hugging him tightly. George ruffled his son’s hair, thinking that the court wouldn’t fall apart if he were gone a fortnight.
“Why don’t you go get your sister, Henry and Thomas and we can go riding together,” he suggested.
The young earl nodded eagerly before rising from his chair and dashing off, almost running into his mother as she entered.
“I see you managed to fix things,” Jane observed, her eyes flying from James to her husband.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” George complained, but there was no bite to his bark. He then frowned. “I think I fixed it for now. How long has he been resentful of Ambrose?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s resentful. Just jealous,” corrected Jane. “I think the missed birthday just made his feelings bubble up to the surface. It doesn’t help that the matter you had to deal with wasn’t life or death and could have been taken care of by the Earl of Essex.”
George’s features changed into a pout. “I will not apologize for doing my job,” he declared.
“I never said you should,” his wife replied, a delicate eyebrow raised before she turned to leave.
“Wait Jane,” George called, stepping forward. He swallowed thickly when she turned back. “I love you.”
Jane’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you want?” she questioned, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Nothing,” he protested, half outraged that was how she responded. He then rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “I just realized I never said that to you before, so I wanted to make sure you knew that. I mean in the start of our marriage; I was awful to you, and we used to fight all the time and---“
Jane cut off his ramblings by leaning in and kissing him. “I love you too, you silly, silly man.”
“Insufferable woman,” George shot back before pressing his mouth on hers again.
June 12, 1547
“Catherine, tell my husband that I am a grown woman, and he does not need to act like a mother hen,” Mary implored as she rubbed her belly, shooting the man in question an annoyed look.
“Catherine, tell my wife that I am simply trying to make sure she is comfortable as she appears to be melting,” Philip retorted. Had he not possessed an ounce of decorum, he might have stuck his tongue out at her.
The Duchess of Bedford could hardly contain her amusement. She had arrived at Hudson the previous day to spend time with Mary and her family, having to come to love them as if they were her own relatives.
The adults were currently sitting outside on the patio, enjoying a light midday meal when Philip noticed his wife was shifting uncomfortable in her chair, fanning herself repeatedly.
“Oh, I beg of you, do not stick me in the middle of this quarrel,” Catherine pleaded, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Although, I must admit, Mary, you do seem a little warm. Perhaps, it is getting too hot.”
The Duchess of Somerset’s normally pale complexion was turning red, her brow damp with sweat. As her husband pointed out, she almost seemed to be melting in her black gown with a gold demask that had extra panels of fabric to accommodate her swollen abdomen.
“Traitor,” the princess groaned as Philip let out a bark of laughter which he quickly turned into a hacking cough when his wife’s icy glare veered towards him. She then sighed, using her handkerchief to mop her sweaty forehead. “If it will make you both feel better, I will retire even though I am perfectly well.”
Philip pushed his chair backwards, the wicker legs scraping against the stone as it moved, so he could get up and help his wife out of her seat. Catherine rose as well, hoping Mary would not mind if she came along.
Upon being helped up, Mary linked arms with Catherine, with Philip dutifully on her other side as they began to walk inside the manor, leaving the maids to clean up the remains of their meal.
“I must be carrying a son,” the princess quipped dryly. “For my girls did not give me as much grief as this little troublemaker.”
“You should feel the power of his kicks. We have a soldier in the making,” proclaimed Philip, his eyes gleaming with pride.
“If only he would choose a different enemy than his mother,” Mary groused, patting her belly as if she were assuring the babe inside that she was only jesting and not truly upset at his kicking. “But I know it will be worth it when little Philip arrives.”
“As much as that name pleases me, sweetheart, whatever shall we do if the babe is a girl?” her husband questioned playfully.
“Perhaps Joan after England’s future queen,” Mary suggested, chewing her lip in thought. “Or Margaret so dear Maggie doesn’t feel left out.”
Not Jane or Anne though, Catherine noticed as Mary rambled on about possible names.
Although, it was understandable why the former princess would not want to name her daughter after her first stepmother--- and why she would not name her son Henry--- it was interesting how she did not seem to want to name any future daughters Jane. Perhaps, she feared that she would be suspected of supporting the Seymour faction if she did not distance herself from the dowager queen.
Much like herself, Mary had done her best not to take sides in the Boleyn-Seymour cold war. Even if she did privately think that Elizabeth and Ambrose were not legitimate, she had come to accept that they were her father’s heirs, and she loved them far too much to say otherwise.
“Catherine?”
The Duchess of Bedford was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts, not even realizing that they had come to a stop outside of the princess’ chambers.
“Forgive me, I drifted,” she confessed, letting go of Mary’s arm, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment.
Philip chuckled. “Oh, were we boring you, Your Grace?”
“Never,” Catherine denied, not at all ruffled by the duke’s teasing. She then paused, not wanting to admit to what she had been thinking about, instead choosing to mention a rather begin subject. “I was just thinking of my newest nephew. William is insisting that I visit him.”
“My goodness, do you just travel around the country, giving goodies to all the children of the realm like a fairy godmother?” teased Mary, a mischievous smile on her face.
“I think your husband is rubbing off on you, Your Highness,” the older woman opined causing both Mary and Philip to laugh.
I am a woman of thirty, I could still have children if I found the right husband, Catherine mused. However, after being married twice and being the king’s mistress, I prefer the freedom of being a duchess in my own right. I shall not marry, and instead dote on my many godchildren.
“I’ll ask Susan to draw a bath for you,” Philip suggested. “And then perhaps you should take a nap for a few hours.”
“Catherine, please remind my husband that I am a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions,” Mary stated tiredly. “And therefore, do not need him to treat me like a child.”
“Catherine, please tell my wife that I am not treating her like a child,” Philip began, his scrutiny locked on Mary. “I am treating her like my pregnant wife who I love and care for very much.”
“Are you two just doing this for my amusement or are you really this precious behind closed doors?” Catherine wondered.
Mary shrugged before turning back to her husband. “I will take a bath, but I am not going to take a nap. I am not drowsy enough.”
“All right, you don’t have to sleep, but could you at least lie down for an hour or two, just to give yourself a break?” Philip requested. “You have been on your feet for the whole day.”
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” the princess guessed.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, stepping forwards to grab her hand and kiss it. “For your health matters far too much to me.”
Mary shook her head in fond exasperation. “Very well, you win,” she announced before glancing back at Catherine. “I hope you will stay the night. I would hate it if I were indisposed when you leave.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” replied the duchess, beaming at her friend.
June 31, 1547
“I am marrying a fish!” Ambrose exclaimed, balling the parchment up and tossing it carelessly towards the bin. “A cold fish.”
He glanced around the bedchamber beholding the extravagant paneling, tapestries of famous folktales, jeweled swords hanging above the mantelpiece. His father was well known for his profligacy; the country was in debt because of it.
However, it was not his father’s spending habits that made Ambrose uncomfortable in the king’s apartments. No, it was the fact that it made him feel like he was an interloper, like he was just a boy playing with his father’s things.
There was a part of him that wanted to strip the rooms bear---maybe if he sold it all, it would clear the debt---leave nothing of his father behind. At the same time, he could not bring himself to do that as it would be testament to admitting that King Henry was really gone, never to return.
“What has happened now?” Guildford asked from where he was sitting with Barnaby and Arthur Pole. Arthur was a recent addition to the growing circle of friends, having just become the king’s groom.
“I sent her a gift for her birthday, one I spent many hours picking out, I even had it engraved,” Ambrose began, scowling. “Her response is to thank me for the gift most graciously.”
Arthur and Barnaby turned towards Guildford expectantly, knowing he would voice what they were all thinking.
“So?” the Dudley boy questioned, his tone half bemused, and half exasperated.
“She didn’t say anything else. She just thanked me and that was it,” replied the young ruler.
His companions exchanged bewildered expressions. “Again: so?” Guildford reiterated, cocking his head in confusion. “She said thank you. What more were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Ambrose answered, crossing his arms over his chest slouching against the wall. “An acknowledgement of my thoughtfulness. A remark about the inscription that I spent hours composing, how charmed she was by it. Something that tells me that I am not marrying a block of ice.”
“I think you are demanding too much from her,” Arthur piped up. “You two have never met. You’re a stranger to her.”
“Not to mention you did call her a cow,” Guildford added.
“That was months ago, and I apologized,” insisted Ambrose. “Besides Fredrick and Elizabeth have never met. Nonetheless, for Elizabeth’s last birthday, he sent her flowers, he had grown himself, and she would not stop gushing about them even though they were dead by the time they arrived from Denmark.”
It had been rather amusing watching the ambassador from Denmark presenting Elizabeth with dead flowers. He had an expression of unease as he was nervous about how this would be perceived by the English court, fearing he might be yelled at by an offended king and princess, thinking the dead flowers were an insult.
Thankfully, Elizabeth had known about her gift in advance thanks to a letter from Anna of Denmark who had foreseen the problem, and when her efforts to deter her brother had failed, she had been sure to inform her future sister-in-law. The English princess had accepted them, proclaiming that the thought behind the gift was far more beautiful than anything she could have ever received.
“Maybe you should wait until you meet her in person before making such judgements,” Barnaby suggested quietly, shifting nervously in his seat. Out of the three boys, he did not feel comfortable speaking openly. “Perchance she is just shy.”
“No, Maggie is shy. This girl probably doesn’t know fun if it came and bit her,” Ambrose groused.
“You’re just upset because she is no Mae Dudley,” Arthur contradicted with a smirk. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Guildford’s head snapped between him and the young monarch, his eyes wide. “What?!”
Ambrose’s cheeks reddened. “I just think she is pretty,” he whispered.
“You are not allowed to go chasing after my sister,” Guildford warned, clearly not caring that he was commanding the King of England.
“I just think she is pretty,” the boy reiterated, raising his hands defensively. “You are not one to talk. Everyone knows that your brother fancies my sister.”
“That is completely different,” contradicted Guildford. “Robert will never be able to get Princess Elizabeth, you on the hand can court my sister all you want.”
“Christ’s blood, Gilly, I just happen to find her attractive,” Ambrose protested. “My intention towards her is completely honorable.”
Guildford regarded Ambrose suspiciously but said nothing more on the subject.
Summer had come to England, but thankfully it had yet to reach the unbearable heat that would force everyone to be constantly fanning themselves.
Elizabeth and Robert were strolling through the garden, with her hand on his arm. Kat and John Ashley, being dutiful chaperons, were only a few feet behind them.
“She is driving me crazy. Every time, someone mentions Denmark or Fredrick, she gives me this guilty expression like she thinks she has committed a crime,” Elizabeth complained. She pretended not to notice the scowl on Robert’s face when she mentioned her fiancée. Instead, focusing on her irritation at Annie.
“She thinks she is being selfish by leaving you all alone,” Robert noted.
“I have already explained to her that she is not,” Elizabeth snapped, shaking her head in exasperation. “Why does she continue to get worked up about it?”
“Because Annie is your cousin, and she wants you to be happy,” he replied soothingly.
“I know, but I just doesn’t understand what she wants,” the red-haired princess complained, chewing on her lip. “Does she want me to order her to stay here or to come with me?”
“In my humble opinion, my lady, I think her biggest fear is letting you down,” guessed Robert.
“And that helps me in no way,” Elizabeth declared. Robert placed his hand over his heart, like it was broken. “Oh, don’t be like that, Robin, you are helpful in other ways.”
“Oh? And what ways would that be?” Robert asked curiously.
“Just by being my friend,” Elizabeth answered, giving him a winning smile.
Robert beamed at her.
Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted when a dog came running out of the bushes, with Sir Thomas Seymour coming after it seconds later.
“No, Hertford, heel! Heel!” he shouted.
Thankfully, John Ashley managed to grab the spaniel as it jumped up in Elizabeth, pawing at her gown.
“I am so sorry, Your Highness,” Thomas greeted her with a bow. “I have not trained this pup well enough yet.” He then turned to John. “If you would please hold him until I can get his leash back on.” Thomas wagged his finger at the squirming pup. “You bad dog, Hereford, acting bold like that, splashing the lovely princess with mud.”
“Oh, I hope you won’t scold him too harshly, my lord,” Elizabeth cooed, feeling flustered. “May I pet him?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Thomas assured her with a smile before bending down to stage whisper. “You behave yourself or no treats.”
The princess giggled before she patted the dog’s head, awing when it licked her hand. “He is so sweet,” she praised.
Thomas Seymour the leash back on Hertford and John put the pup down. “My apologies again, Your Highness, for intruding on your walk,” he said kindly, before tugging the leash. “Come along, Hereford, as much as I hate to leave such pleasant company, we must part ways.” He nodded at John and Kat before taking Elizabeth’s hand and pressing a kiss to it. He then walked away, Hereford yipping sadly as he was pulled along.
“Robert, is something wrong?” Elizabeth asked, noticing the brown-haired boy was glaring daggers at the retreating back of Thomas Seymour
“I don’t like the way, he was looking at you,” Robert hissed, low enough so their chaperones couldn’t hear him.
“What do you mean?” the princess asked as they continued walking, shooting him a puzzled frown.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I’m sure I was just imagining things.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself of that.
Notes:
Don't kill me please.
Honestly, I can't decide who will be kicking Thomas Seymour's ass, Catherine Parr or George Boleyn. Decisions, decisions.
I am am finding scenes with Thomas and Elizabeth hard to write, not just because they make me incredibly uncomfortable, but also because I have to balance Elizabeth's intelligence with her teenage crush because she is not immune to these things even though she knows better.
Chapter 24: Unconditional
Summary:
The Seymour-Boleyn rivalry takes two twisted turns. Mary's family is turned upside down.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 31, 1548
“Your Eminence, when are you planning on getting married?” the Duke of Kent inquired.
Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had just taken a sip of wine and he now spit it out in surprise. They were sitting in the king’s audience chamber with Cromwell, Northumberland, and Somerset, having a drink after a successful privy council meeting.
“I beg your pardon?” Cranmer spluttered, wiping the scarlet drops from his chin and his purple cassock.
“Well, we just passed the clergy marriage act,” replied George, affecting a bemused manner which was ruined by the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I would think that as the highest-ranking member of England’s church, aside from my nephew, you would want to find a prospective spouse right away.”
“Why would I do that?” Cranmer’s brow knitted together in confusion, completely baffled by this turn of conversation.
Philip trying to smother his chuckles with his hand while Cromwell and John Dudley just shared an exasperated look.
“Because you have to set an example, of course,” the younger man explained as though it was obvious. “What would it say about England, that we are letting our priests get married, but our most important prelate, one of our religious leaders, doesn’t have a wife?”
The Duke of Somerset was now laughing openly, and even Cromwell and Dudley were smiling behind their goblets.
Cranmer, however, was not so amused. “I think that I would prefer to remain single, but perhaps my successor will have a wife.”
“I still think it should be you,” George groused with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Not that this discussion isn’t fascinating, but can we please go back to the topic at hand,” Dudley suggested, taking pity on the flustered bishop.
“Were we discussing something?” the Duke of Kent inquired.
John Dudley looked at Cromwell almost desperately, finding himself growing frustrated by the Lord Protector’s antics and he saw the Earl of Essex as the only sane one in their group, aside from himself.
“I believe John is referencing the Spanish ambassador’s proposal,” the Lord Chancellor supplied helpfully.
“Ah, that.” George turned in his seat, his scrutiny flying towards Somerset. “Philip, are you aware that Emperor Charles is seeking one of your daughters for his youngest nephew?”
On paper, a match between the eight-year-old Archduke Charles and one of Mary’s daughters was a great honor for although the boy was not expected to gain much of his uncle or his father’s holdings, he was still quite important among the Austrian nobility. It certainly was no small matter that King of Spain was picking the daughter of a duke, granted a royal duke whose wife was Charles’ cousin, for his nephew.
However, if one were to take a closer look at the circumstances, it would make even the most trusting man suspicious.
Mary’s daughters had a claim to the English throne, and it was entirely possible that if Joanna did not have an heir with Ambrose, Emperor Charles could use his nephew’s wife to put a Hapsburg on the English throne.
“I was uninformed of such matters, my lords,” Philip confessed, wholly unperturbed by the news. “However, it does not surprise me.”
The three men’s attention were now firmly on the German prince, leaning forward in their seats like washerwomen eager for a juicy piece of gossip. “Oh? Do tell.”
Philip could not help but chuckle inwardly at being the only one who had figured out the Emperor’s motives. Cromwell, Dudley, Cranmer, and Boleyn were so busy searching for conspiracies against King Ambrose lurking in the shadows, the idea that there was a different motive didn’t occur to them.
Which isn’t much of a surprise, as the English tend to think the world revolves around their country, the Duke of Somerset mocked with a mental snicker.
“Are you pausing for dramatic tension?” George quipped dryly, tapping his foot in impatience.
“Merely gathering my thoughts.” Philip drained his goblet and placed it on the floor. “I am not sure if you are keeping up in the politics of Germany, my lords, but my uncle, Frederick II, the Elector Palatine, has not had an heir with his Hapsburg descendant’s wife. Therefore, making my childless brother, his potential successor.”
“Ah.” Of course, it was the Earl of Essex, always the sharp one, who figured it out first. “The Emperor hopes to use your daughters to press a claim to the ancestral lands.”
“I’m sure if he thought he could, His Imperial Majesty would be hoping to grab a Prince Elect title for his grand-nephew,” speculated Kent, snorting.
Philip made a face. “Unlikely, as the House of Wittelsbach has enough cadet branches who would not be pleased if they were overlooked for a son of a female line. However, she would still be entitled to the lands of my father and grandfather and able to pass them down to her children.”
Cromwell nodded pensively. “I have also heard it said that Emperor Charles’ heir to the imperial throne, the prospective groom’s father, Archduke Ferdinand is lenient towards Protestants, and it is said that his sons have followed in their footsteps.”
“It helps that whichever daughter of the Lady---”
“Princess,” Philip corrected firmly, his sharp gaze flickering over at Cranmer.
“---are being taught by both Lutheran and Catholic tutors,” the archbishop finished, not even acknowledging the other man’s interruption. “It might promote understanding and unity in the Holy Roman Empire
Philip and George exchanged a glance, remembering the amount of strife that they had gone through, getting teachers who were willing to work together and not undermine each other. Of course, both had to be approved by the king, so it was even more of a nuisance.
It had been a headache for all involved, and if Philip was honest with himself, it had only happened because he and Mary had not wanted to upset each other, feeling it best to compromise over their children’s education, rather than spend endless years fighting over it. If anyone was promoting understanding and unity, it was the two extremists who loved each other far too much to quibble over religion.
“I think that this is an opinion that is worth considering,” Cromwell decided. “Imperial alliances are what is best for England so a second one would be useful.”
“My sister would disagree,” George noted, licking his lips. “However, with the Emperor splitting his domain between his brother and his son, it would be better to get a dynastic match with both sides of the Hapsburg’s dynasty.”
“You will receive no argument from Mary and I.” Philip smiled, already anticipating his wife’s reaction to learning that their daughter had a chance to marry into the imperial family. Regardless of what the late Queen Anne would think, his princess would be pleased to make another connection to her mother’s family.
Meanwhile in the apartments of the Duke and Duchess of Somerset, Mary was sitting in the drawing room, humming her mother’s lullaby as she rocked the months old babe in her arms, her three daughters sitting around her, playing with their dolls.
“Oh Philip, my Philip, I love you so,” she murmured, pressing a kiss on his downy head.
The young woman could still recall that glorious moment back in Hudson on that bitterly cold winter night when she brought her son into the world. When he was placed in her arms, a warmth had washed over her, spreading from her head to her toes.
Snow was coming down in sheets. If Mary were to glance up, she would think they were in the middle of a blizzard with the way the flakes of white were hurling past her window.
However, the princess could see nothing but the babe, bundled in a silk blanket, who was in her arms. She lay on silk sheets beneath a canopy decorated with Tudor rose and the pomegranate of her mother along with a blue cornflower.
After her father died, Philip and Mary had decided that their house’s symbol would a pomegranate conjoined with the German cornflower to symbolize their roots, allow them to stand out a bit more among the Tudor roses.
“My love.”
Mary was startled for a moment as she had not noticed her husband coming in or approaching the bed. When it registered that it was him, she moved to the side so he could join her.
“A son,” she murmured. “I have finally given birth to a son.”
The Duke of Somerset frowned slightly as he wrapped his arms around her, using one of his hands to stroke the babe’s face. “We’re not naming him Henry, are we?” His nose wrinkled at that thought as if he was smelling something displeasing.
Mary chuckled good-naturedly. “No, darling, not Henry. There is only one name for the most perfect boy.” She turned her head, her eyes glowing with love and affection. “Philip.”
“What?” He was so transfixed on their son; it took him a few minutes to get what she meant. “Oh! We’ll name him Philip.”
“Does that name please you, husband of mine?” Mary teased, raising her free hand to caress his cheek.
“It delights me as much as Catherine, Elizabeth and Mary did.” Philip pressed a kiss on her hair.
They lay together in silence until the duchess burst out, “It is broken!” A note of joyful hysteria in her voice.
Her husband’s scrutiny shifted between her and their son, his brow furrowing. “What’s broken?”
“The curse,” Mary clarified before elaborating. “Everyone said my mother was cursed and that is why she had no sons. As her daughter, I’m sure people thought the same of me.”
“If they did, I made sure they kept their opinions to themselves,” snarled Philip, bringing his wife closer to his chest as if to shield her from those who derided her, daring to suggest that she and her mother were barren.
“Now that I have him, it feels like I have finally avenged her,” Mary declared. “She wasn’t cursed. She just had bad luck.”
Before Philip could reply, the doors burst open and three figures flew in, scrambling up on the bed, laughing joyfully.
“Finally! A brother!” Cathy exclaimed. “I thought I would be stuck with only dumb sisters!”
Lizzie and Mitzi were too busy cooing over their new brother to even glare in response.
“This is the most beautiful sight I have ever witnessed.” Philip’s voice brought Mary back to the present. “My wife and my four wonderful children all together. A lovely scene that looks as though it was in a painting.”
“You are a shameless flatter,” Mary laughed, her adoration shining on her countenance.
Her husband grinned at her as he sauntered over to them, sitting down on the floor so he could embrace his three daughters. “I have some exciting news, my darlings.” He lowered his voice to a stage-whisper. “But you must promise to keep it a secret.”
“Yes, Papa,” the girls chorused, glancing at each other excitedly.
Mary observed them with bemusement, wondering what Philip was up to.
“Well, you know how your mama’s cousin is the Holy Roman Emperor?” Philip paused, waiting for them to nod in confirmation before he continued. “He is looking for a bride for his youngest nephew, Archduke Charles, and he wants it to be one of you sweetlings. Obviously, he has great taste.”
“Really, Papa, I could be the Holy Roman Empress!” Cathy clapped her hands in delight, sitting up straight.
“No, darling, you’d be an archduchess,” Mary corrected her, barely able to contain her own enthusiasm at the notion that one of her daughters could have a dynastic match.
Even though, she---much like her husband---could guess her cousin’s true motives behind the proposal, the idea that Charles had chosen her daughters instead of one of Philip’s other relatives, gladdened her as it signaled that her cousin was still thinking of her.
While Catherine was unlikely to become empress, one of her progenies might get the chance, allowing the descendants of Queen Katherine of Aragon sit on the imperial throne, just as she would have wanted.
“Oh, then who cares,” Cathy said grumpily, disappointed that she would not get a chance to be an empress.
Philip swapped a meaningful glance with Mary. “Perhaps we should offer Elizabeth instead.” Knowing how outspoken their oldest daughter was, they did worry she might say something like that within the Imperial ambassador’s hearing.
They did not need another incident like the one with Ambrose last year.
“Ha, ha,” Lizzie gloated.
“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” protested Cathy, her eyes wide. Although, she was only a girl of seven, she knew that a royal marriage, even to a lesser prince, was not something to take lightly. “Why can’t I marry the Emperor’s son, Philip?”
“Because he is already married, dear one.” The Duke of Somerset tussled his daughter’s hair. “Otherwise, I am sure he would be jumping for a chance to marry you and your sisters.”
“I’m sure the archduke will make a fine husband,” Mitzi pipped up. “He is Mama’s cousin so he must be nice.”
Mary beamed at her youngest daughter. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
After leaving their children in the capable hands of their caretakers, the Duke and Duchess of Somerset retired to their own chambers for a light afternoon meal. As they sat at the table, and were severed rabbit pies, there was an odd expression on the Tudor princess’ face.
“Is something troubling you?” Philip used his knife to carve into his dish, taking a bite of it without looking away from his wife.
“No, nothing. Just reminiscing about the time when I was engaged to the emperor,” Mary admitted, shrugging her shoulders as if she were shaking the thought off her as though it was an unwanted hand, touching her.
“Oh? Wishing for what could have been?” speculated Philip, a touch of teasing in his tone.
“Of course not.” She sampled her own meal as she chose her next words carefully. “I just can’t help but wonder what it would have happened if I had married Charles.”
“Well, I think our love story would one that the bards would have sung about,” Philip gushed. “I, a humble German duke goes to the imperial court to plead my case, and I happen to meet the beautiful empress. Our eyes meet and we fall madly in love, risking everything for each other, running off into the sunset.”
The duchess coughed, seeing a flaw in her husband’s fantasy. “We would be arrested and executed for adultery.”
“Must you put a damper on things,” he pouted. Then he grinned again. “All right, you are a ravishing widow when we met. Forced to be without a man’s touch for many years until I sweep you off your feet.”
“You are a hopeless romantic.” Mary smiled fondly. “But I must admit I prefer our real love story.”
“You mean the one where the dashing duke rescues the forsaken princess from her tower of despair.” Philip preened as he spoke.
“I wouldn’t put it like that exactly,” she answered with a shake of her head, her cheeks glowing pink. “Nonetheless, it is a romantic tale on its own. Despite our differences, we managed to make it work, rise our children, love each other without letting anything get in our way of our happiness.”
“And you called me a hopeless romantic,” her husband snorted into his goblet before taking a drink. He smacked his lips as he set his glass down. “It’s funny. Before meeting you, I was always stubborn---yes, was. Don’t give me that eyebrow. But when you came into my life, I was ready to bend and compromise because your happiness meant more to me than anything else.”
Mary’s heart swelled as his words touched her like tender caresses. “I was equally obstinate and naive in my views. You helped me get a better prospective. Made me feel loved and cared for during a time when I thought I had no one.”
“I shall love you until the end of my days---not even death would stop me from adoring you,” Philip amended.
“I love you too.”
In the gardens, Princess Elizabeth was walking with Lord Thomas Seymour---chaperoned by the ever-watchful Kat Ashley. Ever since their chance encounter the year before, the pair had struck up an odd friendship.
“I will not lie and say that I am fond of your uncle, Princess. However, I see no reason that we should be at odds,” he had said to her the next time they met.
Since then, Elizabeth had found herself drawn to the youngest Seymour brother, he was very charming and playful. He seemed quite determined to move past the rivalry between their two families, assuring her of his wish to strengthen the bound.
“I have something for you, Your Highness, that I hope will make you smile,” Thomas remarked, pulling a small, wrapped box out of his wallet.
“Another gift,” the red-haired princess gushed. “You are spoiling me.”
“Oh, pish posh, you are my niece by marriage,” he reminded her, patting her cheek. “I have no wife so I must find another beautiful girl to lavish presents on.”
Elizabeth flushed at his compliments, the butterflies flapping in her stomach at the thought of being his wife. She knew as an engaged woman she should not be entertaining such romantic notions---about her uncle no less. However, she found she could not help herself.
He had a way of making her feel special, acting like a shining knight in armor.
“Go on. Open it,” Thomas encouraged, thrusting the box at her.
Elizabeth did so and gasped when she saw the ruby pendent. “Oh, Uncle Tom, it is lovely,” she complimented.
“Here. Let me put it on for you.” Handing the box to Kat, he took the necklace out and clasped it around her neck, letting his fingers grace her skin, making her shiver slightly.
When she turned around to face him, he smiled approvingly. “Lovely. A brilliant jewel for a brilliant jewel.”
“You flatter me too much.” Elizabeth lowered her gaze, trying to contain the grin that was threatening to split her face.
“It is not flatter when it is true,” Lord Seymour quipped, before glancing up at the sky, making a tutting noise. “I am afraid, I must cut this walk short, my dear. I promised my sister I would visit her before she left for Kimbolton. We get to see each other so infrequently as it is. If only she could stay in Windsor.”
“Edward would like that,” Elizabeth agreed, pulling a face. Although, she understood that her stepmother had insulted her mother, Ambrose, and herself, she did feel it was necessary and cruel to keep her from her children.
“My nephew would indeed. He told me that he wanted to bring it up with Ambrose, but Jane discouraged him, thinking it would upset the regent,” Thomas confessed, shaking his head.
Elizabeth heaved a sigh. As much as she loved her uncle, she was not blind that he could be unfair when the Seymours were concerned. “I’ll talk to him,” she declared, wanting her brother to be reunited with his mother. “No, I’ll talk to Ambrose first and then we’ll both convince Uncle George.”
Thomas beamed at her, taking her hand, and kissing the back of it. “Sweet, Bess, you are truly the most compassionate woman in the world.” With a bow, he strutted back inside the palace, leaving Elizabeth and Kat alone.
“I think Prince Fredrick has some competition,” her lady teased once she was sure no one was in earshot.
Elizabeth swatted her governess away, as they both giggled.
When Thomas Seymour entered the hallway that led to his sister’s apartment, he was unceremoniously grabbed and shoved against the wall.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” hissed George Boleyn.
“You will have to be more specific.” The younger man smirked, infuriating the duke even more.
“Stay away from my niece,” Kent snarled, his eyes blazing with fury.
“I am merely being a doting uncle much like yourself,” Thomas defended affecting an innocent facade.
“If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will destroy you,” George roared, gobs of spit flying out of his mouth.
“Temper, temper,” jeered Thomas. “I am doing nothing wrong, so your idle threats don’t scare me.”
George took a step back and lashed out with his fist, striking the man in the nose. “My threats are not ideal, Seymour. If you touch Elizabeth, I will make sure you suffer at my hands. Your death will be so bloody and painful, you will be wishing you died like Henry Howard.”
With that, he stormed away, leaving Thomas Seymour to wipe the blood off his face, smirking as he pictured George’s reaction when he took his niece in more ways than one.
July 4, 1548
“Jamie, watch out!”
Unfortunately, his sister’s warning came too late and James Boleyn, Earl of Wilshire stumbled over a tree’s root, his backside hitting the dirt.
“Sorry. Are you well?” Thomas Howard apologized, extending the hand currently not clutching his sword to help his cousin up. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Just my pride, Tommy, so no need to fuss over me like a mother hen.” As he stood, James dusted himself off. He was not a stranger to be being beaten. Hal Carey, Earl of Middlesex, had been a most stern teacher, never going easy when they dueled with wooden swords.
At least, this time, I can blame something other than my poorer skills, James mused as he rubbed his sore backside, throwing the source for his fall a dark glare as though he was contemplating taking an axe to the entire tree to punish the errant root.
“Rematch?” Thomas suggested.
The earl shook his head. “I think not. Perhaps Hal will duel with you instead.” He gestured to Hal Brandon who was standing next to Anne as he always did. Not for the first time, did James notice that Hal seemed unable to tear his eyes away from Anne.
“Oh, will you, Hal?” Anne asked hopefully, clasping her hands together. “Then I could give you my favor and it will be like you are a knight fighting for my honor.”
Hal’s neck turned red as he bowed. “It would be my privilege to wear your ribbon, my lady,” he proclaimed, much to the girl’s delight.
“My lord, the mistress wishes to speak with you,” one of Jane Boleyn’s ladies called as she hurried towards the children. “She says you must go to your father’s study immediately.”
James’ eyes widened, wondering if he was in trouble. He mutely followed the older woman inside Hever Castle, his mind conjuring up reasons for his mother’s abrupt summons, each worse than the last.
Perhaps she found out about me stealing pastries from the kitchen. Maybe she found out I was the one who put the spider in Anne’s bed---she wasn’t even scared so that shouldn’t count. Maybe she’s ill. Maybe father is ill. Maybe father is dead. Maybe Ambrose has gone mad and is demanding the heads of the sons of traitors.
By the time, he arrived at his father’s study, he could hardly contain his nerves. He opened the door and was ushered in by his mother.
“Sweetheart, your father will be home in a few days, but we thought it best to prepare you first,” she explained, not helping his nerves in the least. “We have found a wife for you.” He could tell by the pressing of her lips that she was not at all pleased by this choice.
“Already?” James knew that he would have a bride eventually. But he was only a boy of twelve---too young to be a husband.
His thoughts must have been palpable on his face as his mother quickly clarified, “You won’t be consummating the marriage for a few years, love.”
“All right then. Who is it?” James wondered. As far as he knew, his father had not been searching for spouses for his children despite them nearing adulthood, so he was curious about the sudden change.
“Princess Margaret.”
Now that was unexpected.
Hunsdon House had a very rustic charm to it. The red brick walls, the lush green lawn. Inside, it was decorated with English, Spanish, and German statues and tapestries. For almost a decade, Mary had called it home.
Now she looked as though she would rather be anywhere else but here.
Catherine Parr beheld the woman in front of her. There were strands of grey in her dull brown hair, she had not attempted to cover up those dark circles under her eyes, and the few wrinkles she had on her forehead seemed to have become even more pronounced. She was wearing a solid black dress and clutching her rosery tightly.
“I don’t know what happened,” Mary cried as she threw herself in her friend’s arms. “One day, he was fine, and the next, he couldn’t get out of bed.”
“What does the physician say?” Catherine quizzed. Perhaps she should have told Mary that Philip would be fine. But if he hadn’t gotten better in the five days it had taken her to travel to Hudson, then she feared she would be telling the princess a lie.
“He says it is a fever. A bad one,” Mary reported, tears trickling down her face. “I just don’t understand it. Why is God punishing me? Why would He give me a son just to take my husband? Why would He do this?”
The Duchess of Bedford’s heart clenched. For Mary to question God’s will, something considered blasphemous----it was a sure sign that the poor girl was devastated.
“No, Mary, no, He is not punishing you,” Catherine assured her, stroking her hair. “This is just bad luck.” The minute those words flew out of her mouth, she cursed herself. To call Philip’s death bad luck was an understatement and it downplayed the amount of pain it wrought on his family. But how else could she convince her precious friend that this was not a tragedy born from wrongdoing.
A mirthless laugh bubbled up in Mary’s throat. “Bad luck? I suppose I am my mother’s daughter.”
“You are your mother’s daughter,” the older duchess insisted, placing a finger beneath her chin, and pushing her face up. “You are strong, resilient, and brave. You are compassionate, pious, and loyal. I cannot claim to know her as well as you, but I know enough to be certain she would be proud of the woman you are today.”
“Do you really think so?” Mary managed a tearful smile.
“I do.”
“Ahem.” The two duchesses swirled around to see the doctor standing outside Philip’s bedchamber with a somber countenance. “His Grace wishes to see his wife.”
Mary shook so badly, Catherine had to hold her arms, to keep her upright.
“Did you need me to go in with you?” she offered.
The princess shook her head, inhaling sharply before she entered her husband’s chambers.
Philip raised his head weakly, the sight of his wife bringing a bit of color back to his face and a smile tugged at his lips.
The Duchess of Somerset studied her husband, reminiscing about the first time she laid eyes on him. He had been a man of twenty-eight, golden-brown hair, vibrant blue eyes, lanky, rosy complexion a long nose, and full lips. Now he was pale as a ghost and his blue eyes seemed dull and lifeless. When she first met him, he was so vigorous and jovial. Now he seemed small and weak.
“Don’t get too close,” he rasped. “I don’t want you to become ill.”
“Please don’t leave me,” Mary begged, and she hated how desperate she sounded. “I need you. The children need you. Our son is only a babe, you must stay and have more time with him. Philip, please.”
Ignoring her husband’s protests, she ran to the side of the bed, crouching down so she could grasp his clammy hands in hers.
“If it were up to me, I would stay with you until the end of time itself,” Philip murmured, kissing her hand. “I’m sorry, Mary. I once told you I would do anything for you. Alas it seems that I am being called to heaven.”
“No! I won’t let you,” she blurted out, burying her face in his chest. Her voice was growing steadily more hysterical. “I won’t let you go. I won’t allow you to die. I forbid it, Philip! I forbid you from dying! I love you and I refuse to lose you. I won’t have it. You hear me! I won’t lose you! I can’t!”
“Only you would prohibit a man from having his enteral rest.” The Duke of Somerset’s hoarse laughs quickly turned into hacking coughs. “I’m sorry, darling, you know I live to serve you. But I cannot stop Grim Reaper from taking his due. Tell the children, I love them and know that I have thanked my lucky stars to have a wife as perfect as you. My lady, my princess, my queen, my empress.”
Mary found herself unable to answer, she just clutched him, listening to his heartbeat, taking comfort in his rising chest as the priest preformed his last rites. Even when his body became still, the duchess refused to move.
She didn’t care if she was acting like her Aunt Joana, she was not ready to let go of him just yet.
Eventually she did rise from her position, but not because she wanted to leave the man, she loved behind so he could be moved to a safe place to get him ready for his funeral. Instead, it was the shouting and the running footsteps that caused her to sprint outside so she could intercept the screaming six-year-old.
“LET ME SEE HIM! I WANT TO SEE MY FATHER!” Cathy bellowed as her mother grabbed her, struggling to get her away from that room, unwilling to let her see her father’s body.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mary sobbed, holding her daughter close, trying to still her by kissing and stroking her hair. “He’s gone up to heaven to be with the angels.”
“NO! YOU’RE LYING! HE’S ALIVE! LET ME SEE HIM AND I WILL PROVE IT!” Instead of being soothed by her mother’s words, Cathy was kicking and punching her, trying to get away so she could go into the room she knew held her father. “YOU’RE A LIAR! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!
But no matter what she said or did, Mary refused to let go of her eldest daughter, waiting until she had worn herself out before getting up and carrying her to the nursery where Catherine was embracing Lizzie and Mitzie who were weeping.
Little Philip, the 2nd Duke of Somerset, was in his crib, unaware that after just a few short months of life, he had lost his father.
Catherine and Mary held the three girls until they had cried themselves to sleep.
“Who do I have now?” the widowed princess wondered aloud, rocking Cathy back and forth. Philip had been her rock, her light in the dark world that had gotten bleaker when her mother died.
The Duchess of Bedford maneuvered Mitzie so she could reach out and touch Mary’s arm.
“You have me,” she replied. “You are not alone, Mary, you have me. We’ll get through this together.”
Notes:
Leave Cathy alone, she's emotional right now.
The Thomas Seymour scene is making me want to take a bath. I actually looking up grooming to make sure I was on the right track with his behavior. Before anyone is like why is Kat Ashley is letting this happen. Three things: Thomas Seymour can be charming and sneaky when he wants too and is playing up the whole uncle thing to throw off suspicion. In history, Kat didn't seem so keen on stopping it when Thomas was married. She also assumes it is just innocent flirting because she does not think Thomas Seymour is that stupid.
Speaking of Thomas, Thomas Boleyn is in heaven, either wanting to congratulate his son for his genius idea or slap him up on the head for being an idiot. He is waiting to see how it goes.
Yes, Philip died. It was really a matter of when he died because as much as I loved the couple, I always knew Mary would out live him for a number of years and she and Catherine Parr would support each other.
Chapter 25: Death of Innocence
Summary:
The Seymours and Boleyns deal with the aftermath of George's betrothing his son to the Princess Margaret. Thomas Seymour continues to try to seduce Elizabeth. Mary tries to keep moving after her husband's death. Ambrose and Edward go on a hunt.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
July 8, 1548
“No! No! No!" Jane repeated over and over, pacing around the room as if she were in a cage that was closing in on her, suffocating her. It was already too small for a woman of her status, only big enough for a small fireplace, a sofa and two armchairs.
Aside from Henry, as he preferred to stay away from court, her siblings were in her chambers when Edward had broken the news about George’s decision to betroth Princess Margery to the Earl of Wiltshire.
Thomas and Dorothy tried to comfort her while Elizabeth just shifted uncomfortably as if she was unsure what to say or do.
Jane is my sister, but George Boleyn is my father-in-law’s ally, making him mine as well, the Baroness Cromwell mused, biting her lip as she felt conflicted over what side to choose.
Edward rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “Jane, please compose yourself. There is no need to make a scene.”
His sister glared at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “They are trying to steal my daughter and marry her off to the son of a jumped-up duke who only got his title because his sister seduced a king.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” Edward gritted his teeth in annoyance. He sometimes thought he was must have been cursed to have such foolish siblings. That was the only explanation for why he was the only one who had a lick of sense. “The Duke of Kent has overreached, and everyone knows it. When he puts this folly forth to the regency council, it will be rejected, and he will be alliance his former allies.”
“I just wonder what would prompt him to do something so drastic,” Elizabeth remarked, frowning. While it was true that George Boleyn was often impulsive and foolhardy, surely, he would have brought this up with Cromwell and Dudley who would have stopped him from suggesting something so foolish.
“It is almost like someone incited him.” Edward threw his youngest brother a piercing look.
“I don’t know why you would imply that I have done something wrong,” Thomas declared pompously. “My interactions with the princess are purely platonic.”
“You know full well what you are doing,” the earl snarled. “And if you don’t stop, you will lose your head.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “You are overreacting. I am merely trying to befriend Princess Elizabeth as I know that her brother listens to her. If it weren’t for our friendship, Janey wouldn’t be residing with Edward and Magarey.”
“And I am very grateful for you, Tom,” Jane gushed, sending her brother a smile, dabbing her still wet eyes with her handkerchief.
Edward glowered, his lip curled up in disgust. His sisters adored their younger brother, not seeing how he would do anything to gain power. He didn’t know exactly what mad plan his brother had thought up and he didn’t want to know least it ended with Thomas dragging him down.
“What are we going to do about Princess Magarey?” Dorothy questioned, her gaze veering from sister to her brother. “We can’t just let them do this to her.”
“We won’t. If Lord Boleyn continues his idiocy, I will use it to turn the council against him.” Edward was certain that he could get George’s allies to see it his way and help him dispose of the lout, putting Edward as Lord Protector instead.
It was a shame, he had lost the Duke of Somerset, he along with the Duke of Northumberland had been excellent allies as well as double agents, reporting Kent and Essex’s movements. With Duke Philip being married to Princess Mary, it would have been easier to usurp George’s place as regent, but John Dudley had assured him that he would do all he could to knock, as he put it, that imprudent lackwit down.
As Edward reassured his siblings, across the palace, in the apartments of the Duke of Kent, another man was making his thoughts known.
“Stupid, foolish, idiotic, moronic---”
“I think His Grace gets the point,” Cromwell said dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What in God’s name were you thinking, you imprudent lackwit?!” Dudley roared, as he continued stomping around the room.
“You can’t talk to me like that. I outrank you,” George spluttered, his visage darkening with outrage.
Cromwell quirked a nonplussed eyebrow. His kingly nephew said the exact same thing when he was lecturing the boy, he recalled.
Northumberland’s expression was poisonous. “I am also the same age as you, but I would still gladly treat you like you were one of my sons. I would put you over my knee and give your backside such a tanning, you wouldn’t be able to sit for a month!”
The Lord Chancellor decided he better intervene before this got out of hand. “Gentlemen, please!” He raised his voice to make himself heard. Once their attention was on him, he spoke softly and smoothly. “While I wish George had spoken to us about his…idea before making a public announcement, it is done, and we must just try to do damage control.”
“I don’t see why this is such a bad thing,” George huffed, kicking his feet, resembling a child who had been scolded for misbehaving. “If we marry my son to Jane Seymour’s brat, we will tie her to us. She wouldn’t dare move against Ambrose when her daughter is married to the Boleyns.”
“Do you know why Warwick, Clarence and Gloucester moved against King Edward the Fourth?” Lord John Dudley’s posture was less agitated now, but the fury was still painted on his countenance.
“Because they were scoundrels,” ventured the other duke, a touched bemused at the change of subject.
Northumberland rubbed his face in frustration. “No. They reached too far. They used the king’s love for Elizabeth Woodville to take titles, positions and marriages to further themselves, causing the rest of his court to grow resentful and distrustful.”
“People already see us as upstarts who used Anne Boleyn’s marriage to the king to our advantage,” Cromwell put in. “If your son marries above his station, this will only further the antipathy many feel, and we both know that Edward Seymour would love nothing more than to stir up trouble so he can rise himself up to our positions.”
They are waiting for you to make a mistake, George’s father’s voice hissed in his mind.
“They are growing too bold. Thomas Seymour is up to something with Elizabeth,” the Duke of Kent pointed out. “He managed to convince her to plead with Ambrose to allow the Dowager Queen to move into the Duke of York’s estates.”
Granted, Edward had been asking for his mother and sister to live with him for several months, Elizabeth just pushed an already guilty Ambrose into agreeing.
“We are keeping an eye on him, my lord,” Cromwell avowed. He had a hunch that Seymour was either trying to incite scandal so Elizabeth would become a less appealing bride for the future ruler of Denmark or worse, trying to seduce her and marry her himself.
Either way, he planned on having a sharp word with Kat Ashley, making it clear that Elizabeth and Thomas were never left alone together, not under any circumstances. The only reason he would allow them to continue to interact was to continue to be abreast of all the situation, ready to swoop in before it escalated.
The Duke of Northumberland tapped his foot impatiently, wanting to return to what had gotten him so angry in the first place. “What do we do about the betrothal between Lord Wiltshire and Princess Margaret? We must dissolve the arrangement.”
“So soon after I announced it?” George shook his head, making a face. “No. That would undermine my authority.”
This sparked the ire of the Duke of Northumberland, relighting his anger like a fire. “Do you have a better idea? Considering you got us into this mess, perhaps you can get us out!”
“As much as I am loath to agree, I think that it would be best not to break the betrothal so soon after making it,” Cromwell reasoned. “We will let things go on for now. Then in a few months, His Majesty will make an announcement that for all his love of his uncle, he cannot allow the betrothal to go forth as it would be inappropriate. He will order the regency council to void the contract.”
“Allowing me to be humiliated,” George snapped.
“Perhaps it will teach you some humility.” John scowled darkly at him before veering his scrutiny towards Cromwell. “I am against this. I think that engaging Princess Margaret to James of Kent was foolish and allowing it to stand will make us the subjects of ridicule.”
“I assume you will apprise the Earl of Hertford of your opinion,” guessed Essex, a wry smile on his lips.
“I will inform him that I argued quite strenuously,” John affirmed, taking some grim satisfaction in the fact that this would at least cement himself in Edward Seymour’s circle, allowing him to gain the shrewd man’s trust.
At Hudson manor, the Dowager Duchess of Somerset was reviewing his husband’s will. She was gabled in a black lace veil and a dark velvet gown to signify her mourning.
I shall never wear colors again, Mary proclaimed. Not until I am reunited with my husband.
She pressed her lips together, sending another prayer to God to absolve her husband of his sins, pleading that he would only stay a short while in purgatory before being able to ascend to heaven for his eternal rest, keeping her mother company while they waited for the woman, they both loved.
At least Philip had written in his will that his wife could lay him to rest as she saw fit, allowing her to give him a Catholic funeral, burying him with the rites of the true faith, knowing it would give her some comfort.
The princess closed her eyes, as she fingered her rosary beads. Has it really been four days since I have lost my Philip? Sometimes, it feels like it has only been hours since I heard his loving voice or laid my eyes on his handsome face. Other times, it is almost like years have passed since that dreadful day.
Unlike when her mother died at the More, Mary had not spent the past three days in her bed, despite being sorely tempted. She was no longer a teenager, alone in the world. Now she was a mother and a dowager duchess. She had responsibilities and she could not afford to be overcome by her grief.
A knock came on the door, breaking Mary out of her brooding. “Come,” she called. She became aware that her cheeks were wet but made no move to dry them. There was no need to hide her sorrow from the members of her household. Everyone already knew of her devastation as it mirrored their own.
The door opened and Mary rose from her seat, surprised to see her oldest daughter. Fearing that something must be wrong, the princess rushed to the young girl, wrapping her up in her arms.
“What is it? Are you all, right?” she quizzed. That was a foolish question. Of course, she was not all right. Her father was dead.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Cathy cried, burying her face in her mother’s doublet. “I didn’t mean it. I swear. I didn’t mean it.”
It took Mary a few minutes to realize what the seven-year-old was talking about. Then she remembered how Cathy reacted to being told her father was gone, how she had run in, demanding to see him, and lashed out at her mother upon being refused.
“Oh, sweetheart, I know that. You were just upset and spoke wildly,” Mary soothed, rubbing circles on the girl’s back.
Cathy hadn’t said anything about it afterwards; Mary wasn’t holding it against her. Nonetheless, it was clear that Cathy felt guilty and ashamed of her actions.
“Mitzi is upset that little Philly won’t get to meet Papa,” Cathy told her after several minutes of silence passed. “But Lizzie said he would know him through us.”
“Those are very wise words,” Mary praised, approving of her daughter’s maturity.
“Do you really think she is right?” Cathy’s expression was a mixture of hope and doubt.
Her mother put a finger under her chin, lifting up her face so they were eye level. “I see Philip in your eyes. I hear him in Lizzie’s laugh. See him in Mitzi’s smile. Feel him through little Philip. He lives through you four, I know he does.”
Mary got down on her knees and embraced her daughter. “And he will live on in our memories that we will share with Mitzi and Philly when they get older.”
“Do you really believe that or are you just trying to make me feel better?” Cathy asked skeptically.
The Dowager Duchess smiled sadly, caressing her daughter’s face. “Both.” She then wrapped Cathy in another hug, taking comfort in her scent.
“I really didn’t mean what I said, Mama.” Cathy had spent the past four days feeling guilty and devastated until she finally couldn’t take it anymore. “I love you very much.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Forever and always,” Mary promised.
Afterwards Mary decided to spend the rest of the day, playing with her daughters, taking their mind off their father.
While the girls were cleaned up for dinner and after checking on baby Philip, Mary went to see Catherine Parr who was in her rooms, writing her newest work. She looked up from her desk, putting down her quill.
“Do you have a moment?” Mary requested.
“Always for you.” Catherine patted the chair adjacent to her which Mary took. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have been thinking of doing a little writing project of my own,” the former princess confessed.
“Oh?” The Duchess of Bedford had not expected this. Mary, for all her talents, had never written anything other than letters and a few poems dedicated to her mother. “What has brought this on?”
Mary hugged herself as she spoke, “My father kept going on about Ambrose being his and Anne Boleyn’s legacy and everyone will remember Jane Seymour for one reason or another. Even Elizabeth and Margaret will be important. What about my mother? What about me? Will Philip and our children just be a footnote?”
“You want to tell your story as well as your mother’s,” guessed Catherine.
“Yes,” Mary confirmed, taking her friend’s hand in hers. “But I think I will need some help from an experienced author, one who will stop me if I get too heated or biased in my writing.”
“I will gladly help you.” Catherine’s eyes lit up she realized something. “In fact, I think Will still has our mother’s letters from when she was Queen Katherine’s lady-in-waiting. I will write to him to forward those to us.”
“That would be wonderful,” the young woman proclaimed, hugging her friend.
When they parted, Mary glanced at the paper on Catherine’s desk. “What were you working on before I interrupted?”
“Just a short piece about how I think Catholics and Lutherans can get along,” Catherine explained with a sigh. “I doubt anyone will listen, but I am going to get it published for those who will.”
“It helps that you are favored by the king and his siblings,” noted Mary with a chuckle. “Will there be any mention of a couple who defied logic and made their marriage work despite their opposing views?”
“Oh, yes,” her friend affirmed. “Of course, why wouldn’t I mention Anna of Cleves and the Duke of Lorraine?”
Mary furrowed her brow, thinking that although Anna of Cleves and Francis of Lorraine were happy in their marriage, having had three sons and two daughters, the German woman had to still convert to Catholicism.
“That was a jest,” Catherine elucidated, her expression bemused, patting her hand. “I thought that would have been a joke he would have made.”
The corner of the princess’ lips curved upwards. “He would have made that joke and then teased me when I didn’t get it, saying something like how in the eight years of marriage I haven’t gotten a sense of humor. Then I’d shoot back with a remark that perhaps I just never heard him say something funny. He would act like I had wounded him, and we would have laughed.”
Catherine didn’t know what else she could say to that. Therefore, she just hugged Mary instead.
October 11, 1548
Ambrose remembered his first hunt. He had been eleven years old, and his father had decided it was high time he participated in a hunting trip. (Ambrose privately suspected that his father knew his health was failing and he wanted to share one of his favorite pastimes with his heir before it was too late).
Now Ned was eleven, Ambrose decided that they should participate on a court hunt. After all, they weren’t that far off from adulthood. Even if they could not shoot the beasts themselves, they could revel in the festivities.
“He can barely ride a horse and you want him to come with us.” Guildford sniffed derisively as Edward struggled to mount the horse he had gotten for his birthday, a dusty brown stallion, he had named Biscuit.
The Duke of York had to be helped by two of his manservants.
“The first time you ever rode a horse, you fell off,” Ambrose reminded with a raised eyebrow. “Nearly broke your leg as I recall.”
“I just wasn’t balanced right,” Guildford protested, his head snapping around to glare at Arthur Pole who had started snickering.
Robert Dudley who was on his own mount, rode up to Edward, instructing him on how to hold the reins properly. Afterwards both boys had their horses join Ambrose, Guildford, and Arthur.
“Your Majesty,” Robert greeted with a nod of his head before his scrutiny flew towards his younger brother. “Gilly, your saddle is up too high. You better fix it, or poor Maximus might try to fix it himself by throwing the saddle off, and then you’ll get worse than a broken ankle.”
Guildford glowered as both Ambrose and Arthur sniggered.
As he got off his white and brown horse so his groom could reset the saddle, Ambrose nudged Excalibur, his black Shire horse, forward to where Edward was checking his own saddle, making sure everything was all right.
“Ned, calm down, if the horse senses your nerves, he will become nervous as well,” Ambrose informed him.
The Duke of York shot him a glare. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“I was just trying to help.” The boy king scowled. “If you are going to be in a bad mood perhaps you should just stay behind.”
Edward had the decency to look shamefaced. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize I would be the youngest here.”
Ambrose chuckled. “I know the feeling. When Father took me on a hunt, I was so busy trying to appear mature, I barely even paid attention to where I was going. I’m lucky I didn’t get lost.” He then reached over to pat his brother’s shoulder. “If you want to back out, I can always pretend I’m sick and you can come back with me to tend to me.”
This seemed to placate his younger brother who gave him a smile, only for it fall again, a flash of envy flickered across his face.
“Ned, what is it? What’s wrong?” Ambrose asked. When Edward shrugged, he quickly added: “I promise I won’t tease you. Just tell me what is bothering you.” He spoke gently, knowing his brother would be more likely to answer if he couched his words as a request instead of a demand.
“I just wish Father had taken me as well when he went hunting,” the young duke confessed in a quiet voice, his cheeks coloring in embarrassment.
“Oh, Ned, you were not even nine that day. You were far too young.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Father only wanted you to come with him,” Edward reminded him sullenly.
Ambrose bit back a tart “grow up, you crybaby.” He was a king now and Uncle George had told him that losing his temper was for spoiled brats not monarchs.
He inhaled sharply, choosing his words carefully. “Ned, it is in the past. Father, might not have invited you on a hunt, but I did because I wanted my brother by my side.”
Edward beamed at him, his visage lighting up. “Really?”
“Of course,” Ambrose affirmed, bemused. “Who else would I want? When we are both men, we will rule England side by side.”
“Do you really mean that?” Edward wondered if his brother was just trying to make him feel better.
“It is us against the world, Neddie,” the auburn-haired ruler professed, clapping him on the back. “We must stick together if we want to succeed.”
His brother’s features were schooled in a determined expression. “I promise to be the most loyal and steadfast of councilors,” he gushed.
“I know you will, Ned.”
Then the horn sounded, and they were off on the hunt, riding side by side, excited for what the future would bring.
Elizabeth tugged her ermine fur coat over her shoulders, trying to keep out of sight. The leaves crunched under her feet as she hurried across the great lawn. If anyone saw her, they would probably be wondering why she was alone without her guards or ladies.
She knew that she shouldn’t be doing this. Kat would be appalled that she was meeting a man without any chaperons. But Tom was her uncle by marriage, and it was just an innocent flirtation.
She had begged Annie to cover for her---although she did not tell her why so Annie didn’t have to lie for her----so she could sneak out undetected. She would be back before Kat got worried anyway.
Lord Tom just wanted to see her, but he was worried about upsetting the Lord Protector and getting in trouble.
As much as I love my Uncle George, he can be pretty unreasonable when it comes to the Seymours, Elizabeth mused. She understood his concerns, and she certainly didn’t forget her stepmother’s words. Nonetheless, it would be better for all involved if they all just got along, instead of just fanning flamers.
She was wearing a green brocade dress and had the new jeweled tiara her brother had gotten her for her birthday.
As she walked through the sea of red, brow and yellow leaves, she spotted Thomas Seymour at the edge of the forest, leaning against a tree.
He smiled pleasantly at her, making her feel all warm inside. And yet, she hesitated, seeing a gleam in his eyes that made her stomach churn. He seemed on edge. Something was wrong.
“Is everything well with you, Uncle?” Elizabeth called, trying to settle her nerves, reminding herself that he would not hurt her.
“Of course, dear Bess,” Thomas laughed, straightening. “Why do you ask?”
Elizabeth shook herself, perhaps she was just imagining things. She crossed the last few yards over to him. “I was just wondering why you didn’t go hunting with the other lords.”
“Ah, and miss seeing my favorite Tudor rose.” Thomas took her hand and kissed it. “Never.” He then kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger for a fraction on a second. “Every day, you grow more beautiful. I shall miss you when you leave England.”
Elizabeth blushed, averting her eyes. “You are too kind to me, my lord.”
Thomas put his hands on her cheek, caressing her, making her shiver as he got dangerously close.
“My lord,” she breathed. “We shouldn’t.” She tried to take a step back, but he roughly pulled her towards him, pressing his mouth on hers. His hands moving to her back and going downwards.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!”
It was like she was hit by a hurricane, torn away from Thomas Seymour, and threw her behind someone: Lady Catherine Parr.
The Duchess of Bedford did not say a word as she beheld the man in front of her as if he were vermin. She merely wrapped an arm around Elizabeth and lead her away.
It wasn’t until Catherine brought her into her apartments, did Elizabeth realize she was shaking, her heart pounding against her chest and feeling a sudden desperate need to scrub her body thoroughly.
To her surprise, Kat Ashley wasn’t the only one waiting for her, Mary was as well.
“Elizabeth, what were you doing with him?” her sister demanded. She and Catherine had seen her outside unaccompanied and had stopped the youngest Seymour brother. While Mary had gone to Elizabeth’s lodgings to speak to the woman in charge of her sister, Catherine had gone to run interference.
“He said he wanted to talk to me, but he didn’t want our uncle to know about it,” Elizabeth explained.
Of course, he said that. He wanted to be alone with you, a nasty voice sneered.
How could she have been so stupid?
“I don’t care what he said,” Mary snapped, fire in her eyes. “You know better than to be alone with any man not related to you. Do you realize what could have happened if someone saw you? Rumors would be flying that you were just like your mother!”
The red-haired princess’s head snapped up, rage filling her, washing away the shame and sickness she felt at her foolish actions. “You think I am a harlot then,” she snarled, ignoring Kat’s gasp at her foul language. “You think I’m my mother’s daughter and that if Philip was alive, I would have seduced him away from you.”
Mary raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Catherine Parr quickly caught it. “Let us not be too hasty,” she suggested. “Let’s talk about this calmly.” She then turned to the princess. “Your Highness, do you understand that if anyone discovered you and Lord Seymour, they could have spread rumors that would have harmed your reputation, convincing the King of Denmark and Norway to reconsider choosing you for his son. Not to mention what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten there in time.”
With those words, Elizabeth remembered the probing tongue invading her mouth and the hands that slid down the fabric of her dress as though there was nothing between them and her skin.
She never felt so dirty or so stupid.
Thomas Seymour was seething and kicking himself. He had acted too quickly. He had thought a year would have worked, but clearly Elizabeth was not as adventurous as her mother was said to be.
Worse, that whore Catherine Parr had stepped in, he would have dealt with her, but he was afraid of gaining the attention of the people inside the castle, making things worse for him.
He would have to stick to his original plan, abduct the princess from her bedchambers and elope, bringing nothing but ridicule and dishonor to the Boleyns.
For now, he would have to flee the castle. Parr would waste no time running to George Boleyn to tell him of what had happened between Elizabeth and the dowager queen’s youngest brother. She would leave out how the princess has been asking for it, begging him to kiss her, to touch her.
Thomas grunted in frustration as entered his chambers. He then blinked, stunned at what he was seeing.
Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, dressed modestly in simple robes of black with a brown trim, a black cape on his head, was lounging in an armchair as if he owned the place.
“What do you want?” Thomas sneered at the man in front of him. He had risen high on the favor the late king and the Boleyns and yet he still dressed as though he were a lowly lawyer. Pathetic.
Cromwell said nothing, he just nodded at someone over Seymour’s shoulder. Two guards seemed to materialize out of nowhere and grabbed Thomas’ arms, holding him in place.
“What is the meaning of this?” the knight demanded, struggling as the men bound his hands behind him.
“Thomas Seymour, I have a warrant for your arrest,” Cromwell declared, lifting his chin haughtily.
“On what grounds?”
The earl grimaced. “Treason: attempting to marry Princess Elizabeth and conspiring to kidnap her.”
“That is preposterous. What proof do you have of this?!” Thomas spluttered.
“I have sworn statements from your men attesting that you hired them to commit this dead,” Cromwell answered, a trace of smugness in his manner.
You are lucky, my hands are bound, or I’d strangle you, you black corvid, Thomas Seymour seethed.
“Guards, kindly escort Mister Seymour to the barge where he will be taken to the Tower of London,” Cromwell commanded. “I would suggest you hurry for when the hunt ends, I am certain George Boleyn will love to make you the next target.”
Notes:
To be clear, Thomas Cromwell had no idea what Thomas Seymour did. He is just very lucky that he can get Seymour to the tower before George gets back, find out and rip his head off. Not that George won't be visiting Seymour's cell very soon.
Elizabeth and Mary are going to be having a talk soon.
It originally was going to be Mary who got her sister away from Thomas Seymour, but I decided it would be historical justice for Catherine Parr to do it.
Chapter 26: Family Loyalty
Summary:
Family ties are tested when Thomas Seymore is arrested for treason. Two brothers find each other at odds.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
October 11, 1548
Stupid, stupid girl, Elizabeth berated as she buried her face in a pillow, willing herself not to cry. What had she been thinking? How could she have been so foolish?
He had been so charming, so handsome. It had been innocent. At least that was what she thought. She had been certain there was nothing wrong with a chaste flirtation. And besides, he was Edward’s uncle, he would never lead her astray.
Stupid, stupid girl.
The bed sagged as someone sat down on it. For a minute, she thought it was either Annie or Kat, and was about to apologize for using her cousin to cover her slipping out to her secret rendezvous and for sneaking away from her governess respectfully.
“Bess.” It was Mary. A few seconds later, she felt her sister lie beside her. “Please look at me.”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Why not?” Her sister’s voice was gentle, no trace of her earlier anger.
“Because I’m stupid.”
“No, you were being stupid,” Mary corrected, wrapping her arm around her sister who cuddled up to her.
The younger princess glanced up, befuddled. “What is the difference?”
“The difference is you are the most intelligent person I know.” Mary tucked a stray hair behind her sister’s ear. “You are not stupid. You did something without considering the consequences. That was bad but it does not define you. And I know you will never make the same mistake twice.”
“Never,” Elizabeth agreed, rubbing her eyes. “Mary, I am sorry for what I said about Philip. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You should not have,” her sister agreed sternly before her features softened into a contrite expression. “But I shouldn’t have brought up your mother. I know that I don’t have a high opinion of her so using her to scold you wasn’t right.”
The two of them lay there together, silence descending upon them like a warm blanket after a long hard day.
“Do you still blame her?” Since she had learned of the Great Matter and all that had happened afterward, Elizabeth had always wondered if, years after Anne Boleyn’s death, did Mary still view Anne as the cause for all her troubles. She just never dared ask.
“I think I will always blame her,” confessed Mary, heaving a heavy sigh. “But I also blame others as well especially our father.”
Elizabeth moved her heard to her sister’s chest, taking comfort in the beating of heart. “Sometimes I worry that you will stop seeing us as our father’s children and instead see us as our mother’s children instead.” She did not need to clarify that she was speaking of herself and Ambrose.
She knew of the rumors of her mother’s infidelity, how the late Duke of Suffolk had tried to make those rumors a reality. There were times when she wondered if her sister ever looked at her and Ambrose, trying to pick out any features that belonged to their “true father.”
“Never,” Mary murmured, kissing Elizabeth’s head. “You two are my siblings now and forever, just like Edward and Margaret.”
The princess smiled, pleased to hear that. She opened her mouth to speak when suddenly the door flew open, and a servant came in, her manner anxious. Both Elizabeth and Mary shot off the bed, growing concerned themselves.
The maid, Wilma curtsied twice, waiting for Mary’s nod before speaking, “Your Highnesses, Lord Cromwell begs your forgiveness, but he needs to interview your governess and steward.”
“Why would he need to do that?” Fear flashed across Elizabeth’s countenance. Was Kat Ashley and her husband getting in trouble for her mistakes?
“Thomas Seymour has been arrested for treason,” came the gentle reply.
Had Mary not been holding her by the shoulders, Elizabeth would have crumpled to the floor.
“For what reason?” prompted the duchess regent of Somerset.
Wilma averted her eyes. “I am afraid I don’t know. The Solicitor General only wished for me to inform you of that. He did not go into details.”
“Thank you, Wilma.” Mary dismissed her with a nod before pivoting to her sister. “I am sure Cromwell just wants their testimony, Bess, nothing more.”
Elizabeth nodded, seeing the sense in the older lady’s words. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep her tears at bay.
Stupid, stupid girl.
“HE WAS PLANNING ON DOING WHAT!”
John Dudley was taken aback. He was expecting that sort of reaction from George, not the cold fish Seymour brother.
The Earl of Hertford gripped the edge of the mantelpiece, taking a deep breath as he steadied himself. “Forgive me for that outburst, my lord. But the extent of my brother’s stupidity is astonishing.” He then narrowed his eyes. “You said that Lord Cromwell had evidence of his plot?”
Northumberland nodded. “Thomas Seymour sent letters to Thomas Percy for men to attack the residence of Princess Elizabeth, assuring him that once Prince Edward was crowned, he would take my dukedom. Percy decided to forward the letters to Cromwell instead.”
Hertford paled considerably at the mention of his nephew being crowned. Before frowning in bafflement. “Why would kidnapping and eloping with the princess get my nephew on the throne?”
“Your brother didn’t say, and I suspect that was the reason Percy realized he was better off reporting to Cromwell,” Dudley replied.
Edward pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thomas seems to think that all of England will jump at a chance to have the true heir on the throne, they only need to declare him king. I’m sure in his little mind he thought all he had to do was promise to make Lord Percy a duke and he would forget what happened to his father when he rebelled. Where is my brother now?”
“The Earl of Essex thought it might be prudent to send Thomas Seymour to the Tower of London before the hunt was over,” answered the duke. After all, it would not do if the Lord Protector decided to dispense justice himself instead of waiting to have him executed legally.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Essex believes that the Duke of Kent will use your brother’s treason to keep the betrothal between his son and the Princess Margaret.” John didn’t even have to hide his irritation. Philip once said that it was easy to act as double agents as George can be imprudent and thoughtless at time, the duke mused, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The late Duke of Somerset had been as infuriating as Kent at times, but he always did have a knack for being insightful.
“Of course, he will,” Edward agreed, gritting his teeth. “I’m sure that I will be booted from the council and my sister sent away from court.”
“Lord Cromwell and I shall try our best to talk him out of it,” Northumberland professed firmly. “In the meantime, I would suggest you warn your siblings that they are to be interrogated to make sure they had no knowledge of Thomas Seymour’s plot. They plan to start with you once they have finished with making sure there were no vipers in the princess’ household.”
Anything else was cut off by a shout that seemed to echo throughout the palace: “I WILL KILL HIM!”
Northumberland sighed. George Boleyn had returned and was now baying for blood.
Prince Edward was with his mother when his oldest uncle came in and informed them of Thomas Seymour’s treason.
“This can’t be true. Thomas isn’t a traitor,” Jane protested. “These must be false charges cooked up by the Lord Protector and that black hearted covid.”
“They have evidence.” Hertford had wondered if it was false evidence Cromwell created just to have an excuse to hurt the Seymores’ standing. He dismissed it after John had told him about Thomas Percy.
While stupid, Thomas’ actions did have a small bit of logic. Despite the disgrace of his father and no longer having an earldom, the Percys held a lot of weight in the North, and it was entirely possible that they would jump at a chance at gaining back what they had lost.
It was still a foolish plan as too much could go wrong.
“Obviously, false evidence to frame him,” contradicted Jane, huffing haughtily.
Edward Seymour's tone remained smooth as he spoke but there was a trace of irritation. “There are also witnesses to Thomas’ behavior with Elizabeth. Kat Ashely, John Ashley, and Catherine Parr. They talk of him giving her gifts, complimenting her---”
“All perfectly innocent,” the queen dowager objected.
“He even lured her to spending time with him alone and embraced her romantically,” Edward continued as if his sister had not spoken.
“She must have seduced him,” declared Jane.
“Elizabeth wouldn’t do that.” The Duke of York had been silent throughout the exchange between his uncle and his mother, but he was quick to speak up in his sister’s defense.
Jane’s expression softened and she patted her son’s shoulder. “You’re right, dear. This is clearly some misunderstanding. I just fear that my brother will lose his head before it can be cleared up.”
“I am sure that Ambrose won’t let them kill him,” Prince Edward insisted. After all Thomas Seymour was Edward’s uncle and Ambrose would never allow harm to come to his brother’s blood.
“If Thomas is found guilty, he will be executed,” Edward Seymour stated bluntly. “It is best to cut off all ties with him.”
The queen dowager rose from her chair, almost knocking it over. When she spoke, her voice shook with a rage that Prince Edward had never expected his sweet and doleful mother to possess. “You heartless rogue! You would throw your own brother, your flesh and blood to the wolves. How can you act in such a cruel way? Do you have no care for your family at all?”
“Thomas has dug his own grave. If you care for our family at all, you won’t let him drag us down as well,” Edward countered in a cold and clipped tone. With that, he turned his back on them and strode out of the chamber without another word.
Jane sank to the floor, a hand over her mouth. Her whole body shook in either rage or sorrow.
Prince Edward ran to his mother, giving her a back hug. “It will be all right, Mama, I will talk to Ambrose. I will convince him not to harm Uncle Tom, I promise.”
George Boleyn stalked into the Tower of London, his rage mounting with every step he took. Cromwell was keeping up the pace, hissing warnings not to lose control.
The Duke of Kent ignored him, his mind swirling as he recalled his conversation with his dear niece.
George had just returned from the hunt and had changed out of his riding clothes when Cromwell arrived at his rooms to tell him of what Thomas Seymour had been plotting and what had occurred just hours before. At once George had raced to the Princess’ apartments, determined to make sure she was not harmed.
“Uncle George, please don’t be mad at Kat or John, I am the one who tricked them,” Elizabeth pleaded. “It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. I thought it was just an innocent flirtation, but I should have known better.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I don’t blame you for this,” George affirmed, embracing her.
“You should!” Elizabeth exclaimed, pushing him away, frustrated tears shining in her eyes. “I was so swept up in his charms, I didn’t think. And even when I was suspicious, I still went to him and let him kiss me!”
“HE DID WHAT!” George roared so fiercely that his sweet niece had stepped away from him as if she were afraid he would hit her.
He had barely been able to assure her that he was not angry at her. He then swiftly rode out of the palace and to a barrage that would take him to the tower. Unfortunately, Cromwell had suspected what would happen and had beat him there.
“He has to be unharmed for his trial,” maintained Cromwell as Sir John Gage opened the cell door, shuffling to the side to let the two men enter.
Thomas Seymour smirked when he saw his visitors which just enraged George. “My lords, what an unexpected pleasure,” he simpered as he bowed mockingly. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
“I promised you if you didn’t leave Elizabeth alone, I would destroy you,” Kent snarled.
“Well, she certainly enjoyed my attention. I’m sure if Lady Parr had not interrupted, she would have spread her legs for me like a whore in a brothel,” Thomas jeered.
Rage engulfed George and all he could see was red. He lurched forward, slamming Thomas bodily into the wall before wrapping his hands around his neck, squeezing the life out of him.
It took three guards to restrain him.
“Get off me! He dies today!” George shouted.
Cromwell quickly stood in front of him, blocking the still smug prisoner from sight. “If you care a wit about your niece’s reputation, you will calm down now!”
Thankfully, this penetrated the enraged duke’s haze and he stopped struggling. The guards released him, but they stood behind him just in case. “What do you mean? How would killing this bastard hurt Elizabeth’s reputation?” he barked.
“Because rumors will spread of Seymour's relations with the princess, if you kill him, people will say that you did so because he stole her virtue or that you are covering it up,” Cromwell explained.
While George digested his words, Cromwell spun around, his voice deathly soft. “If you know what is good for you, Master Seymour, I suggest you plead guilty and give us a confession that excludes your actions today.”
“Why would I do that?” Thomas laughed. His voice sounded raspy as the air returned to his lungs, pausing to take a gulp of air before he continued. “Aren’t I supposed to be truthful in a court of law?” His bravado deflated slightly when the Earl of Essex smiled nastily at him.
“You are quite right. In the court of law, you are to be truthful, and I will be submitting your letters to Percy as evidence,” he remarked. He waited until Thomas’s expression became puzzled. “You know the letters where you mention your discussion with your sister about putting Prince Edward on the throne.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the prisoner denied, his eyes narrowed. “What are you babbling on about?”
“Of course not.” Cromwell stared at him like a he was a cat toying with a trapped mouse. “But once I present these letters, questions will be raised about Dowager Queen Jane’s treason.”
Thomas’s eyes widened, and he lunged at Cromwell, only to be blocked by one of the guards. “Leave Jane alone. She hasn’t anything to do with this.”
The Earl of Essex didn’t even blink. “Well, the judges might see matters differently if I am forced to bring this up at your trial. They might wonder if you and your sister had a different kind of conversation about King Ambrose, one where he dies or is disposed. As those suspicions rise, I will be forced to investigate and who knows what I might find that might cause your sister to follow in your unfortunate footsteps to the block.”
George Boleyn was watching this exchange in silent fascination.
Thomas’ visage was a mixture of emotions: outrage, anxiety, and fear. A far cry from the arrogant cad, he had been moments before.
He finally sagged, sliding against the wall. “What do you want me to do?”
“Plead guilty, tell the realm that you had planned to kidnap and forcibly marry the Princess Elizabeth,” Cromwell instructed. “Say nothing else. Your punishment will be beheading.”
“And you will leave Jane alone,” Thomas prompted.
“She will not be accused of your treason,” Cromwell vowed.
That was some specific wording, George noted, suppressing the urge to smirk. He wisely did not express his suspicions.
“Fine, I will do as you ask,” the youngest Seymour brother snarled.
“Excellent. Thank you for your cooperation,” said the earl as he turned to walked out of the cell.
George gave his rival once last disgusted glower before he hurried after his companion.
“And that is why you should always keep your temper. Things go more smoothly that way,” Cromwell lectured as they strolled through the courtyard to the main gate.
Ignoring the thinly veiled rebuke, George studied him for a few minutes. “I was just curious about those letters, you received from Percy. I was wondering if you had them.”
“I am not an amateur, Your Grace, I have them for the perusal of Edward Seymour and Queen Jane and whoever else might want to read them,” the Lord Chancellor announced, a tiny hint of smugness in his tone.
Now Kent was suspicious. “Did he really write to Thomas Percy?” he questioned.
“He did send a letter to Lord Percy. I merely exaggerated a few things,” Cromwell replied in a low voice. “I also have a sworn statement from Francis Bryan that while out drinking Thomas Seymour once declared that he hoped to poison King Ambrose to make way for Prince Edward.”
George was aware that Francis was actually sick in bed. “It is nice to hear my cousin recovered his strength enough for you to interview him.”
“What can I say, my lord? When it comes to serving the realm, I don’t like to leave anything to chance,” Cromwell explained with a faux modest expression.
George could not help but laugh and he thumped the older man on the back causing him to stumble a little. “I am very glad you are on our side.”
“As you should be.”
King Ambrose sat on the window seat in his sister’s chambers, his eyes gliding around the room, taking in the decor. Elizabeth’s taste was French and English with a little bit of the Scandinavian and Italian works thrown in.
Tapestries of chivalric romance swathed the walls. A miniature of Fredrick of Denmark was displayed on the mantelpiece. A beautiful French vase stood next to it, holding a bouquet of tiger lilies inside.
When he had heard about Thomas Seymour's arrest and why he was arrested, Ambrose was half tempted to join his uncle as he took off for the tower to give that knave a good thrashing. However, he decided that he needed to see his sister. He also wanted to check on Edward but had decided against it, thinking that his younger brother probably wouldn’t want a reminder that the man who had dared to assault their sister was his uncle.
“Ambrose?” Elizabeth entered the chamber with a serene expression, acting bemused as if she had no idea why her brother was here.
A haggard looking Kat Ashley stood a few steps behind her. She curtsied at Ambrose before leaving them alone.
“Come sit with me,” he requested. He did not order her as he was her brother before being her liege.
Elizabeth did so, sitting beside him, smoothing out her dress, giving herself an excuse to avoid his eyes.
“John Dudley has appraised me of what happened while I was on the hunt,” Ambrose remarked, his scrutiny locked on his sister, trying to gage how she was feeling. Unfortunately, she kept her features composed in stoic mask as she usually did.
“If it helps, I know how you are feeling.” Ambrose frowned deeply. “Having someone you trusted, use you for their own gain.”
It took Elizabeth a moment to realize Ambrose was talking about the time he was held captive by Henry Howard. “That’s not the same,” she argued. “Henry Howard was overseeing your household; you had no choice but to trust him. I had no reason to be near Lord Seymour. He was luring me, and I fell for it.”
“No one thought he was capable of…you know,” Ambrose finished lamely, not wanting to say it out allowed. His blood boiled as he pictured Seymour kidnapping his sister who would have fought him every step of his mad vile plan. “But there is more, isn’t there? Something else is bothering you.”
“I liked it,” Elizabeth admitted in a quiet voice. “The attention from an older man who didn’t see me as a little girl, the idea of a forbidden relationship, the flirting. But I never thought it would go so far. I never thought his intentions for me were anything but pure. How could I be so childish?”
“You are not childish. I have met men of fifty who are far more immature than you,” Ambrose assured her. “You are the smartest person I know. But you’re not perfect and that’s not a bad thing. I’m not perfect either.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “Well, I knew that.”
Ambrose tried to school his features into an appropriately outraged expression, but he was too glad to see his sister relaxing to stay mad. He just bumped her shoulder playfully.
All would be well.
October 20, 1548
His mother had been shocked when his Uncle Thomas had plead guilty and confessed to a panel of judges and in front of a crowd of spectators. Agents of the Duke of Kent and the Earl of Essex was distributing copies of the confession to make sure that everyone knew of his uncle’s treason.
If Edward were to be honest, the knowledge that his uncle was planning on kidnapping and forcing his sister to marry him disgusted him. He had gone to Elizabeth to apologize for his uncle’s actions, she had gently assured him that he had nothing to apologize for.
If Edward were to be honest, he did not want to plead for his uncle’s life. But the image of his mother’s collapse when they announced that Thomas Seymour would be executed. The way she cried over losing her sweet brother. The way she had condemned the Earl of Hertford for turning his back on Thomas.
For her, he would beg for leniency. Lifetime imprisonment would allow his uncle to live but still be punished for his crimes. He was certain it was a good compromise.
Technically he should bring this matter to the privy council, but he felt that Ambrose would be more inclined to listen to an eleven-year-old boy then his advisors would.
Despite having to consult his Lord Protector, Ambrose would often spend an hour of each day listening to petitioners. He sat on the grand throne that once belonged to their father, painted gold and red.
Ambrose sat tall on the throne, trying keep a dignified expression on his face but he could not conceal the spark of pleasure at seeing Edward, shooing away his groomsman as he stood up and hugged his brother.
“Ed, what are doing here?”
“I had a petition for the king,” the Duke of York explained sheepishly.
“King? Ned, I’m your brother.” Ambrose ruffled his hair affectionately. “Whatever you want, I will give it to you.”
“It is about my uncle.” Edward swallowed as his brother’s face darkened, not needing to be told which uncle. “I am here to beg for a less severe punishment.”
Ambrose pivoted, averting his gaze. “Ed, I can’t. He has committed treason. He has admitted to committing treason.”
“But he didn’t, he was only planning to,” the Duke of York blurted out and instantly regretted it. This was no time to quibble over semantics.
His brother gave him the stink-eye for his careless words, his tone becoming heated. “That makes no difference. He had intent to harm Elizabeth, he deserves to die for it.”
“I am not saying he doesn’t deserve punishment for his actions, just that he has loved ones who don’t want to lose him.” Edward tried to appeal to his brother’s mercy.
Unfortunately, that had the opposite effect. “As do all traitors. If I were to spare every man and women who committed high treason because they had loved ones, no one would be punished.” Ambrose was no longer avoiding his brother’s eyes, now he was just glaring.
Edward was getting frustrated as well. Why couldn’t Ambrose just understand how important this was to him? Did he even care that he was killing his half-brother’s uncle?
“All I am asking is for his sentence to be commuted----” Edward protested, only to be interrupted.
“AFTER WHAT HE DID AND WAS PLANNING TO DO TO MY SISTER, THE ONLY THING HE DESERVES IS DEATH!” Ambrose roared, spit flying from his mouth.
Edward took a step back, shocked by his brother’s sudden outburst. Then he frowned. “Your sister?” he repeated, a rush of anger filling him. “Bess is my sister as well.”
“Then I would think you would want her tormentor executed,” Ambrose bit out, her fists clenched.
“He’s my uncle,” Edward insisted. “How would you feel if our roles were switched, and I was going to let them execute your uncle?”
“Uncle George would never act like that wretched knave, Thomas Seymour!” Ambrose shouted. “Get out! Your petition has been denied, and you will never speak to me or Elizabeth about that man every again!”
“How can you turn your own flesh and blood away like that!” Edward demanded. “How can you be so cruel? Do you not care for your sibling’s feelings at all?!” Margaret had asked where Uncle Tom was, and his mother had been unable to answer her. He could only imagine how she would feel if she found out that he was dead.
“If you cared, you would not be asking me to spare the man who assaulted our sister and was planning to abduct her,” Ambrose shot back. “I have said my piece on this. Thomas Seymour dies by the headsman.”
“Amby, he’s my uncle,” Edward reiterated weakly, knowing the battle was lost. “He is my mother’s favorite brother. He plays horsey with Margaret. Whenever, I felt alone, he would visit and cheer me up. Please, don’t kill him, for me.”
Ambrose did not soften, in fact he seemed even angrier. He turned his back to his brother, walking up to the throne, sitting down on it. “Leave, Ned, now.” He spoke in a cold voice, his eyes like flints of ice.
It was like his brother was gone and all that was left was an unyielding monarch, unwilling to show mercy.
October 27, 1548
Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford and his wife, Ann, were the only members of the Seymour family present in the Tower of London. The room they stood in had no windows and was bare of everything but a block and a basket.
He was rather surprised that they had gone for a private execution, expecting that George Boleyn would want a spectacle, let all of London see his brother’s humiliation and defeat.
I also would have thought he’d have wanted my brother to be whipped through the streets, pelted by rotten fruit before he was hanged, drawn, and quartered. The earl glanced about the crowd of nobles. All of them grime faced except one. George Boleyn, Duke of Kent was grinning which only get wider when the executioner arrived.
“Oh God, he’s drunk,” Ann observed, her eyes wide.
Edward grimaced, as he watched the hooded man stumble up to the platform, his hands shaky. Ann, who had spent the last sixteen days calling her brother-in-law, a fool, murmured in sympathy.
Thomas Seymour was brought out; he was disheveled with a messy beard and hair. Once he saw the block and the reality that this was happening sunk in, he began to fight with the guards, trying to get away.
“Edward, help me!” Thomas shouted as he spotted his brother in the front of the crowd. “I don’t want to die! Edward, brother, please, help me.”
Edward gritted his teeth, he had told Jane that Thomas had made his own bed but hearing his brother’s desperate screams and knowing the horrible fate that was about to befall him, it was hard to stick to that.
What could I do? the logical side of him pointed out. Even, if I wanted to, I couldn’t save him. Not from this. He will die, but I will live, and I shall make sure that George Boleyn dies just as painfully as my fool of a brother.
Ann rubbed his arm as if she could sense his thoughts.
“Any last words?” the executioner slurred.
“I am innocent! I have done nothing wrong!” Thomas shouted, his voice hysterical, a wild look in his eyes. “The Boleyns are demons. They will kill us all!”
The two guards forced him to his knees and forced him to lie his head on the block.
Edward watched as the headsman raised his axe and swung down, missing, and hitting his brother’s back. He tried again, hitting his head this time. Thomas had stopped struggling and was now crying with pain.
The axe fell nine more times before finally Thomas Seymour's head was removed from his neck, a scarlet river of blood flooding the pedestal.
Ann, who was the strongest woman he had ever known, turned her head so not to see the gruesome scene. Her husband continued to look at the mess that was left of his brother.
This day died a man of much wit and very little judgment, Edward proclaimed to himself, his gaze flying to the Duke of Kent.
The duke wasn’t smiling anymore, and his expression was now of horror.
Take a good look, Boleyn, for this will be your fate, I swear.
Miles away at Windsor, Edward tried not to think of his uncle, instead focusing of the guests who had arrived today.
His mother was chatting with Frances Grey as Princess Margaret played with Frances’ younger daughters.
“Ned, come on, play with us!” Maggie entreated as she dashed up to her brother.
Edward shook his head as he leaned against the tree, he was sitting under. “I don’t feel like it.”
Maggie pouted but she was soon distracted by Kathy and Mary tagging her. She chased after the two girls.
To his surprise, Jane Grey did not join them and instead sat by him. “What do you want to do?” she questioned sweetly.
Edward shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Oh good, I am the best at doing nothing!” Jane exclaimed, causing Edward to snort. “Really though, I much prefer reading then to be running around.”
“Me too,” Edward agreed.
“I also love cloud watching,” Jane continued. “Why don’t we do that and then you can go back to your nothing.”
Edward laughed, a weird feeling in his stomach like it was full of butterflies. “I guess we could do that.”
Jane’s eyes lit up and she lay down on the grass, staring up at the sky. Edward copied her movements, unable to tear his eyes away from her, his dark thought forgotten as he focused on his friend.
Neither of them noticed their mothers sharing a secret smile.
Notes:
Just in case I haven't made it clear, Edward is less upset about his uncle getting executed (although it does upset him), but the fact that Ambrose won't even consider it for his brother. On the other hand, Ambrose feels betrayed that Edward would even ask him to spare a man who would have hurt Elizabeth. This is the first big crack in their relationship.
You will never convince me that Cromwell killed Anne because he hated her. I think that is an insult to the pragmatic man he was. He would do whatever he could to service the king and the realm. He is a good man to have on your side, it is when he is not on your side that he becomes ruthless.
Chapter 27: Putting the Past Behind Us
Summary:
Elizabeth prepares for her departure to Denmark. Ambrose crosses a line with his friend just as another friend returns to court.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
April 23, 1551
On the feast day of Saint George, England’s patron saint, King Ambrose chose to attend his first privy meeting. He was now sixteen years old. He was a man fully grown to most people. He had decided it was high time he got involved in the matters of the state of his kingdom.
King Ambrose wore a black and red brocade jerkin with a white hose. He had yet to grow a beard (much to his immense displeasure) and preferred his hair to grow long, feeling that it gave him the appearance of a lion with a luxurious mane.
“How goes clearing my father’s debt?” Ambrose inquired. “I have made a solemn vow not to decorate my quarters until the royal coffers are filled.”
“Your sacrifice has not been in vain.” The Lord Treasurer, the Duke of Northumberland, favored him with a fond smile. “And your decision to sell half of your father’s possessions has gone a long way to help us downsize the country’s debt.”
Ambrose grimaced as he thought of how much excess his father had, managing to squander away all he had gained from the seventh King Henry. If anything, he had taught Ambrose what not to do with his money. “And how is the state of our economy? Are we recovering?”
“We are, my lord, as long as we don’t get involved in any military ventures,” Cromwell noted.
While he kept his features composed, young ruler felt like groaning. He wanted desperately to prove himself, win some glory for England and himself through military might as his grandfather and father did. However, his father’s wars were part of the reason for the financial ruin they found themselves in.
No, he had to act differently. Find ways to make money before he could go looking for admiration of his skill on the battlefield.
“I believe we should hire a man named Thomas Gresham,” Dudley proposed. “He is well known for his financial acumen; he managed to undo the mismanagement William Dansell was causing in the Low Countries.”
“Send for him immediately,” commanded Ambrose. “I wish to also put more money in trading and exploration ventures if we can afford it.”
“I shall look into to it,” John Dudley affirmed with a nod, already making notes and calculations. Thankfully, his oldest son could take charge of his duties as the head of the North council as he would be far too busy.
“We have the latest news from the English Ambassador in the Imperial courts,” William Cecil announced. He was the newest King’s secretary as well as member of the privy council. He was proving himself to be a shrewd advisor already. “The marriage agreement has at last been finalized. There will be proxy wedding in a few months and the Princess Joanna will arrive in England within a year.”
“And what of my sister, Princess Elizabeth?” Ambrose inquired, not wanting to discuss his upcoming nuptials as he was very much not looking forward to them. “Have all arrangements been made for her departure in May?” As much as he loathed to think of Elizabeth leaving him, he knew that her betrothal could not be broken any more than his could. Well, if they wanted to remain on good terms with Emperor Charles and King Christian, they would not break their engagements.
Still, the past three years had done little to enthuse him on his upcoming wedding. Why could he not marry a woman like Mae Dudley? She was charming and witty as well as breathtakingly beautiful.
“Speaking of weddings, I think we should discuss the matter of Prince Edward and Princess Margaret,” Edward Seymore spoke up, taking his advantage of being the aforementioned royal children’s uncle to be able to bring them up unprompted.
George Boleyn schooled his features into a stoic façade, but all could see the jeering glint in his eyes. “Ah, yes, as I recall, did the French Ambassador not suggest a fine match for the Duke of York? Princess Claude, I believe he said.”
Had he really made that offer, I would have thrown him out, Ambrose thought. Although Princess Claude was the second oldest of her sisters, she was cursed with frail health and undesirable traits such as a hunched back and a clubbed foot. As far as he was concerned his brother deserved a better wife than that.
“Uncle, I feel we should look into all prospective brides before choosing one,” Ambrose informed George, acting as though he was the one who wanted Edward married to a French princess. He then directed his next words to Edward Seymour. “As I recall, my dear sister, Margaret already has a fiancé, does she not?” His tone was challenging, daring the Earl of Hertford to argue.
After the debacle of Thomas Seymour, it was only the monarch’s love for his younger siblings that had convinced him to not banish Edward Seymour and the Dowager Queen Jane from court. It was only Cromwell and Dudley’s urging that had allowed the earl to keep his position on the privy council.
“She does, Your Majesty,” Edward conceded, not letting a trace of displeasure show on his visage. “However, they are almost ten years apart in age so I thought perhaps, it would be better to seek another bridegroom. Like perhaps Prince Carlos of Spain.”
“My lord, have you gone deaf?” Ambrose demanded, growing angry. “I have said that Princess Margaret is engaged. What part of that is hard for you to comprehend?”
Realizing that he was on shaky ground, Edward inclined his head deferentially. “My deepest apologies. I did not mean to offend.” He pretended not to notice the smirk on the Duke of Kent’s face.
“Good.” The English monarch relaxed in his chair. There was some tension in the air, and Ambrose had half a mind to end early just so he could leave. However, he knew there were still matters to discuss.
When the Earl of Hertford stalked into his apartments, his wife could see the anger burning in his eyes.
“What happened?” Truthfully, Ann could make a shrewd guess. He had just returned from the privy council chambers which meant either the Duke of Kent or King Ambrose had inflamed his ire.
“That boy is a brat,” he sneered, his lip curled in disgust. “He treats me with nothing but disrespect. He and his uncle are so smug and arrogant, thinking they can act is if I am but a dirty beggar, unworthy to be in their presence.”
Edward Seymour began to pace as if he was feeling trapped and needed more space to roam. “Does that boy not remember that it was I who alerted the king about his great-uncle’s treachery? Does he not realize that instead of standing idly by and letting a viper attack him, I trapped Norfolk and Surrey, making sure they paid for their crimes?”
Ann scoffed inwardly, You stoked Norfolk and Surrey’s resentment until Norfolk said the wrong thing and Surrey chose to take Ambrose hostage. She did not point that aloud as she knew her husband was not one to delude himself. He was just irate and being spiteful.
Instead, she poured him some wine from the nearby pitcher. “Here. A drink will help.”
From the look on her husband’s face, it was clear, he doubted her words. Nonetheless, he took the glass from her, sitting down in the great velvet chair, he loved so much, taking a sip of the red liquid. “He has plans to ennoble Thomas Howard, the son of the man who took him hostage.” He scowled darkly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if gives Brandon’s brat his father’s title as well. He even plans on making his cousin a duke. It is like that boy is willing to give honors to every untrustworthy knave in the kingdom instead of the man who has worked for him despite his uncle’s constant insults.”
“Do you have a point or are you just going to whine about the unfairness?” Ann prodded as she reclined on the love seat.
Edward glared at her. “I will find a way to undermine the Duke of Kent’s hold over the boy, one way or another.” Red-hot fury engulfed him. “Kent has spent far too long heaping relentless humiliation on the Seymours for him not to pay for it.”
After his brother’s foolishness, George Boleyn had used it to strong arm the council and coax Ambrose into keeping the betrothal between the Earl of Wiltshire and Princess Margaret intact. And of course, there was the matter of Thomas’ utterly horrifying and embarrassing execution.
Ann’s eyes narrowed. Suffolk could not break George Boleyn’s hold over the old king, why do you think you will be any more successful with the new ruler?
The earl must have caught sight of his wife’s doubt through his peripheral vision. “If I cannot win the Boleyn brat over than I shall move on to my nephew.”
“Careful, husband, that is almost treasonous,” admonished Anne, although she did not sound at all perturbed by the prospect.
“Not to worry, dear wife,” Edward comforted. “Unlike my foolish siblings, I will not make any sudden moves that will only serve to harm me in the long run. No, this will take patience and years of work. Edward needs to be molded into the perfect replacement for his brother.”
It would take time, and he would have to curtail his sister’s smothering of his nephew. However, he was certain that he could groom his nephew into a strong leader who listened to his uncle and rewarded his uncle for his good deeds.
Of course, that would depend on whether or not King Ambrose needed to be replaced.
Edward Seymour sipped his wine as his resentment continued to boil, threatening to spill over.
In Princess Elizabeth’s rooms, there was a flurry of activity as she and her ladies were chatting in Danish, practicing for the day they landed in Denmark. Elizabeth was showing her design for a new fashion, she was eager to introduce to the court.
“My lady, Lord Robert Dudley is here to see you,” Kat Ashley announced, causing Annie and her other ladies to glance at her with concern.
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, knowing the reason for his unexpected visit. He was here to tell her that he was getting married. She thought about sending him away, not wanting to deal with the conversation that followed. However, she was a princess, and a princess was always gracious, never turned someone away when they wanted an audience.
She nodded her consent and Robert Dudley was admitted into the drawing room. The wish to speak with her alone was visible on his countenance, but after the debacle with Thomas Seymore, he didn’t dare.
Kat took pity on them, herding all the ladies to an antechamber with the exception of Annie who was pretending to be absorbed in her book, temporarily blind and deaf to all that was going on around her.
Robert took a seat next to Elizabeth on the windowsill, keeping a respective distance. “Forgive me for coming so abruptly.”
“It is quite all right, I am always glad to have you here,” the princess assured him, awkwardly shifting in her seat, unable to meet his eyes. “Particularly when I know that soon, we will be far apart.”
“Run away with me,” Robert blurted out, causing Elizabeth’s head to snap up in surprise. He swallowed thickly. “King Ambrose will forgive us. He’ll probably thank me for keeping his favorite sister in England. So, before it is too late, let us go find a priest and get married.”
Elizabeth reached out to cup his cheek with her hand. She leaned, pressing her lips against his briefly. “My first kiss was stolen, my second given and the rest will be for my husband.”
Robert sighed, a sad smile on his face. “I feared that answer, but I expected it.” He kissed her hands. “I hope he will make you happy, Bess, I really do.”
The princess bit her lip to keep the tears from falling. “And I hope that you and Amy Robsart will find happiness as well.” Her gaze locked with his. “Perhaps in another life, we could have built a life together.”
“No,” he denied. “Because you would have always deserved a better husband than I.”
“I won’t forget you,” Elizabeth promised. “Will you remember me?”
Robert gave her an incredulous look. “My princess, you are impossible to forget.” He kissed her hands before he got up, bowed, and left the chambers.
Elizabeth watched him go, a melancholy expression etched on her visage. Annie scuffled over to her side, wrapping her arms around her.
“Are you sure you want to go to Denmark?” Annie asked innocently.
Despite herself, the future Crown Princess of Denmark and Norway laughed. “I think there is a part of me which is nervous that the Fredrick in the letters isn’t the true Fredrick. Nonetheless, I want to take a chance on him, I want to be a queen and I want to do my duty.”
I will not cry over what could have been, Elizabeth declared. Robert will always be someone special to me. However, he is my past, Fredrick is my future.
April 30, 1551
“Gilly, there you are!”
Upon hearing his friend’s voice, Guildford Dudley gritted his teeth, his shoulders squared as he tried to keep his temper in check.
“Remember what father said,” Warwick hissed in his younger brother’s ear before turning to bow to the king.
Ambrose nodded his head at the oldest Dudley boy before turning his focus on his friend. “I have been searching for you everywhere.”
Guildford kept his gaze on the wall hangings that were littered sparsely throughout the hall, half afraid his friend would see the fury in his eyes should he turn around. “Well, you have found me, Your Majesty, what can I do for you?”
If Ambrose noticed how terse his friend was acting, he did not comment. “I was thinking we could partake in a game of tennis later. What do you say?”
“I am afraid, I cannot,” the youngest son of Northumberland replied, trying, and failing to sound regretful. “I have family business to attend to.”
“Oh? What family business would that be?” Ambrose’s brow knitted together as his scrutiny flew from Guildford to John Dudley the Younger. He was beginning to notice the tension in the air, taking in John’s uneasy expression and the stiffness of Guildford. He wondered what was going on that had them both so upset.
“It’s my sister, Mary.”
“Guildford,” John warned, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.
The teenager in question did not even acknowledge his brother as he pivoted to look Ambrose straight in the eyes. “She’s pregnant,” he bit out the words as if they were acid on his tongue.
Ambrose was shocked. “Is it mine?”
Guildford’s visage turned red in rage. “Of course, it is yours. You are the only one who is sleeping with her!” he shouted.
If the courtiers milling about the corridor hadn’t been eavesdropping before, they certainly were now.
“I told you to stay away from her!” Guildford continued to scream, not caring about the listening ears that surrounded them. “Instead, you seduced her and now she is pregnant with your child! You ruined her reputation.”
The Earl of Warwick slapped his forehead. “I wouldn’t give him all the credit.” He was certain by tomorrow the whole court would be buzzing with the news that Mae Dudley was carrying Ambrose’s love child.
“Gilly,” the king began.
“My sister was engaged,” Guildford ranted. “Now I am sure Sir Sidney will retract his suit for what man would be willing to marry a woman pregnant with another man’s son.”
“I will see to it that he marries her,” interjected Ambrose. “He will not dishonor your sister in any way.”
This did not calm Guildford down. It just made him angrier. “You dishonored her the minute you invited her to your bed!”
The red-haired monarch was beginning to resent being screamed at like he was some erring child. “Stop acting like I forced your sister to become my mistress!”
“No one says no to a king,” Guildford snarled.
That was a loaded sentence and the implications almost sent Ambrose reeling. He felt as though he had just been slapped across the face by his oldest friend.
Before he could think of a retort, the younger John Dudley quickly stepped in front of his younger sibling, fearing that his thoughtless words would make matters worse. “You must forgive my brother, Sire, this matter has his humors out of sort. If we may take your leave?”
Ambrose nodded. “Tell your father, I wish to speak to him.” He then turned on his heel and stalked off.
When the king disappeared around the corner, the oldest of the Dudley brood smacked his brother upside the head so hard, it knocked off his cap.
“Why was I not told of this!” Ambrose demanded as the head of the Dudley clan was admitted to his audience chamber.
“We thought it would be better to avoid a scandal so close to your wedding, Majesty,” John Dudley the Elder explained. His manner was stoic, not betraying how he felt knowing he would soon have a royal bastard as his first grandchild.
“She is pregnant with my baby!” the English ruler protested. “I needed to be informed of this matter regardless of the circumstances. I should have been the first to know that your daughter was with child. My child.”
“Your bastard,” Dudley corrected.
Ambrose spun around, the disbelief and disgust palpable on his face. “That is your grandchild! How can you speak of them so disparagingly?”
John Dudley raised his chin defiantly. “I speak the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.” He then averted his eyes. “The babe, my daughter carries is my blood and I will be damned before I call them anything but my grandchild. However, neither of them can be the reason the marriage plans fall through. My daughter will not be Elizabeth Woodville or Anne Boleyn. She will not be the cause of so much pain, suffering or bloodshed.”
“You dare,” Ambrose growled, his eyes flashing dangerously.
Northumberland softened, averting his gaze “Forgive me, it is too harsh to solely put the blame of the tragedies that followed on those late queens. However, my point still stands. King Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville drove a wedge between Edward of York’s allies so wide that they turned on him and his children. Everything your father went through to have your mother, caused so much strife and unrest that even now, I fear that there will be people who will use any mistake you make to support your brother’s claim---”
“EDWARD WOULD NEVER BETRAY ME!” the younger man roared.
“People could still rebel in his name,” John countered gently, his tone sympathetic. “Your Majesty, I will do whatever it takes to protect your rule, I will not allow anyone to undermine it, directly or indirectly. Spain will not accept another one of their princesses being humiliated again. Thus, it is better for us all if I keep my daughter hidden away where no one can make assumptions that you are planning to act as your great-grandfather and father did and elope.”
Ambrose grunted as he turned away, hating how much sense those words made, not that he would admit it.
“My son, Guildford has requested leave from court,” the Duke of Northumberland announced.
“Granted.” King Ambrose clenched the edge of the table, grinding his teeth in anger. I bed your sister and you decided to abandon me, Gilly. Some friend you are. “Perhaps you should join them.”
“Are you dismissing me from my post as Lord Treasurer?” There was no surprise, bitterness, or anger in John Dudley’s voice, just disappointment.
“I will summon you if I wish for you to return.” That could not have been more of a dismissal if Ambrose hadn’t shouted for him to get out.
The duke took the hint, bowed, and exited without even a glance over his shoulder.
The next visitor Ambrose had was far more pleasant. He could not help but smile fondly as a dark-haired youth entered and dropped to his knees, his head bowed as if he were a lowly peasant, overawed by his lord’s kindness in granting him an audience.
“My king, I am grateful that you have sent for me, and I am---”
“Oh, get up, Tom.” Ambrose sized him by the shoulders lifting him up before giving him a bear hug. “I have missed you, old friend.”
“I have missed you as well, Majesty,” Thomas confessed, rubbing his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I kept refusing to come to court. I just didn’t think I could be around people who were judging me for what happened.”
“You are not to blame for your father and grandfather’s treason.” Ambrose gestured for his groom to pour them some wine. “You were just a boy.”
As he accepted the glass, nodding his head in thanks at the retreating manservant, Thomas Howard glowered. “You can’t imagine how it felt that day when my father told me that if he didn’t take you hostage, we would be imprisoned and maybe killed. I know it doesn’t excuse him, but he was scared and desperate.”
A black scowl appeared on the grandson of the late Duke of Norfolk’s face. “I know my grandfather and father committed treason and deserved their punishments. However, it is my feeling that Edward Seymour deliberately---”
Ambrose grimaced. “I know. Uncle George mentioned that in his opinion, the Earl of Hertford deliberately goaded your grandfather into saying something treasonous. However, your father’s actions were his own.”
Tom heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I know. But being angry at the earl is easier than being angry at my father.”
The other boy reached out and patted him on the back. “The past is in the past where it belongs.” He searched for another topic, one that was less painful. “I just found out that I will be a father soon.”
“I heard.” Tom made a face. “I was standing a few feet away when Guildford, uh, announced it.” He actually was going to say hello to Ambrose when the other boy had started yelling. Therefore, he wisely decided not to say anything as he did not want to be on the receiving end of Guildford’s wrath.
“Oh.”
The young Howard heir clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Guildford will calm down eventually. He always does.”
“You are right about that,” Ambrose conceded, a wry smile on his face as he threw his arm around Thomas’ shoulders. “I suppose we should focus on tomorrow’s ceremony instead.”
During the Mayday celebrations, Ambrose was planning on giving the men he selected titles. He had discussed it with his councilors. There had been some grumbles when it came to Thomas Howard, but Ambrose had put his foot down. Aside from a few knights, the only other title he would bestow was his cousin.
Thomas Butler, Earl of Ossory’s grandfather had given up the title of Earl of Ormonde for Thomas Boleyn. When he was younger, Ambrose had thought that was a trite unfair as his grandfather had a dukedom and an earldom.
Even now when he became more knowledgeable about what had occurred, Ambrose was determined to give his cousin what was his by rights. In fact, he felt that the Butlers had proven themselves so loyal to the Tudors, that earldom should be made a dukedom, therefore ennobling Thomas Butler as the Duke of Ormonde.
It is time to focus on family as they will always be there for me, Ambrose declared, a touch of bitterness inside of him.
After getting an earful from his father for his outburst, Guildford Dudley decided to partake in a stroll outside, his hand on the pommel of his sword, contemplating taking his anger out on a tree.
“Oh, dear, Lord Dudley,” a voice called. “I would hate to be the person on the receiving end of your anger.”
Guildford Dudley whirled around to see Jane Grey ambling up to him. Her cheeks were pink, and she was averting her eyes, embarrassed at her own boldness. “I did not mean to say that out loud,” she confessed.
The teenager chuckled, taking her hand in his and laying a kiss on it. “Well, I am glad you did for your voice has immediately calmed me. You know what they say, music soothes the savage beast.”
“Savage beast?” Her sparkling reddish-brown orbs met his. “My lord, you are not savage nor are you a beast. How can you speak about yourself in such a way?”
“I was trying to pay you a compliment,” Guildford remarked grumpily, more at himself than her.
Jane giggled and Guildford could swear it was as musical as a lute. “I do not accept flattery when it comes at your expense.” She sniffed in faux haughtiness.
“You are a remarkable woman, Lady Grey.” He coughed nervously. “I have decided to leave court for a while and I had hoped I could write to you, if you would like that, my lady.”
“Oh, I would like that very much,” Jane professed, clasping her hands together. “And I just know that King Ambrose will ask for you to return once things calm down.”
Guildford winced. Apparently, news traveled fast. Seeing his stricken visage, Jane fretted, “I did not mean to touch a sore spot, my lord---”
“Guildford,” he interrupted. “Please call me, Guildford.”
“Guildford. Then you must call me Jane,” she requested, delight lighting up her features.
The youth glanced about the courtyard and spotted some wildflowers. He walked over to it and picked it up, carrying to Jane, bending his one of his knees as he held out the makeshift bouquet to her. “Flowers for a lovely English rose.”
She laughed happily as she took them from him. Guildford got up and offered her his hand. “May I escort you to your chambers?”
“You most certainly may,” Jane declared, laying the hand, not holding the flowers, on top of his arm.
They walked together, discussing the little gossip around court. By the time they parted, Guildford was in such a good mood that not even his father’s decision that they leave court right away bothered him.
In fact, he planned to write his first letter to Jane as soon as they arrived back at their manor.
May 9, 1551
Ambrose prayed for rain. He glanced out at the sky, the cloudless, bluer than the ocean sky, and he prayed for rain. No. A storm, he amended silently, let there be a great big storm right now.
Alas, a king could command much but he could not bend nature to his will. Consequently, there would be nothing stopping his beloved sister from leaving him, sailing away to spend the rest of her days at foreign court.
“Don’t brood,” Elizabeth admonished as she hugged him. She wore a red velvet gown with golden brocade and matching French hood. Near the hem were little falcons holding the Tudor rose in their beaks. The jeweled B necklace was worn proudly around her neck. She might be leaving England, but she would not forget that she was the daughter of two great houses.
“I wasn’t brooding,” Ambrose protested as they separated. “I will miss you, sister.”
“And I you.” Elizabeth moved to Edward, enveloping him a warm hug. “I will miss you very much, sweet brother.”
Edward said nothing, just hugged her tightly, his expression grim. He was clearly holding back emotions, to appear more mature.
Princess Margaret was less willing to keep a somber façade then her older siblings. She was six going on seven. She had the blonde hair of the Seymores which she loved to tie up with either pink or white ribbons. She hugged her older sister with tears in her eyes.
“You won’t forgot me, will you?” she pleaded. “And you’ll write to me every day, right?”
“Of course, I will,” Elizabeth promised, kissing the top of her head, giving her hand a squeeze before moving on to Mary.
The two sisters had their own private conversation earlier this morning where Mary had promised to keep an eye on Ambrose and Edward, making sure to mediate the disputes, keeping the tensions between the Boleyn and Seymour faction from bubbling over.
Now they just embraced and bid each other goodbye.
“Be strong, little sister,” Mary murmured. “Always remember, you may be no lion, but you are a lion’s cub. You must show your fierceness and your fire.”
“Take care of them,” Elizabeth whispered in her ear before they parted and down the line she went, hugging her nieces and nephew before stopping at the blonde woman. “My lady Stepmother.”
Jane Seymour inclined her head politely. “Your Majesty, your father would be overjoyed if he could see you now. You have grown into a lovely young lady, and you will make for a glorious queen.”
Something flashed behind Elizabeth’s eyes and her smile became tight. “Thank you, for your kind words. Please know that I will remember how you were as a mother and mark your actions when I have my own children, taking lessons from them.”
She then went to George and Jane Boleyn, exchanging goodbyes with them before ending with Catherine Parr, affirming her friendship with the other woman.
After the private farewells were over, the royal family, along with the court, emerged from Dover castle and made their way to the port in a grand procession.
The great vessel that would carry Elizabeth across the North Sea to the banks of Copenhagen floated in the bay. It had been christened Queen Liz after its illustrious passenger.
A small crowd had formed on the beach as many had wanted to catch one last glimpse of their beloved princess. A child they had accepted in their hearts despite the circumstances of her birth, even before her brother was born.
Before Elizabeth made her way to the ship, she turned and addressed not just the crowd of spectators but the English court as well, speaking loudly so she could be heard by all. “My good people, I leave this country as Crown Princess Elisabet of Denmark and Norway. However, I bid you all to keep me in your hearts as the Princess Elizabeth for I would not be who I am today if it were not for all of you. I shall love you all always and forever!”
A roar of applause reverberated through the air.
“God save the princess!”
“She will always be our Princess Elizabeth!”
“The Lord blesses King Hal’s bairn!”
As the red-haired princess led her entourage to the gangplank, the people of England doffed the caps, kneeling to her as she passed them.
Go be the queen you were meant to be, Bess, Ambrose proclaimed, watching as his sister waved from the deck as the captain shouted orders for them to set off. I will not fail our parents. I will not fail England. I swear to you on my life, I will not fail.
Notes:
I know Robert Dudley married Amy Robsart in 1550 but I moved their wedding date by a year.
Ambrose is impulsive and has already shown his dislike of his upcoming bride publicly so John is not wrong to worry about how Spain might view him getting his mistress pregnant.
Chapter 28: A Family Matter
Summary:
Elizabeth arrives in Denmark. Meanwhile in England, the sweating sickness breaks out, leading to devastating consequences.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 14, 1551
Denmark
The ship, Queen Liz, arrived in Copenhagen within a week. The captain praised the winds for the smooth sailing they experienced. Kat Ashley thanked God that they had gotten to Denmark in one piece. Considering how sick she had been throughout the trip, it was understandable that she was glad to be off the boat.
Elizabeth was just glad that the trepidation she was feeling, like there were butterflies flapping about in her stomach, had finally disappeared. All she had to do was charm the people of Denmark and then she could settle in her new home.
She wore a dress of scarlet silk with gold embroidery, as they were the colors of the House of Oldenburg. She stood on the deck, keeping one hand on her French hood so the wind could not snatch it away from her.
The weather had been pleasant all week but judging from the dark clouds that were gathering in the sky and the light drizzle, there was going to be a storm soon.
I wonder if it is a good or bad omen that the minute I arrive in Denmark, it begins to rain, Elizabeth pondered.
“Your Highness, perhaps we should return below deck,” Kat suggested. “We wouldn’t want you to get wet.”
“They are about to lower the gangplank and I have already sent someone to get us rooms at a nearby inn,” Elizabeth informed her. “John is fetching umbrellas for us.”
Kat smiled at her. “Eager to start your life in Denmark, aren’t you, Your Highness?”
Elizabeth shot her an impish look. “The Crown Princess of Denmark should not start her first day in her new country, hiding in a ship from the rain.”
Lady Ashley nodded approvingly at her charge before shouting for the entourage to get ready to disembark.
Thankfully, the inn was only down the road, and they were not forced to stay out in the rain which helpfully stayed a light drizzle until they were safely inside.
The innkeeper was a jolly man by the name of Jensen. He was thrilled to be housing the new princess, even more so when Elizabeth thanked him in fluent Danish. He quickly found the best rooms for her and her household, promising that his cook would make the finest feast for supper.
Elizabeth prayed that it would not be fish as she was certain that poor Kat would never be able to have any seafood without throwing up. She did not say so out loud, as she did not want to embarrass her governess, nor did she want to seem ungrateful to the kind man who had offered her and her household shelter on such short notice.
“I think we might be stuck here for the night,” opined Jane Radcliffe. She was an eighteen-year-old woman, tall for her age with a slender figure. She had raven black hair and brown eyes. “Tis pouring now.” She stood by a window as the maids unpacked their things.
Annie’s scrutiny scanned the bedchambers they were in. It was not very large. Only a bed, a night table which had a candle on it and a small fireplace. She felt like they were cramped inside a small shed.
The room we had on the ship was bigger than this, she couldn’t help but grumble. However, she kept her complaints to herself, knowing Kat would tell her that she should counting her blessings and be grateful that they had gotten refuge on such short notice.
Her gaze slid to her cousin, admiring how well she seemed to adapt to their surroundings, giving her orders to the Danish employees directly, always doing so in a polite but firm voice, being sure to stress her gratitude.
Annie did not speak Danish fluently, and when a man came bounding in, speaking rapidly, she found herself lost. She looked towards Elizabeth, trying to gauge the context from her expression. A mixture of surprise, irritation and bemusement was painted on her cousin’s visage as she spoke to the man, her manner admonishing.
When the man left, Elizabeth turned to address her ladies: “His Highness, Prince Fredrick wished to greet us and not even a rainstorm would deter him,” she explained, her lips tugging upwards.
“Oh, how romantic,” Annie gushed, clasping her hands together in delight. It was something out of a chivalric romance story where the prince is so in love with the fair maiden, nothing could stand in his way as he rode to her on his white horse.
“Herre Jensen has been most accommodating and is allowing us to use the private meeting rooms,” the princess continued with the air of a woman who was torn between being flattered or exasperated. “I have requested the prince first dry off and change into dry clothes beforehand.”
Annie could not help but think that was a waste of a romantic moment. Instead of saying so, she and Jane moved to help Elizabeth prepare herself to meet her new husband.
Prince Fredrick was tall and muscular. His mousey brown hair was flattened by the rain. His face was angular; a strong jawline that was already covered in blond fuzz. He had clearly had the sense to bring dry clothes with him for he was dressed impeccably in a burgundy jerkin with black silk hose. He had an overcoat of red and gold.
When Elizabeth stepped into the chambers, Fredrick did not hide his elated grin which lit up his visage.
“My lady, I think the artist who painted your portrait owes you an apology,” declared Fredrick, speaking in his native tongue as he was well aware of the skill of his future wife. “For he failed to capture your true loveliness.”
The English princess let out a laugh at that, smiling coyly. “You are a shameless flatterer.”
“Ah but it is not flattery when it is true.” The Danish prince did an elaborate bow. “I hope I do not disappoint.”
“Perish the thought,” Elizabeth soothed. “You exactly what I expected. Impulsive and yet charming.”
“Some would say my impulsiveness is charming,” noted Fredrick. “Besides, you forgot witty, handsome and----”
“Humble,” Elizabeth supplied playfully.
Her future husband chortled at that before pulling something out of his pocket with a flourish. It was a ruby and pearl encrusted broach in the shape of a rose. “A rose for a rose.”
The princess flushed pink as she took the brooch, inspecting it before she fastened it on her dress. “It is beautiful. Thank you for such a thoughtful gift.”
Fredrick beamed at her. “It gladdens me to have pleased you. I have longed for our first meeting for many years.”
“Hence why you braved catching the death of a cold just to see me,” Elizabeth teased.
He had the grace to look abashed. “I do not regret it for a moment.”
“Nor do I,” she admitted. “Although we know each other only through the letters we have exchanged, it is nice to spend my first night in Denmark with someone who is not a stranger to me.”
“I hope you will come to see Denmark as your home,” Fredrick wished. “And you will be happy here.”
“I shall be the most happy,” speculated Elizabeth cheerfully.
England
His sister’s absence was strongly felt. Ambrose couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have his sister with him. Even when he was in Wales, he knew all he had to do was make a few days journey to go see her. Now Elizabeth was an ocean away.
He found himself inviting Mary, Edward, and little Maggie to court as often as he could, wanting to become closer with his remaining siblings. Unfortunately, that was proving to be a struggle.
“I will not sit here and be lectured!” Mary’s voice was deathly calm, her eyes glinting with the fury. The only reason she did not shout was the presence of her daughters and her youngest sister who sat only a few feet away.
They were having supper in the king’s private dinning chamber tonight, instead of having a meal with the whole court for which Ambrose was pleased about as he did not want his subjects watching as Edward and Mary argued.
“It is not a lecture,” Edward snapped, a scowl on his face. His manner of a petulant child with the way he was viciously carving his steak. “It is a simple fact. You poison the minds of our nieces and nephew with your hypocritical doctrine. The bible warns against idolatry and yet that is exactly what Catholic do.”
Mary was clenching her knife so hard that her knuckles turned white. “Our veneration for holy images and artifacts is not equal to our adoration of God. We do not worship the icons for they are mere things---”
“And yet you make such a fuss about them when they are destroyed,” Edward countered with a derisive snort.
“They are still holy and should be respected.” Mary glanced over at Ambrose, perhaps in hopes that he would take her side. She only got an apathetic shrug in response.
Ambrose was getting a headache and wishing Elizabeth were here. She would know what to say. She would stop the argument with just a few words.
“Uncle King?” Cathy’s voice broke into his thoughts. The eleven-year-old smiled serenely, pointedly not looking in her mother or her uncle’s direction. “May we be excused? Mazie and Aunt Maggie are tired.”
Ambrose’s scrutiny flew to the four preteen girls sitting at the edge of the table. Aside from Cathy, they were staring at their plates, shifting uncomfortably. He threw an irritated glare at his sister and his brother, before addressing the children. “Of course, you may.” He smiled kindly at them before gesturing to Lady Elizabeth Morton, Maggie’s governess and Lady Mary Norris, who oversaw his nieces.
The two women curtsied before ushering the girls out of the dining hall, relieved to leaving the room which brimming with tension.
“Are you pleased with yourselves?” the monarch demanded harshly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Arguing in front of children?”
“Forgive me, brother.” Despite his words, Edward’s manner was anything but contrite. “I feel that if Mary was your genuine and loving sister and subject, she would obey your rules and laws, instead of sticking to her heresy.”
“My faith is the true faith!” Mary abruptly stood up, the legs of her chair screeching against the wooden floor. “I will not stay here and listen to your insults.”
“Tell me something, Mary. If Catholicism is the true faith does that mean your husband is in hell,” Edward challenged.
Ambrose slammed his fist on the table. “Ned, you go too far!” he shouted as his sister recoiled as if she had been slapped, tears springing to her eyes. She then turned and ran out of the room, not even asking for permission to leave.
Edward grimaced. “If Mary doesn’t become a Lutheran, we will have more rebellions on our hands.”
Ambrose’ eyebrow rose, recalling a very similar argument from Edward Seymour. Lord Hertford was under the impression that Mary was seen as a ray of hope to the Catholic faction, especially now that she had a male heir with the Tudor surname.
Instead of calling his brother out on parroting his uncle’s line of reasoning, the teenaged ruler professed, “I have no desire to make windows into men's souls. As long as they do not raise arms against me, why should I care how they pray?”
The Duke of York’s countenance betrayed his doubt. Nonetheless, he remained silent, having nothing to stay to counter that.
“You will apologize to Mary,” Ambrose commanded. “It doesn’t matter what religion she is. She is our sister and has always been nothing but loving to us.”
Edward fidgeted, guilt flashing across his face. “I just don’t understand how she can be so stubborn.”
His brother laughed boisterously. “She is a Tudor, Ned, of course she is stubborn. It is in her blood.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Edward’s lips. “Not to mention she is our father’s daughter.”
July 1, 1551
“Sweet sister,” Ambrose called out, beaming at the young girl who sat with his stepmother, his brother, and his cousins. His smile grew tight as his gaze shifted towards Jane Seymore, but he nodded his head respectfully as he held out his arms for Maggie to run into them. “How are you on this lovely day?”
“Very well,” Maggie answered, kissing his cheeks with a loud smack.
Patting Maggie’s head, Ambrose straightened from his squat, observing the people in front of him. Frances Grey and the dowager queen had decided to have a picnic with their children. They had laid out a blanket for them to sit and for them to place a splendid assortment of sweets and pastries on silver plates. A yellow canopy shielded them from the sun’s harsh rays.
As Ambrose approached the group, they rose quickly, curtsying and in Edward’s case, bowing.
“Such a pleasant gathering,” Ambrose remarked as Maggie returned to her mother’s lap. “Ned, you find yourself surrounded my such lovely ladies, why do you still look grave as a tombstone.”
I was happy until you showed up, Edward thought ruefully, glancing at the pretty girl next to him. They had been swapping funny stories from their childhood when Ambrose had interrupted them, stealing her attention. Ambrose spoils everything. God forbid I can have one moment where I am not the spare who disappears every time he shows up.
“Your Majesty, would you and your companions like to join us.” Jane Grey gestured to Thomas Howard and Arthur Pole.
“I would hate to intrude.” Ambrose beamed at Jane, causing her to avert her eyes shyly. This only proved to fuel Edward’s jealousy.
“I am sure my brother is very busy doing…king things,” the Duke of York finished lamely.
His brother shot him a bemused look before sitting down between him and Jane, throwing his arms around his shoulders. Tom and Arthur choose to sit on the grass, not wanting to force one of the ladies to give up their spot on the blanket.
Ambrose was oblivious to Edward’s growing ire at him. “Do you really think I would pass up an opportunity to spend with my favorite brother?” He did not add that he was still feeling a bit lonely with Elizabeth in Denmark, Mary returning to her manor in Somerset with her children, his cousin James Boleyn and James Butler were now in Ireland with the Brandon boys. It didn’t help that neither Guildford nor his father had written to him, apparently not even trying to make up with him.
Additionally, Elizabeth’s departure had taught him to be more appreciative of these small moments with his remaining siblings.
“Your---”
“Jane, I beg of you, call me Ambrose,” the king beseeched. “All my cousins have leave to call me by my Christian name.”
Jane blushed bashfully as her younger sisters, Katherine, and Mary, clapped in delight.
“That is very kind of you, Ambrose,” voiced Frances. She peered at him suspiciously. He seems to be very friendly with my daughter. Does he lust after her as he did the Dudley slut or is this something more?
Frances Grey was an ambitious woman by nature especially in the wake of her father’s fall from royal favor. She and Jane Seymour had discussed at length the idea of Jane marrying Edward, believing it would benefit both of them. Nonetheless, if the king wanted to marry her eldest daughter, she would not object.
The queen dowager smiled sweetly. “Ambrose, I don’t believe I congratulated you yet on your impending fatherhood.”
The minute the words passed her lips, there was a sudden drop in temperature. Thomas who had been sampling a pasty started choking and then coughing, causing Arthur to clap him on the back. Frances became very still, her gaze darting between Ambrose and Jane. Some of the attendants gasped in horror.
Although, it was an open secret that Mary Dudley was pregnant with the king’s child, no one dared mention it in fear it would upset him or worse cause Emperor Charles to break the dynastic match they had planned for so many years.
To everyone’s surprise, rather than getting angry, Ambrose actually radiated pleasure. “Mazie has written to me that she is hale and healthy. She will birth a babe in November, and I can hardly wait to meet them.”
“Will you acknowledge the child as yours?” Jane Grey questioned curiously.
“Jane!” her mother admonished.
“It is all right, my lady.” Ambrose took Jane’s hand and laid a kiss on it, missing the poisonous glare his brother was shooting him. “Your candor pleases me.”
“Oh!” Maggie exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “If it is a girl, will you name her after me?!”
The Dowager Queen grimaced. “I am sure that Lady Dudley shall want to name her daughter after her sister.” As if trying to marry a pure-blooded princess to a jumped-up earl wasn’t bad enough, naming a bastard after my daughter would just be unbearable.
The teenaged monarch’s lips formed a hard line, as if he could read her thoughts. “I will acknowledge my baby with Mazie. After all, who could be so heartless that they would exclude and neglect a child?”
Your father, for one, Frances recalled, thinking of Mary. She bit her lips to fight back a smirk, appreciating Ambrose’ thinly veiled rebuke of his stepmother. While the boy was impulsive and sometimes would say the wrong thing to exactly the wrong person, he had his flashes of brilliance. God willing his impetuous and insensitive side would lessen as he grew older, and he would mature into a shrewd diplomat.
I just wish Jane would be his queen, Frances mused sadly. Jane would be the calming balm to his hot temper. Together they would be a magnificent ruling couple. Alas, I will have to settle for my daughter to marry the spare, the Duke of York. To the boy’s credit, he seemed infatuated with Jane and therefore, there was little chance he would have a mistress and if he did, he certainly would not acknowledge his bastards.
The conversation turned into one of a more innocent nature as Ambrose and her daughter asked Edward if Robert had mentioned how his siblings and parents were doing. Why Jane was concerned about the wellbeing of the youngest Dudley boy, Frances wasn’t sure. As long as she was forming a bond with her two potential suitors, the Marchioness of Dorset supposed it didn’t matter.
They had only begun eating the treats when Ambrose was called away on some urgent business.
The minute, Ambrose stepped into his private audience chamber, he knew it was bad news. His uncle’s trepidation was palpable on his face. Archbishop Cranmer’s hands were trembling. William Cecil and Richard Rich were whispering furiously. Hertford was visibly troubled. Cromwell was weeping.
Ambrose had to do a double take. Lord Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, consummate professional, always kept his cards close to his chest, was weeping like a child. He wasn’t wailing or making any noise, but his shoulders shook with silent sobs, there were tear marks on his cheeks and his eyes were red.
It was a sobering sight to see.
“What has happened? What has disturbed you so?” Ambrose interrogated, his scrutiny scanning the men of his council, trying to gage from their expressions what the matter was.
At first no one answered him, and the king opened his mouth to demand they tell him, only for the order to die on his tongue.
“The sweat is back,” Cromwell proclaimed, a tremor in his voice. “Gregory has fallen ill.”
July 4, 1551
“Have I displeased You, O mighty Lord?”
Thomas Cromwell would not call himself a deeply religious man. Truthfully, seeing the corruption the Catholic priests spread had turned him cynical. Even the Lutheran doctrine had its flaws.
Despite this, he still was a man of God, believing that He had plan for everyone and everything.
And yet, what was the purpose of killing two innocent, little girls, his precious Anne, and his sweet Grace? What was the purpose of killing a good woman like his beloved Liz? What was the purpose of killing his dutiful son, Gregory, robbing him the chance of succeeding to his father’s earldom, leaving his father bury his only remaining child?
These questions plagued Cromwell as he sat in the pew of Whitehall’s chapel.
“It is not right for a man to outlive his children,” Essex continued. “I know it happens. But I am an old man, why not kill me and spare Greg?”
At age sixty-six, the Lord Chancellor’s hair and beard had gone completely grey, his vision bleary with age, he could not walk anywhere without a cane. Oh, his mind was still as sharp as it had been all those years ago, but it was clear that his body was slowing down.
Gregory was the picture of health and he preferred living in the country. He should have lived.
“The sweating sickness took my wife and daughters,” continued Cromwell. “Now my son is gone because of that vile disease.”
The only outwardly sign of his morning were the black robes he wore. He had no more tears to shed, having spent them all in the days when Gregory was merely sick.
I should have been at my son’s side as he lay dying, but I was scared and weak. Was that his punishment? Gregory’s death for his failure to perform his fatherly duties. Cromwell shook his head that made no sense.
The earl glanced up, his gaze drifting over the glass-stained windows portraying Jesus Christ and some of England’s favorite saints like St. George slaying a dragon.
“Have I displeased you?” Cromwell inquired. “Have I have erred in some way that my family was taken from me one by one?”
There was no response. Not that he had been expecting one. He wasn’t even sure the answer would make him feel better whether it was negative or positive.
Eventually Thomas Cromwell got up, groaning in pain as his old bones creaked and the aches flared up. He would return to his office, trying to get his mind off the people he lost.
August 19, 1551
“It is going to be all right, little one,” Mary Dudley promised as she cradled her belly.
She had been foolish, she knew that. It was exciting and flattering that the king wanted her out of the many other ladies in court. Ambrose was sweet and amiable. He was someone she knew and trusted, instead of a stranger.
It had made sense at the time.
“And now I am paying the consequences,” Mazie muttered. She felt a small kick and she laughed. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, your mama is happy you are coming. And so is your papa. He is going to acknowledge you whether you are a boy or a girl.”
Oh, she wasn’t deluded enough to think she was in love with Ambrose or that he loved her. Moreover, she did not believe she would be sitting on a throne, wearing a crown, birthing the Prince of Wales.
“But you will be the child of a king,” Mazie cooed. “And he will take care of you.”
“Are you talking to yourself?”
Mazie jumped, she had thought she was alone in the garden of Warwick Castle, strolling through the hedges of various animals, eyeing the apples on the apple tree with ravenous hunger.
The left branches had been picked bare; the remains lay scattered at her feet.
His father emerged from behind another fruit tree, his expression was concerned. She had not seen that look directed at her since that day in April when she told her family that she was pregnant with King Ambrose’s child.
Her sisters had been sympathetic, her brothers outraged. Her mother admonished her, furious that she could be so careless, ranting about how she had destroyed her reputation, ruined her marriage and hadn’t she taught her to guard her maidenhood until her wedding night.
Her father’s reaction was far worse. He was angry and disappointed. It seemed that he less upset with what she and Ambrose did and more on how it would impact future relations with Spain, and how it would soon be whispered that the Dudleys were making a play for the throne.
It seemed that politics were more important than her. That some girl in Spain who everyone knew Ambrose hated was more important than his own daughter.
“Are you feeling well?” John Dudley queried, studying his daughter’s features, searching for a sign of illness.
Mazie tittered and linked her arm with her father’s arm. “I am fine, Papa, I just like talking to the baby sometimes.”
Her father’s brows knitted together. “The babe can’t hear you or understand you.”
“I know, but I like doing it. It makes me feel better,” Mazie explained, hugging her father’s arm. She then sobered. “I wish I could make mother feel better.”
They thought that the town of Warwick had escaped the strangling hands of the Sweat. Unfortunately, it seemed to have decided to make a stop, striking down several people before it wrapped its wicked fingers around the Duchess of Northumberland.
Her mother was now in bed, growing weaker every day. She might not ever meet her grandchildren, something that devastated Mazie.
John rubbed his face. “The doctor says that we must not lose hope. But how can we when we might lose her?”
Mazie swallowed thickly. She had been trying so hard not to give into her anxiety and sorrow, fearing she would harm her babe. Her father’s words caused her to be hit by a wave of grief and she struggled to keep her head above the waters.
Her father stopped abruptly, stumbling over the stone pathway. Mazie quickly pivoted so she could use both hands to steady him. “Father, are you well?”
“I just felt a little dizzy,” the Duke of Northumberland told her weakly. “I think I just need to sit.”
As they moved to the stone bench nearby, Mazie studied her father’s face, realizing the pallor of his visage. She reached a trembling hand to his forehead and gasped when she realized he was sweaty.
“Father, I am going to get the physician,” the young woman declared, struggling to stay afloat. You must stay well for your child. You cannot give in. You mustn’t.
Her father just moaned in response.
Mazie grabbed the ends of her skirt and ran towards the castle, shouting for some to come quickly. Merciful Lord in Heaven, I know I have sinned, but please do not punish my family, please! She pleaded.
When she looked back, she saw that her father had collapsed onto the ground and suddenly she felt a burst of pain, coming from her abdomen.
“Somebody help!” Mazie shouted as she sank to the ground, unable to keep running. “HELP! MY FATHER NEEDS HELP!”
August 22, 1551
According to his uncle George, the last outbreak of the sweating sickness had been an epidemic with more than fifteen thousand people dying. His own mother had almost been a victim. Everyone thought she would die, but Anne Boleyn made a miraculous recovery.
Only to die years later on the childbed, Ambrose noted bitterly.
Even though the death rate was lower this time, it was still no less dangerous. Ambrose had done as his father had, breaking up the court, only allowing a few to remain behind. George had sent Jane and their daughter to Ireland, hoping they could avoid the disease with their son and their wards. Jane Seymore, Edward, and Maggie had been sent to Leeds Castle for the same reason.
Ambrose was sitting alone, staying out at the Thames, contemplating everything when his uncle burst into his apartments.
“News from Warwick Castle.” There was no mistaking the sorrow in the Duke of Kent’s tone. Ambrose closed his eyes, bracing himself for the bad news. “The Duke of Northumberland died this morning.”
“No!” Ambrose exclaimed spinning around. “He can’t be dead. He can’t be. He was supposed to apologize to me, and I would have forgiven him, returned him to his position of Lord Treasurer. Then all would be well.” Obviously, Lord William Paulet would not be pleased about losing his position, but he would understand that he had always been the placeholder until John and Gil--- “What about Guildford? What about Mazie? Are they healthy?”
The letter doesn’t mention Guildford, which is a good sign, considering,” opined George, his manner grim.
“Tell on.”
“After seeing her father collapse in the garden, Mazie experienced a near miscarriage.” George held up his hands placating when Ambrose lunged forward, either to snatch the letter from him or about to run for the horses so he could ride to Warwick Castle. “She did not catch the sweat, nor did she lose the baby. However, she has been confined to her rooms, kept under close watch and under very strict restrictions.”
The relief on the English ruler’s face only lasted a few minutes before he began to pace like a colt ready to bolt. “I must go to Warwick Castle now. I must see them and pay my respects to John.”
I also would like to find out who failed to inform me that Northumberland was sick so I can ring their necks.
George let out a tired sigh, like he was dealing with a hyperactive child. “You know I am not going to let you run off to a disease infected town to visit a castle where a man died of a highly contagious illness and there are still sick people living there.”
“I do not need your permission!” Ambrose shouted. “I am the king!”
“You! Are! My! Nephew!” George jabbed a finger at his chest with every word. “I will not let you die! I realize you feel guilty right now because you realized that maybe your won’t talk to them until they apologize for something they had every right to be angry about was a stupid plan. That does not mean you can just risk your life.”
Ambrose scowled. “One day, Uncle, you are going to understand that as an adult and as a king, I can make my own decisions.” Despite this, he turned back to the window, knowing that the Duke of Kent had a point even if he wasn’t going to admit it to him.
George took a breath before taking an envelope from his wallet and placing it on the desk with a loud slap, causing Ambrose’s head to snap towards him. “John wrote you a letter. He wrote Cromwell and me one as well. Probably a lot of I’m-dead-try-not-to-get-yourselves-killed.” With that, the Duke of Kent bowed and began to move towards the exit.
“Uncle, wait,” Ambrose called after him. “Perhaps it is time to annul the betrothal between Maggie and the Earl of Wiltshire.”
George stiffened for a moment before realization dawned on him and he nodded.
The king waited until he was gone before he seized the envelope, tore it open, emptying out the contents. His eyes scanned the words on the page.
King Ambrose of England, Wales, Ireland, and France greetings,
I hope this letter is finding you well during these troubled times. I will keep this brief as I have barely the energy to speak, and I am sure my scribe would prefer not to linger in the chambers of a dying man.
Firstly, I must commend you on your choice of William Paulet as my replacement. He is a competent and wise man. He will be of immense help getting England’s economy in shape. I couldn’t have made a better choice.
Secondly, I ordered that there be no messages reporting my illness. I drift in and out of lucidity every hour. I suspect my death is near and I don’t want you doing something reckless.
Thirdly, I speak to you as your subject, not your councilor. I request you look after my sons and daughters, find proper spouses for them. I hope you will grant me this boon. Furthermore, should you do the wrong thing and acknowledge my grandchild, know that I, while disapproving, will be grateful.
Fourthly, you are not your father, and you are not your mother. I worked hard not to be defined by my father and I encourage you to do the same.
Fifthly, God save the king. Blessings on you, Your Majesty. May you live a long and peaceful life. May you have many children. May you rule justly and wisely.
Your most loyal servant, Lord John Dudley, Viscount Lisle, Earl of Warwick, Duke of Northumberland.
Wet spots began to appear on the parchment, smudging the letters. It took Ambrose a few minutes to realize he was crying.
Notes:
John was always going to die. He was the key to keeping the peace between the Seymores and the Boleyns. He was a voice of reason to both Edward Seymore and George Boleyn. I’m very sorry, John, but it is true.
Is it better or worse that Mazie was not in love with Ambrose when she slept with him? Or vice versa for that matter. For me, it is just two teenagers who really just did not think of the consequences and just had an attraction for each other. Did I mention they didn’t think of the consequences?
Also, just in case it wasn’t clear, Charles and Henry Brandon are with James Boleyn in Ireland, therefore avoiding their deaths.
Chapter 29: Welcome Old Friends and New
Summary:
Princess Joanna arrives in England for her wedding. Her first meeting with Ambrose does not go well.
Chapter Text
March 4, 1552
“It is good to see you back where you belong.” Guildford raised an eyebrow as Jane Grey glided up to him, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.
“Where is that, my lady?” He wondered as he beheld her. She was clad in a pink dress with dark flower pattern and black fur at the end of her trumpet sleeves. She was a vision of pure loveliness.
“At the king’s side, of course,” opined Jane with a titter. Her beautiful gray orbs shining with delight.
“And what of you?”
Jane was bemused. “Me?”
“Do I not belong at your side?” he inquired, taking a step towards her so their faces were inches away from each other.
The pink on her cheeks and the way she averted her gaze was all the answer he needed. He placed his finger under her chin and lifted her face up. “You have such a lovely smile; it brightens my day.”
“Such shameless flattery,” Lady Jane mock admonished. “Do you say this to all the girls?”
“There are no other girls,” Guildford replied, his lips curving upwards.
Jane’s breath caught in her throat, suddenly feeling very warm. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Prince Edward.
“My lady, there you are,” he greeted her, not even acknowledging the fourth Dudley boy. “I was hoping to speak to you. Alone.”
Guildford felt a stab of anger at the young prince, although he had the presence of mind to not let a hint of it show on his visage. His renewed friendship with the king gave him many privileges, alas one of them was not teaching that snot-nosed brat some manners like a teacher disciplining an unruly student.
He thinks just because he is the Duke of York, he can strut around, making orders. He thought to himself. Despite feeling resentful, Guildford bowed to the prince’s back before making his way to where Thomas Howard and Arthur Pole were chatting with Ambrose.
The young Dudley stiffened upon seeing Thomas Howard---who had regained his family’s titles and lands, his hand clenching for a few minutes. The minute I am gone, that opportunist slithers up to Ambrose like a snake, sinking his fangs into him. Guilford knew deep down that Thomas was not part of his father nor his grandfather’s schemes, but that did not make the boy any less untrustworthy.
“Gilly!” Ambrose greeted him with a hug. They had made up several months ago when the monarch had appeared at the Dudley’s castle with condolences and an official summons to return to court once everything had been settled.
He had arrived shortly after they had buried Jane Dudley. The Dowager Duchess of Northumberland had seemed to be on the mend only to hear of her husband’s death and she fell ill again. She did not recover a second time.
“Welcome back.” Arthur Pole greeted him with a handshake.
Thomas Howard nodded awkwardly, his gaze averted, perhaps sensing that Guildford was not as happy to see him as the other boys.
“None of that. We are all friends here,” Ambrose commanded, nudging Gilly. “Shake hands, the both of you.”
The Duke of Norfolk, ever eager to please, stuck his hand out, smiling awkwardly.
Underneath the king’s glare, Guildford took it, making sure to have a hard grip as he squeezed the other boy’s hand, wanting to make his message clear: Ambrose might trust you, but I do not.
Luckily, if Ambrose picked up on it, he did not say a word, instead clapping his friends on the back. “I am glad we are all together again. Especially on this wonderous day. Is she ready?” His eyes lit up in excitement.
Guildford smirked. “She is ready whenever you are.”
The death of their parents had put his sister through a lot of strain. Yet, she survived, managing to stay healthy both before and after the birth of her child. Even better, Sir Henry Sidney had agreed to marry her, either because he wanted to be married to the mother of the king’s acknowledged offspring or because he hoped to gain some of the favors that were being showered on the Dudleys.
Either way, his sister had given birth to a healthy babe in November and would be married in a few months’ time. However, at the moment she was waiting outside to present the little Fitzroy to the court.
Ambrose grinned and sauntered over to the dais, causing a hush to fall over the crowd as he mounted the steps. He did not sit down on the throne but turned to flash the courtiers a winning smile. “My lords, my ladies. Today is a very special day and I wanted to share it with all of you.” He signaled the sentries stationed at the great door to open it, revealing Lady Mazie Dudley with a few ladies trailing behind her.
Mazie was wearing a fetching dress of red silk with the fashionable trumpet sleeves, her brown hair tied underneath a velvet French hood. She walked down the aisle, her head held high, a proud smile painted on her visage. However, the eyes of the occupants of the room were riveted to the babe being carried in her arms.
The men and women bent their knees and inclined their heads politely as they passed. Only the Imperial and Spanish ambassadors showed no sign of respect and in fact seemed rather annoyed at the sight of the king’s bastard being presented as though they were a trueborn royal.
When Mazie arrived at the foot of the dais, she dropped down in a curtsy, holding out her baby in a sweeping gesture.
Ambrose announced, “My lords and ladies, it is my great pleasure to introduce my son, Lord John Fitzroy.”
He made no move to take the boy from his mother, knowing it would scare the infant if a stranger picked him up. However, he did lay a hand on his son’s head, admiring the chubby cheeks and the Tudor blue eyes.
To his delight, John reached out his small hand, his tiny fingers clasping around Ambrose’s thumb. I think I may have just melted, the monarch thought, trying to keep his emotions in check. He had no intention of his subjects seeing him burst into tears over his son.
Ambrose pressed a kiss on the top of John’s head. “You have the blessing of a king and a father, my boy.” The audience broke out in polite applause while John babbled happily.
His mother stood up, curtsying again before handing him to one of her ladies accepting Ambrose’s arm as the monarch lead the Dudleys and several of his family members to a more private setting.
Thomas Howard moved to follow when Guildford Dudley discreetly grabbed his sleeve, halting him before hissing in his ear: “If you betray Ambrose, I promise you that I will kill you myself.”
The Duke of Norfolk heaved a heavy sigh. “It is good to see you as well, Gilly.” He shook the other man off before following the Dudley-Tudor group leaving the room.
Mary was wearing a gown of grey brocade, fussing over her young children. Philip was now a boy of four, his hair was a mousy brown and Mary couldn’t help but tussle it every so often.
She had decided to stay behind and see her nephew at another time. Even though, she prayed her cousin would never learn of how her husband-to-be’s bastard was given such a grand debut at court, she would prefer that Infanta Joanna not think that Mary approved of this.
“My precious boy,” she murmured, searching for her husband’s features in his youthful visage.
“Your Highness.” Simon Renard, Spanish Ambassador, greeted her with a bow. He was a tall man with a swarthy complexion and a round face. He doffed his black cap before straightening, shooting a small smile at the four children who were clustered around their mother’s skirts.
“Your Excellency.” Mary nodded her head before gesturing to her offspring. “I would like to introduce to you, my son, Duke Philip of Somerset and his sisters, Lady Catherine, Lady Elizabeth and Lady Mary. Children, this is Don Simon Renard, the Spanish Ambassador.”
“You come from Spain where Mama’s mama was born!” Cathy exclaimed, her eyes lighting up.
Renard’s expression became very soft. “Katherine of Aragon was indeed born in Spain. Alas I never met her. However, I was very lucky to get an audience with her sister, Queen Joanna.”
“Is that the crazy one?” the young Mary inquired in a stage whisper, causing her older sisters to glare at her.
Luckily, Renard pretended not to hear, instead focusing on her mother. “Her Majesty learned of the book you are writing and wanted to be of help to you. She has instructed me to give you letters sent by your mother and a childhood diary their older sister, Queen Maria of Portugal left behind.” He pulled out a small leather book with a few pieces of folded parchment stuffed in it from his pouch.
Mary took the items and pressed them to her heart, gratitude overwhelmed her. She had not heard from her mother’s relatives in a long time----well she had never heard from them even when she was briefly engaged to Emperor Charles. “How did my aunt find out about this?”
“Through her granddaughter,” replied the ambassador. He rubbed his neatly trimmed beard, trying to conceal his knowing smirk.
The dowager duchess could scarily contain her surprise. She had started writing to Joanna sometime after Philip died, on suggestion of Anne of Cleves, the Duchess of Lorraine, wanting to reach out to her cousin so she would know that there would be one friendly face, actually five, waiting for her in England.
“I will express my thanks to her when she arrives,” Mary gushed.
Renard nodded before frowning momentarily. He then began to speak in his native tongue, knowing that listening ears nearby would not understand him. “I do hope that His Majesty is not planning on having his bastard at court once she arrives.”
Mary stiffened, her eyes shifting from side to side. Ever since Eustace Chapuys’ betrayal and execution, she had worked very hard to maintain a distance between herself and her cousin’s envoys, making sure that no one could suspect her of plotting treason. That meant no private meetings and always speaking in English.
Drawing herself up, Mary kept her features composed, not allowing her displeasure to show. If my father were still king, he’d probably have ambassador Renard expelled from court, if not arrested, and have me punished, whether I answered in English or in Spanish.
Ambrose would be a little more forgiving, but it wouldn’t stop rumors from spreading. Mary could not help but resent the ambassador for putting her in a situation where she was viewed with distrust.
“I assure you, Your Excellency, that the king has no intention of keeping Lord John at court,” Mary affirmed in English, although she kept her voice low. “He chose this date so he could see him before sending him to live with Lady Dudley and her husband.”
“I meant no disrespect, Your Highness.” The ambassador at least took the hint and ceased speaking in his native tongue. “I was merely concerned with how the king is insists on celebrating…his natural born son.”
Mary opened her mouth to point out that her father celebrated Henry Fitzroy’s birth, only to realize that bringing up her father, let alone his bastards, was not going to help her case.
Instead, she chose to defuse the situation or at the very least put an end to it. “Your Excellency, I can assure you that my brother has no plans other than to show his pleasure at being a father.” Before the ambassador could open his mouth, she quickly added: “I am afraid that there are matters I must attend to, I shall take my leave of you.”
Renard did not look happy, but he bowed again and said no more as Mary ushered her children out of the king’s audience chambers, ignoring her youngest two’s questions on what was wrong. Thankfully, Cathy and Lizzie, who despite not knowing any more than Mazie and Philip did, were old enough to understand that this was not something their mother felt comfortable talking about and they quickly distracted their younger siblings as they returned to their apartments.
March 29, 1552
“If that heretic bastard mistreats you, I’ll raise an army to destroy him,” Philip snarled as he hugged her.
“Be strong, Juana,” her father had whispered, kissing her head. “Do not forgot that you are the daughter of the most powerful man in Europe.”
The memories of her father and brother played in the infanta’s mind as she sat in in a room in Rochester Castle.
She was accompanied by her duenna, Doña Leonor de Mascareñas, and her companions, Beatriz Álvarez, Isabel Borgia and Sofia Íñiguez. These ladies had been handpicked for her, learning English alongside her, preparing to serve the new English queen at her husband’s court.
Her father was determined to make the match work, wanting to keep England from deciding on a French alliance even if that meant selling his daughter to heretics.
“Juana.” Her duenna’s voice was sharp. She was a plump woman with a narrow face and almond-shaped eyes that always seemed to piece through her charge’s soul. “You are a princess and a future queen. Do not brood.” Despite her scolding manner, her lips tugged upwards and there was a glimmer of affection in her brown orbs.
Leonor had taken care of Joanna since she had lost her mother at age four. The Infanta saw her as a mother figure and Leonor cared for her as though she were her daughter.
“We all know that the king is not as enthused about marrying me,” Joanna pointed out. “He has made that very clear.”
She remembered how Philip had been enraged when he learned of insult King Ambrose had thrown at his sister, not mention the scandal that was the birth of his acknowledged bastard just months before Joanna arrived in England for their wedding.
Emperor Charles had tried to hide both incidents from her, but her brother had wasted no time telling her, cursing their father for not seeing sense and marrying her to the Portugal prince, his late wife’s brother.
Instead, her uncle Ferdinand’s daughter, Catalina would marry Crown Prince John Manuel of Portugal despite their age difference. Considering how sickly, the boy was rumored to be, Joanna doubted they would be married for very long.
She supposed it was a blessing that she was not doomed to be a young widow…just like her unfortunate great-aunt.
“Your Highness.” Leonor’s voice cut through her thoughts. “King Ambrose might have his doubts, but once you two are married, he will fall in love with you. For he would be a fool not to.”
Joanna could not help but smile at her duenna’s loving words. “I pray that you are right.”
“Your Highness! Your Highness!” Beatriz came sprinting into the chambers. She was a girl with a slight build, raven haired and jovial demeanor. “There are riders approaching the castle.”
“Is the king with them?” Leonor demanded, not even admonishing the girl for running. Her scrutiny flew to Joanna, beholding her appearance.
She was garbed in an ebony dress with a white undergown with gold buttons down the middle. She wore a jeweled headpiece with rubies and sapphires which made her dark blond hair shine.
The Spanish princess was tall for her age, a narrow face with a hint of the strong Hapsburg chin, and thin cheeks. She was a lovely sight.
As it turned out, the king was not among the gentlemen who had arrived. The leader of the entourage introduced himself as James Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, son of the Duke of Kent who Joanna had been introduced the day before.
He was a tall man with brown hair and sky-blue eyes. He wore a red doublet with gold falcon embroidered on his jerkin. He had scarlet velvet hat with a white feather on top of it.
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady.” James bowed, taking her hand to kiss it. “You are far lovelier than I imagined.”
Joanna smiled politely, taking her hand away. “Lord James, it is a pleasure to meet you. You are the king’s cousin, are you not?”
“That is correct.” James grinned at her mischievously. However, it did not quite reach his eyes and his body language seemed rather tense.
“Is His Majesty coming?” Joanna wondered. “I have longed to meet him for many years.”
“My princess, I am hurt,” the man proclaimed with an exaggerated gesture. “Is my presence not enough?”
The Spanish Infanta felt prickle of annoyance at his arrogant tone. However, she masked her irritation with a sweet voice. “I don’t mean to be rude, Your Grace. I merely wanted to know whether or not my betrothed is coming to greet me.”
“He is busy at the present moment,” replied the young earl curtly. “Tell me something, in Spain, do all ladies dismiss a compliment or are you compliment so rarely you are not aware of when one has been given?”
Behind her, Leonor gasped at the blatant rudeness of the man’s tone. Joanna lifted her chin defiantly, keeping her temper under control. “In England, do men flirt with their cousin and sovereign’s wife on the day of their wedding?” she challenged.
A black scowl crossed the earl’s face, he opened his mouth to retort, only for the doors to open and Ambassador Renard was admitted.
To Joanna’s surprise, he bowed to James Boleyn first, calling him “Your Majesty.” It was then that realization dawned on her. King Ambrose had been in front of her the entire time.
Ambrose beheld her with disdain. “I shall take my leave of you, Madame, as you clearly do not want my company.”
With that he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving the Spanish Infanta humiliated. Her misgivings about their marriage had now intensified.
“I LIKE HER NOT!” Ambrose shouted.
George winced, praying that his nephew’s voice would not carry to the next room where the princess and her ladies were.
“She is ostentatious. She is unattractive,” Ambrose listed, counting off his fingers. “She is as cold as a fish. She is churlish. And this is the girl, you want to be my wife.”
“All right. Don’t marry her.” George paused just long enough for his nephew to stop his rant and stare at him in surprise. “Destroy years of diplomacy. Give the Emperor a reason to attack us. If you want to act like a child and throw England into turmoil, go ahead. I won’t argue.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t wed her,” groused Ambrose, pouting like a sulky child who was refused sweets.
“Listen, I know how you fell. I didn’t want to marry Jane at first,” George told him, walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. “I found her unappealing both in looks and personality. But when your mother died, she was there for me in a way no one else was. We fell in love. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but if you give her a chance, you might end up having a happy marriage.”
Ambrose grunted which his uncle took as the affirmative.
The wedding ceremony and the feast afterwards passed by in a blur. Ambrose barely spoke or looked at his wife throughout the festivities. He asked her to dance, but it was so obvious he didn’t want to that Joanna refused.
To his credit, he did not ask anyone else to dance, but she could see his eyes following a pretty fair-haired woman like a wolf stalking a hind.
It was surely a relief to the whole court when the royal couple retired taking the uncomfortable atmosphere with them.
“If you wish, I can sleep elsewhere for the night,” Ambrose offered once they were left alone in the queen’s bedchamber.
The bedchamber was filled with candles and there were rose petals scattered on the red sheets of the bed that had a dark purple canopy with the Tudor rose decorating it.
He is trying to make sure the wedding is unconsummated so he can ask for an annulment, Joanna speculated before shaking her head. “We have a duty to copulate, husband.”
Ambrose wrinkled his nose in disdain. “By God, do you Spanish woman know anything about passion or desire? Or is everything simply duty for you?”
The princess frowned. “I will not give you an excuse to get rid of me. Regardless, of what I want, I will do what I must.”
“What do you want? That sickly boy from Portugal? Perhaps a son of your uncle? Or maybe you would have rather married your brother,” the monarch jeered.
Joanna didn’t even think about it. She crossed the room and slapped her new husband across the face. “How dare you!” He could have said many things but accusing her of incest was vile.
He was stunned for a few minutes. He then lunged at her, kissing her hard on the mouth, she could taste the alcohol on his tongue.
Furious and frightened by his erratic behavior, Joanna pushed him off of her, moving to the bed was now between them. “Leave. I will not have you tonight. Not after such boorish behavior.”
Ambrose sighed. “I crossed a line by saying that about your brother. I apologize. I just wanted to rile you up so I could see if you had any fire within you or if you are always a frigid woman.”
His wife did not respond, turning her back on him as she sat on the bed. Does he really think that would make me feel better?
She turned her head when she felt him sit down across from her. He was taking off his robe and unbuttoning his nightshirt.
“Did you not hear me?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Will he force me?
“I did hear you. That is why I am undressing,” answered Ambrose smugly. “You said we have a duty to consummate our marriage.”
“Well, that was before your continued insults towards me.” Joanna fixed her gaze on the walls, admiring the finely crafted paneling, not wanting to see her husband in all his glory. “I will not lie with you.”
“Suit yourself, Madame. I believe there is a chair you can sleep on.” He gestured to a lone seat by the window.
His wife gaped at him, stupefied by the extent of his rudeness. He actually expected her to---or rather he didn’t. He thought she would either argue with him about the humility of being forced to sleep on a chair while he took her bed, or she would beg him to reconsider.
Infanta Joanna of Spain, the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles and his wife, Isabella of Portugal, would not play his game. If he wanted to act like a child, then that was his prerogative.
She held her head up high, grabbed a pillow, and marched to the wooden chair, not caring how uncomfortable would be.
“You are a stubborn woman,” Ambrose remarked from the bed, snorting.
She ignored him as she sat down and placed her head on the windowsill, trying to position herself where she was somewhat relaxed.
What seemed like hours passed before she maneuvered herself into an acceptable position with the pillow underneath her and her arm cushioning her head. The new queen of England was just nodding off when she felt arms encircle her, lifting her up and carrying her to the bed.
“Insufferable woman.”
As she drifted off to sleep, Joanna felt the covers being pulled up over her, and then there was the distinct sound of a door opening and shutting.
Chapter 30: Dangerous Games
Summary:
Drama abounds during Ambrose's birthday's joust.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
April 9, 1552
In celebration of his birthday, the king had arranged a joust. It was a cloudy day, but thankfully not so much that there was fear of rain ruining this splendid event. Instead, it shielded the spectators and participants from the harsh glare of the sun's rays.
Queen Joanna sat beneath a splendid gold canopy, on an ornate throne. A throne for her husband was also on the dais, but everyone knew he would be participating in the contest, rendering it merely symbolic.
Joanna’s fingers tapped the arm of her seat as her gaze searched for her husband, trying to pick him out among the knights on the field. As she did so, she recalled the morning after their disastrous wedding night.
The new queen had been roused from her bed by her scowling duenna. Leonor said nothing to her, but it was clear she knew of the events of the last night, at least in part. Consequentially, the governess was offended on her charge’s behalf.
The maids who helped the queen wash and dress had clearly been instructed not to say a word about what had transpired the night before. This suited Joanna fine as she did not even want to think of her disastrous wedding night. Instead, she focused on learning the names of the English members of her household.
She did not expect Ambrose to come to her rooms for any reason, whether to speak to her or for them to break their fast. Thus, she was startled when her steward came in to inform her that her husband was outside, wanting to speak to her.
Not wanting their meeting to be public, least it became another argument, Joanna dismissed her ladies before nodding at Miguel to admit him. Dona Leonor did not leave with the other women. Instead, she stood at Joanna’s side like a lioness ready to defend her cub.
The man who slunk into the queen’s rooms was a far cry from the arrogant and temperamental cad she had met last night. King Ambrose’s countenance showed genuine regret. “Madame, I wish to apologize,” he began, averting his gaze. “I acted boorishly last night, and it was unbecoming of me. I was drunk, but that is no excuse. I humbly beg your forgiveness for both my words and my actions.”
Whatever it was Joanna thought he would say, that wasn’t it. She had grown up knowing that rulers did not apologize. Her father certainly would not express remorse, and considering everything she had heard about Ambrose’s father, she suspected he was the same.
And yet, Ambrose was standing before her, contrite and earnest. It was oddly endearing.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Relief filled Joanna. Although, she had already resolved to move past the unpleasantness of their wedding night, she was glad that he was willing to admit to his bad behavior.
He did not stay long afterwards, but it gave the new queen hope for their marriage.
Joanna was shaken out of her reprieve by Sofia, “Your Majesty, the king comes this way.”
Sofia was a plump woman with blonde hair and a soft deposition, never speaking louder than a whisper.
In stark contrast was Isabel: russet locks, a long face, and her brown eyes narrowed suspiciously as she noticed the monarch’s approach. “I hear Lady Alice Rich is hoping he will ask for her favor.”
Now that Mazie Dudley was married and her affair with the king was over, there were many a lady who were wishing to catch the eye of the young monarch, hoping they would follow the footsteps of the Dudleys---perhaps not realizing that it had been Ambrose’s friendship with Guildford and the late Northumberland’s dedication to their realm that had truly helped the family gain their honors. A royal bastard had merely strengthened the bonds.
“Isabel,” Dona Leonor hissed.
“I am merely preparing her for that possibility,” Isabel defended, sniffing haughtily as she observed the woman in question. Lady Alice was sitting in the stands with her siblings, her mother, and her father, the Solicitor General. The girl had golden hair like Sofia, but with a rosier complexion. When the king passed by on his house, she seemed to sit up straighter, eagerness painted on her visage.
“My husband may do as he desires,” Joanna affirmed stoically. “All men have mistresses. Let him play with as many silly chits as he wishes. I am his wife.”
“Well said, Your Majesty,” complimented Leonor, beaming at her charge. “Well said.”
When Ambrose pulled on the reins of his steed in front of her, she barely even reacted, only standing up, and tying her lace blue ribbon around his lance.
“I shall dedicate my victories to you, my queen,” Ambrose declared, sounding like a child reciting a lesson they could care less about and were only doing it in hopes of receiving praise.
Joanna ignored his lack of enthusiasm and instead nodded politely. “As long as you do not get injured, I will consider it a victory.”
“Do you doubt my skills?” Ambrose was affronted by what he perceived as her underestimating him.
“I do not. Nor do I doubt the skills of your opponents,” she countered.
This got a genuine chuckle out of the king. “Touche, my lady. I will be careful.” With a respectful inclination of his head, he rode away.
The queen could not help but glance over in Lady Rich’s direction, a stab of petty pleasure bubbling up inside of her at seeing the girl’s dismay as Ambrose ignored her again.
She kept her features schooled in a serene mask as she returned her gray-blue orbs to the tourney field, waiting for the joust to start.
Sitting in the stands closest to the field, Lady Jane Grey twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, waiting eagerly as Guildford Dudley slowly rode up to her, a mischievous glint in his dark orbs. Beside her, she could hear her sisters tittering, but she ignored them, having eyes only for the handsome knight.
Jane was glad her parents were not present as she was certain they would insist that she give her favor to Prince Edward. Although she considered the Duke of York a good friend, he was not the one she yearned for.
They would say Guildford is not worthy for me as he is the fourth son of an upstart duke, she speculated grimly. Well, I say if he is a worthy match for a queen let alone the granddaughter of a princess.
“My lady,” Guildford greeted her, gesturing to his helmet that had a handkerchief wrapped around it.
Jane’s heart dropped in her chest like a stone, and she felt as though she had just been punched.
She glanced up at Guildford, wondering if this was some cruel joke. It was clear by his body language that he was finding her reaction amusing.
He accepted another woman’s favor and he’s laughing at me! Jane fumed, not sure if she wanted to rage at him or burst into tears at his deceit. How could he do this to me? Why would he be so heartless?
She thought he felt the same way she did. Had she been mistaken?
Jane’s scrutiny fell back to the handkerchief, noting that it had bits of blood and dirt on it, torn in a few places. Her brow furrowed in confusion, pink spots appearing on her cheeks as she wondered who this witch was. A woman he apparently had such strong feelings for that he would wear a filthy rag on his helmet.
There was a gasp from next to her and Katie’s hand gripped her arm before excitedly hissing in her ear, “He kept it!”
Jane’s gaze bounced from the handkerchief back to the still grinning Guildford. She was suddenly thrust five years in the past when she had first met him, how he had been bleeding, and she had offered her handkerchief.
“I thank you, kind lady, but I would hate to besmirch such a pretty thing with my grime.”
“Don’t you know it is rude to refuse to take a lady’s favor?”
Her heart thumped in her chest, her eyes becoming moist. “I am glad you have learned your lesson, my lord.”
Guildford winked at her before putting his helmet on, spurring his horse forward.
“Oh, how romantic,” Mary Grey gushed after Katie explained the significance of the exchange.
“It would have been more romantic if he hadn’t scared me like that,” opined Jane, sniffing haughtily. “He knew exactly what would go through my mind.”
Katherine Grey smiled knowingly. “He must have thought the surprise and delight you would feel after you figured out it out would be worth it.” She raised an eyebrow. “It was, wasn’t it?”
The oldest Grey sister fought to maintain an appropriately irritated expression. “That is hardly the point.”
Prince Edward seethed when he saw Guildford riding up to Lady Jane. She offered him her favor----clearly out of politeness. However, the pompous brother of the upstart Duke of Northumberland had the gall to reject her, riding off, leaving her to be comforted by her sisters---her outrage at the slight marring her lovely face.
The Duke of York preened in his armor as a thought occurred to him. Perhaps he should be thanking Guildford; his thoughtless actions had given Edward a chance to show that unlike some people, he was a true knight.
Prince Edward sauntered across the grass before stopping in front of the wooden seats. “My lady, I had hoped to wear your favor around my gauntlet so I may receive your blessing in the tournament.”
Jane hesitated for a fraction of a second before rising from her seat. “Of course, Ned. It would be my pleasure.” There was an odd note to her sweet tone as if she felt guilty about something.
Edward beamed at her as she tied her handkerchief around his gauntlet. He leaned down and kissed her knuckles, an uncharacteristically brazen move on his part. “With your favor, I am the bravest man alive.”
Jane blushed. “I hope you won’t be too reckless.”
“Never. I would be loath to worry you,” Edward assured her. He wanted to kiss her so badly, but he felt there were too many eyes watching them. The last thing, he wanted was for rumors to fly that he would bed her like his brother had bed Mazie Dudley. He would not tarnish Jane’s reputation. “Besides with your protection, I shall not fall.”
“I shall pray to God to keep you safe.”
Edward bowed low before bidding her goodbye, ambling over to where the knights not currently jousting were milking about. As he did so, he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He turned his head to see Guildford glaring at him through his helmet, the tattered rag flapping in the wind.
The young duke rolled his eyes. Obviously that fool can’t seem to understand that just because Jane tolerates his presence doesn’t mean she actually likes his clumsy attempts at flirting, he sniffed haughtily.
Lord George Boleyn was watching the tiltyard with a wistful expression. To be young again, he mused, his mood turning melancholic as the two knights lined up in opposite directions, waiting for the signal to charge at each other.
“You’re brooding,” Jane commented from beside him.
“It is my right to brood,” George groused. “I am an old man now.”
His wife had the audacity to roll her eyes. “You’re forty-eight. That is hardly an old man. Not a young one, but most certainly not old.”
The flag was waved, and the riders spurred their horses into a gallop, their lances and shields poised. The clash was not a dramatic one with both contestants getting a point for not breaking their lances. The spectators broke out in polite applause.
“I have been thinking of our children of late,” George voiced. “It is high time I found spouses for them.”
If Jane was surprised by this abrupt change of subject, she made no note of it. “Anyone in particular you have in mind?”
George scowled. “Well, I had the perfect bride-to-be for James.” The duchess gave him a nonplussed look. He pouted. “Fine. Lady Katherine Grey. It should balance the scales should the Prince Edward and Jane Grey match go through.”
“I am surprised you would be willing to let it.” Jane was fully aware that George would rather the children of the dowager queen remain unmarried.
Her husband’s countenance darkened. “Cromwell has pointed out that an English marriage is better than a foreign one.” He then added soberly, “He’s been thinking of retiring. Cromwell, I mean.”
Jane let out a heavy sigh. She had observed how the Lord Chancellor had seemed to be aging rapidly since the loss of his son. “That poor man has been through much.”
“Indeed,” George affirmed.
Silence fell between them as they watched the next round between Guildford Dudley and Arthur Pole. Guildford seemed rather vicious as he slammed his lance into the shield nearly knocking his opponent off his horse.
Jane cleared her throat. “And what of Anne? Any thoughts of husbands for her?”
The Duke of Kent smirked, his gaze sweeping over his daughter who was whispering something in Henry Brandon’s ear. “I don’t, but she does.”
“Will you allow it?” Jane questioned, her lips twitching upwards as she watched the young couple.
“Well, obviously my daughter should be married to a duke.” George rubbed his chin in a mock thought. “I suppose I could ask Ambrose to return the dukedom of Suffolk to the boy.”
“You really are an old softie, aren’t you?” teased Jane.
Her husband sent her an affronted glower. “I will have you know, my motives are purely selfish. This is the perfect revenge on Charles Brandon. His son marrying my daughter. He must be weeping down there.”
While Jane had no doubts that there was a grain of truth in George’s words, she knew that he was as fond of his wards as he was their children.
“Look Mama! Ned is next!”
Dowager Queen Jane grimaced as she held her daughter closer to her. As immensely proud as she was of her son, she wished her did not have to partake in such sports.
Princess Margaret was currently bouncing up and down on her mother’s lap, her blue eyes wide in childlike wonderment. Clad in a green dress with the Tudor roses embroidered on it.
Jane smiled sadly as she ran her fingers though her daughter’s blonde curls. My Magarey is the perfect princess. And a perfect princess deserves a perfect prince. She scoffed inwardly as she was painfully aware that the Boleyns would never let that happen.
The dratted Boleyns only cared for themselves. Oh, they were gracious enough to squash the sham of a betrothal between her daughter and the Earl of Wiltshire. However, it could not be clearer that they simply hoped to make Edward and Margaret fade into obscurity.
And the worst part was no one was willing to intervene.
The dowager queen’s scrutiny flew to her eldest brother who in deep conversation with the Earl of Salisbury, Henry Pole. Of all people, Edward should be fighting against the Boleyn regime in support of his nephew and his niece’s rights. Instead, just like all of Europe, he was content on allowing a bastard sit on the throne, flying in the face of God’s laws.
It was a travesty, one Jane was beginning to comprehend would never be put to rights for none seemed to care for justice, preferring to live a lie.
“Mama?” Margaret’s head was cocked curiously as she studied her mother worriedly. “Why are you sad?”
“I’m not sad, sweetheart,” Jane assured her, kissing the top of her head. “Not when I have you and your brother.”
Margaret and Edward were all she had left in this world, and she would hold them close forever.
James Boleyn had opted not to participate in the joust, preferring tennis and horse racing to sports that could lead to death or grievous injury.
He had decided to take break from watching----and sitting next to Henry and Anne as they flirted---- and decided to stretch his legs instead.
At almost sixteen, James Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, was a lanky teenager, almond shaped face, and a hint of a beard growing on his chin. He was clad in a silver jerkin with white sleeves.
He was not paying attention to where he was walking and collided with an auburn-haired woman. “Forgive me, my lady. I was admiring the view.” He extended a hand to help her up.
The lady’s eyes riveted to the falcon displayed on his doublet. “So, you are the real James Boleyn.” She spoke with a noticeable Spanish accent.
James ducked his head, having heard of his cousin pretending to be him from his father. He rather wished that Ambrose had chosen someone else to impersonate. It was embarrassing enough that he was always seen as the nephew of the famous Anne Boleyn. He didn’t need rumors of him flirting with his cousin’s fiancée on top of that.
“I am, my lady,” he admitted, avoiding her gaze. He suddenly realized he was still holding her hand and dropped it as though her touch burned him.
“Isabel.”
It took a few minutes for it to register that she was telling him her name. “That’s a----lovely name,” James complimented awkwardly.
Isabel smirked at him. “You and your cousin could not be more different, could you?” James’ shoulders sagged as he nodded sadly. “Good. I like that. I hope to see you again.”
With that, the Spanish lady left a dumbfounded James behind, wondering what had just happened.
Guildford did not care that he had won the competition, even managing to beat Ambrose when they went head-to-head. Instead, he focused on his anger at what he had seen.
Anger and jealousy overwhelmed him, boiling over like a pot left on the fire too long. Upon changing from his armor to a black doublet with matching hose, he stormed through the lawn, weaving through the groups of courtiers until he had found Lady Jane Grey.
“Why did you give him your favor!” he demanded before she could even greet him.
Like ripples in the water, Jane’s friendly and sweet visage hardened into stone. “I beg your pardon?”
Guildford was suddenly conscious of the people around them and quickly lowered his voice. “Why did you give the Duke of York your handkerchief?”
“Because he asked me for it,” she responded, her tone chilly. “I offered it to you first, but you decided to play your little trick.”
“I wanted you to see that I had kept your previous favor,” blustered Guildford, furious that she would treat his grand romantic gesture as though it was something malicious. “Had I known that you would give your affection so easily, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Jane recoiled as if she had been slapped. “I think I should leave, Lord Dudley, before I say anything I might regret.” She pivoted and made to walk away only for Guildford to grab her arm.
“Don’t---”
“Let go of her!” The Duke of York sprinted towards them, his eyes blazing. “You will release her at once!”
The temperamental Dudley glared at the interloper. “This doesn’t concern you,” he snarled.
“I think it does,” countered Edward, his chest puffing out, trying to look intimidating. “You have no right to touch her or speak to her like that. Know your place.”
Oh, that is it! Guildford decided, dropping Jane’s arm, his hands clenched as he prepared to thrash the snot nosed brat within an inch of his life----prince or no prince, he needed to be taught a lesson.
But before he could throw a punch, a loud voice boomed, “What is going on here?” Ambrose had arrived with Arthur Pole and Thomas Howard flanking him.
“Ambrose,” Edward began, only for his brother to hold up a hand silencing him.
“I was talking to Guildford.”
Guildford turned to glance at Jane who avoided his gaze, pointedly putting her hand on Edward’s arm who sneered at his rival.
“Nothing,” he growled. “Nothing at all.” He stormed off, barking at people to get out of his way.
Not even twenty minutes later, Ambrose found Guildford taking his anger out on a tree with his sword. He had left Thomas and Arthur behind, wanting to speak to his friend alone.
“What was that?” Ambrose demanded, wincing in sympathy at the poor tree that was being mutilated through no fault of its’ own.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” Guildford grunted. “Why did you take your brother’s side over mine?”
“Because you were acting like a wretch. Being rude and picking fights,” Ambrose explained.
“Your brother---”
“It wasn’t just Edward. You threatened Tom,” the monarch interrupted.
Guildford let his sword fall, spinning around with fury painted on his sweaty countenance. “He told you!”
I might have known that dirty little rat would go squealing to Ambrose as soon as he could, he seethed.
His friend glowered at him, speaking in a clipped tone, “No. He told Charles Brandon who told his brother who told my cousin who told her father who told me.”
“Oh.” Guildford leaned against the tree, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just wanted him to know what would happen if he betrayed you.”
“You don’t get to threaten our friends and you most certainly don’t get to fight my brother,” Ambrose admonished.
“He deserved it. He was trying to steal Jane from me,” Guildford snarled, noticeably not arguing the part about Thomas.
There was a flash of pity in Ambrose’s eyes. “Gilly, the Seymours and the Greys are talking about marrying Edward and Jane.”
The youngest Dudley’s face fell. “Does Jane know?”
“Well, I am sure she has an inkling,” Ambrose divulged. “It has been a discussion for the past five years. Nothing has been made official yet and they will need to get my permission, but if both parties agree, it will happen. That is unless Jane marries someone else that I approve of.”
Guildford said nothing. For once keeping his emotions to his chest.
“Gilly,” Ambrose began, reaching out to put his hand on his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
“If you will excuse me, Ambrose, I should get back to my chambers,” Guildford declared, uncharacteristically subdued.
He waited for the king to nod his assent before he made a shallow bow and walked briskly away.
Frustrated, Ambrose returned to his companions, finding them where he had left them on the great lawn that still had courtiers taking advantage of the lovely day to stretch their legs outside.
“Sometimes I wonder if he is stubborn or dense or both,” Ambrose grumbled, knowing he did not need to elaborate on who he was speaking of.
Arthur and Thomas chuckled. “I think---”
Whatever Thomas was going to say next, Ambrose didn’t hear him as he was distracted by the sight of his wife.
Even days later, Ambrose could not help but feel guilty. He knew he had treated her badly on their wedding night. (He had received an earful from Mary, and he was certain there would be a strongly worded letter on its way from Denmark if Elizabeth didn’t decide to get on a boat and sail to England just to slap him across the head).
She was a cold fish, there was no doubt about it. However, she was his wife and his queen. Therefore, she should be treated with a measure of respect. Had Fredrick dared to insult Elizabeth the way he had spoken to Joanna, the prince would be lucky to be alive by the time Ambrose was finished with him and that was only if he beat Elizabeth to him.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I think I shall go speak to my wife.” The king strode over to the queen who was conversing with her sister-in-law.
Mary was accompanied by her daughters as she often was. Judging from the snatches of conversation Ambrose could hear, they were discussing Lizzy’s perspective marriage with Archduke Ferdinand.
“Ladies, forgive me for intruding, but I hoped to steal Joanna for a moment,” Ambrose proclaimed.
“Of course, brother,” Mary intoned, curtsying as she ushered her daughters a few feet away.
“Husband,” Joanna greeted him stoically.
At least I pretend to enjoy her company, Ambrose thought sourly. He cleared his throat, keeping his features smooth so not to betray his annoyance. “I hope you enjoyed the joust.”
“It was entertaining.” Her stiff manner refuted her words. If anything, it seemed she viewed it as a tedious experience and was relieved as it was over.
I am married to a block of ice, Ambrose complained. He was beginning to have second thoughts, but he knew that this needed to be done, no matter how unpleasant it was. “I wish to visit your bed tonight, if that would please you?”
“You are my husband. You may share my bed whenever you choose,” opined the queen.
Ambrose bit back a groan. “What do you want?”
“You are my husband----”
“My lady,” Ambrose interjected, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders. “I do not wish to go somewhere I am not wanted. Do you want me in your bed or not?”
The pause that followed that statement was excruciating and telling. “I will do my wifely duties,” Joanna stated, lifting her chin regally.
“You are the most infuriating woman I ever met,” the young king muttered under his breath, running his fingers through his hair.
He might have been imagining things, but he could swear he saw her lips twitching upwards into a ghost of a smile.
Notes:
You may have noticed that the ? has changed to a forty in number of chapters. I have a finishing point. Unfortunately, I have realized that I don't have room for the French subplot I was planning. For those who are disappointed with this, I am considering making a short sequel to this story that will include it.
Chapter 31: Affairs of the Heart
Summary:
Elizabeth's joy ends in heartbreak and tragedy.
Chapter Text
May 25, 1552
Denmark
A year ago, Elizabeth had set foot on the country she would soon call home. A year ago, she had met her husband face to face, and a few days later, she met his family. A year ago, she had not thought she could be as happy as she was now.
The midwife had just confirmed what she had already suspected: she was pregnant.
“Oh, Bessie, how wonderful,” Annie cooed after the midwife had departed with a bag of coin to keep silent. It was only she, Elizabeth, Kat Ashley, and Jane Radcliffe alone in the room now.
Although the Crown Princess had many Danish ladies serving her, she was closer to the women who had arrived with her from England, feeling that she could rely on them to support only her.
There were no nobles against Elizabeth as far as she was aware, but her knowledge of the English court and its many factions had made the princess cautious about who she trusted, not wanting to take the chance that there was a spy among her ladies, one who answered to a hidden enemy.
Lady Kat Ashley dabbed her moist eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, I can’t believe it. It seems like just yesterday, you were but a little girl who held my hand. Now you are going to be a mother.” The governess was visibly holding herself back from embracing Elizabeth.
“Should someone fetch Prince Fredrick?” Jane suggested, a grin spread across her face. “I’m sure he will want to be the first to know.”
Elizabeth was vibrating with excitement, and yet she could not help but feel a little nervous, her stomach flip flopping with anxiety over her future child. I wonder if this is how my mother felt, she mused, closing her eyes as she tried to picture her mother’s face. “What would you think of me now, Mama? Have I made you proud yet?
“Bess,” Annie called, a hint of concern in her voice.
“Hmm?” It took a moment for Jane’s previous suggestion to penetrate the princess’ mind. “Oh. Yes, please send him a message that I must see him right away.”
Lady Radcliffe curtsied before hurrying out of the room to find someone to tell Prince Fredrick that his wife wanted to see him right away.
In the meantime, Elizabeth beheld her chambers, admiring the little English touches that were entwined with the Danish decorations. The walls were swathed with fine tapestries, some depicting famous Danish leaders, like the legendary Viking Ragnar Lothbrok who had raided many countries including England.
Beside it was a wall draping that had the Tudor roses etched in the fabric---a birthday present from her brother who wanted to be sure she remembered where she came from, as though she could ever forget.
“My, my, Her Highness certainly is in her own little world,” Kat teased. She and Annie were perched by the door, ready to leave once Prince Fredrick arrived, giving the prince and princess some privacy to bask in this news.
Elizabeth smiled coyly. “Forgive me, Kat, I fear that I am feeling quite overcome at the moment, and I can hardly think straight.”
Kat tutted fondly at her while Annie giggled. Minutes later the doors were thrown open and Fredrick ran in, his chest heaving in exertion as he panted. He must have run all way from his apartments to her chambers.
“Lady Jane…” Fredrick paused as he took greedy gulp of air. “She said you needed to see me right away.”
His wife nodded at her governess and her cousin, giving them leave to depart. She waited until they were gone before taking his hand in hers.
“What is it, Bess?” the prince questioned, cupping her face with his free hand. “Are you ill?” He scrutinized her, a flicker of fear dancing in his amber eyes.
“I am, but for the best of reasons,” Elizabeth answered.
Her husband’s countenance twisted in confusion. It took a few moments for her meaning to sink in, then his eyes lit up. He began smothering her with kisses, trailing up and down her neck.
“Freddy, stop that,” Elizabeth giggled, making no move to push him away, enjoyed being lavished with affection.
“I can’t help it.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You have made me so happy. I dare say the happiest man in all of Denmark. No. In all of Europe.”
Now Elizabeth was laughing. She placed her hands on either side of his cheeks. “This is God’s doing, my love, and it is wonderful in our eyes.”
Fredrick kissed her lips before leading her over to the coach, talking excitedly about how he couldn’t wait to tell everyone about their news.
“Not yet,” Elizabeth objected. “We should wait a few months before making an announcement. We don’t want to get everyone’s hopes up, only to be…” she tailed off, not wanting to voice her thoughts.
However, she knew that there was always a chance she wouldn’t be able to carry the babe to term. It was a harrowing reality; one she would have to accept.
The Lord Almighty has given me this child, the princess reminded. He will keep the babe with me.
“Of course,” Fredrick agreed, although there was a trace of disappointment in his voice. He then rallied. “But I must inform my father and my mother. As king and queen, they ought to know of their upcoming grandchild.”
Elizabeth peered at him suspiciously, not trusting his logical observation. “You just want to tell someone, don’t you?”
“I want to scream it off of the ramparts of the castle,” Fredrick admitted, causing his wife to laugh at his silliness. “My wife is about to make me a father.”
“You did help,” she teased him, causing his neck to flush red.
Fredrick licked his dry lips. “What were you thinking we name the baby?”
“Christian for a boy, after your father,” Elizabeth decided.
Her husband beamed at her. “He will be most pleased. What if it is a girl?”
Elizabeth was aware that Dorothea after Fredrick’s mother was the appropriate answer especially when she had just picked Christian for her potential son. But there was only one name that felt right. The one she wanted the most.
From the encouraging look Fredrick was shooting her, he knew what name their potential daughter would have.
“Anne.”
May 30, 1552
“Your Majesty.” Elizabeth curtsied deeply.
Dorothea of Saxe-Lauenburg, Queen of Denmark and Norway was a stern woman who never smiled. She had a round face with angular features. She was clad in a stunning black ensemble with a white lace undershirt that covered her neck.
Elizabeth had asked for a private meeting with Queen Dorothea. Fredrick and she had agreed to split up who they could give the news about their upcoming baby. Fredrick would tell his father while Elizabeth would inform his mother.
Fredrick had described her mother as strict and dominating. However, Elizabeth realized that if Dorothea were as controlling as Fredrick indicated, she would most certainly be reading her son’s letters to his fiancée and therefore, she would know exactly what he was saying about her.
When Elizabeth first came to Denmark, she expected to be at odds with her mother-in-law. Instead, Dorothea had taken her under her wing, mentoring her. Oh, there were clashes----they were both too stubborn and they had different ideas of how a respectable lady should act for them not to---but never to the point of dislike.
“Daughter.” Dorothea’s expression was cool and collected, however, there was a trace of affection in her eyes. Elizabeth could not help but compare her to her stepmother. Jane Seymour’s smiles were strained and forced. Dorothea never smiled and yet, she managed to make the homesick princess feel wanted and loved.
“I hope I did not come at an inconvenient time.” Elizabeth straightened, smoothing her gold dress. Today, she had her hair braided and pinned under a jeweled headdress dotted with diamonds.
“Not at all, daughter,” assured her mother-in-law, peering at Elizabeth curiously as if trying to gleam her thoughts from her expression. “My ladies and I were just going to do some sewing and reading the bible.”
Elizabeth nodded, trying to keep her demeanor calm even though she was oozing excitement and joy from her pores.
“Come now, don’t leave me in suspense,” Dorothea commanded, although there was no real bite in her tone. “What is it you wish to tell me? Is it the reason you keep to your apartments in the morning hours? Or the fact that my son has not stopped grinning for the past five days?”
She is too intuitive, the red-haired princess grumbled to herself. However, she could not be upset about ruining her announcement. After all, Dorothea had five pregnancies; therefore, she would know the signs well enough to be able to spot them.
“I am pregnant,” she revealed, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face.
The queen swept up to Elizabeth, putting her hands on the young woman’s shoulders. “I am happy that you are continuing our dynasty. Just remember, that you must be prepared to take a strong role in your children’s life, for you will always know best, no matter what they think.”
The princess nodded, deciding not to argue. Unfortunately, her mother-in-law could guess her reason for her wordless answer. “I know my son has informed you of my strictness. I suppose you thought he was exaggerating.”
Dorothea didn’t even sound annoyed, her tone dry. Elizabeth could only bow her head sheepishly.
“But then you came to Denmark and realized you were wrong.”
Elizabeth was taken aback. Was that a jest? She could see amusement dancing in the dark eyes.
She didn’t get much time to ponder it for Dorothea had pulled her into a hug. “Even if you don’t always agree with me, you can always come to me for advice, you know that, don’t you, daughter?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“When we are alone, you can call me mother,” insisted the queen.
Elizabeth could feel her eyes growing misty. “Yes, Mother.”
After a rather embarrassing moment where Elizabeth struggled not to weep into her mother-in-law’s shoulder, getting her dress all wet, she took her leave, admitting that she and Fredrick had agreed to meet up after telling the king and the queen about the pregnancy.
She left the queen’s apartments in high spirits. Annie and her Danish maid-of-honor, Lady Ursula---a big boned blonde-haired woman----separated from the ladies they were chatting with to follow her out.
They had barely crossed the threshold when a lady carrying a basket full of linens came around the corner and nearly crashed into the princess. The other woman’s blue eyes widened, and she fell into a curtsy.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” she apologized. “I was in hurry to complete my task, that I wasn’t looking where I was going. Please forgive me.”
Queen Dorothea centennially runs a tight ship, Elizabeth mused, managing a smile for the woman who was around her age.
Once Elizabeth had come to Denmark, her mother-in-law had insisted that the Danish ladies who would serve as her ladies-in-waiting and maids-of-honor be experienced woman from her own household.
In practice, it made sense, but Elizabeth had found that many of the woman were older than her which made it harder to build a rapport with them. It also meant that the younger women were being admitted into the queen’s service.
“It is quite all right, Lady…” Elizabeth prompted.
“Anna, Your Highness, Anna Hardenberg,” the brunette introduced, curtsying again as rose, keeping her gaze on her shoes. “I must ask for your forgiveness again. The Crown Prince would be most unhappy if I had hurt you in your conditi---”
In Lady Hardenberg’s defense, she seemed to immediately realize her mistake, slamming her hand over her mouth.
It was like someone had dumped icy water on the former English princess, sending a chill down her spine. She could hear some furious whispering behind her----although she did not know whether it was about her or the woman whose manner was now of a person who dearly wished she had brought the linen ten minute later.
Truthfully, Elizabeth suspected that there were more than a number of experienced members of court who, just like the queen, had picked up on the Crown Princess possibly being pregnant.
It could have just been a slip of the tongue on the woman’s part. And even mentioning Fredrick directly was something that could be waved away as knowing how much the crown prince adored his wife.
However, there was just something about the way Lady Anna was acting, the level of tension in the room, made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She could not help but review the entire year. How in the early days of their marriage, Fredrick had wanted to spend every moment with her whether it was hunting or walking or reading and even socializing.
He had not been too pleased when Elizabeth would sometimes spend time with his mother, learning the ins and outs of Danish politics and integrating herself with the important nobles instead.
Had he sought another companion when his wife was otherwise occupied? Was this woman his mistress?
Conscious of the many eyes on her, Elizabeth knew she could not interrogate Lady Hardenburg and find out the true nature of her relationship with Crown Prince Fredrick. Instead, she held her chin up high and swept away, without so much as a good day.
She could hear hurried footsteps behind her, but she did not acknowledge her two ladies until she found an empty antechamber. Then she turned on her heels and demanded Lady Ursula tell her all about this Hardenburg woman.
“Bess,” Annie tried to soothe her. “I’m sure there is nothing about this for you to be upset.”
“Lady Ursula.” Elizabeth ignored her cousin completely, preferring to give the glare she had seen her sister give many times when she wanted answers. “I am waiting.”
The blonde-haired Dane bit her lips, her sweet, oval face betrayed her anxiety. She was only a few years older than Elizabeth, but she had an almost childlike earnestness about her.
“I confess to not knowing the lady too well as she came not long after I was transferred,” Ursula admitted, a slight edge to her tone as her gaze shifted to the left.
“But I am sure you have heard things from the women who stayed with Her Majesty,” Elizabeth guessed, her eyes narrowed.
Ursula raised her hands as if to halt that train of thought. “Nothing too bad, Your Highness, you know how gossip can be. A woman can’t even talk to a man without there being some rumors.”
“And how often did my husband talk with that woman?” Elizabeth inquired, feeling sick to her stomach at thought of Fredrick and Anna going to some secluded part of the castle, to share a few moments together, whispering in each other’s ears, sharing a passionate kiss.
“Bess,” Annie protested, sensing her cousin’s growing anger. “Please. He is not your father.”
Elizabeth wanted to scream that all men were the same, driven by their primal instincts and fueled by lust. Before she could, Ursula quickly added, “They have always spoken in public, and no one has seen a hint of impropriety between them.”
The princess’s gaze shifted between the two women, realizing that both were staring at her with concern. They clearly feared she would get herself in such a state that she would miscarry.
Perhaps they are right, Elizabeth decided. I don’t want to lose my child just because I am being unduly suspicious.
After swearing both girls to secrecy, Elizabeth lead them back to her apartments where Fredrick was waiting for her.
He rushed to her, wrapping his arm around her waist, shooing her ladies away so they could be alone. They sat on the windowsill that overlooked the garden.
“My father is thrilled as I knew he would be,” Fredrick gushed, unable to keep the grin off his face. “How did it go with mother? Was she pleased?”
“She was delighted,” Elizabeth affirmed. Her breath hitched in her throat as she tried not to give into her dark thoughts, demanding to know just what the relationship between him and Lady Anna was.
Unfortunately, her countenance must have failed her for her husband studied her with a quizzical and concerned expression on his face. “Bess, what is it? Did something happen? Did my mother say something? If she insulted you, I will---”
“No,” Elizabeth quickly interjected. “You mother was wonderful. I just…” she trailed off, averting her eyes.
Fredrick placed his hand under chin, turning her head so their gazes met. “Bess, you can tell me anything, you know that, don’t you?” he implored. “I want there to be complete honesty between the two of us.”
He spoke with such conviction, Elizabeth could not help but acquiesce, “I meet a woman named Lady Anna Hardenburg.”
The prince’s face scrunched up in bewilderment. “Anna insulted you. That doesn’t sound like her.”
“No, no, she didn’t insult me,” his wife quickly corrected, trying very hard not to fixate on the fact that he had called her by her given name so casually. “She accidentally bumped into me, and she mentioned my condition.”
“Oh. I didn’t tell her,” Fredrick affirmed, perplexed, clearly not understanding why this encounter would bother his wife.
“I know. I just wasn’t aware that you two were friends,” admitted Elizabeth.
Fredrick frowned, still confused. Then his expression cleared as he seemed to connect the dots. “Bess, are you jealous?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, becoming affronted at such an accusation. “Of course not. I am merely concerned about her reputation.”
Her husband started at her with disbelief before scratching his neck pensively. “I remember in a letter of yours, how you described your sister Mary’s husband trying to make up for your father’s treatment of her and her mother.”
The princess glowered. “That is completely different. Mary was burdened by self-loathing and abandonment. I am merely worried that you don’t know the implications of having a close relationship with another woman who isn’t your wife.”
“Do you know how I met Anna?” Fredrick inquired, a smile tugging at his lips as he placed his hand over hers. “In my mother’s apartments while I was waiting for my wife so we could go hunting together---to which she invited my mother.”
“She loves hunting, and you mentioned it right in front of her,” protested Elizabeth.
“My point is, I have only spoken to her a few times, and I usually spoke about you,” Fredrick divulged. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I did let it slip you were pregnant during the times, I have been gushing about you.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, trying to hide her blushing. “Have you really?”
Her husband cupped her face with his hand. “I am married to the most vibrant woman in the whole world. Why wouldn’t I be complimenting you?”
Unable to hide the pleasure she felt at those words, Elizabeth melted into his embrace. “Forgive me. I was being foolish and unduly suspicious.”
“It is all right, my dear heart,” professed Fredrick. “I just want you to trust me for that is epitome of true love.”
With that, he pressed his hand on her belly before kissing her lovingly. Elizabeth felt whole as she lay in her husband’s arms, relishing his adoration.
June 1, 1552
England
Today was a good day. It wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too humid. Ambrose had mentioned something about hunting later, and Guildford was unopposed to the idea. Unfortunately, the prick of York would join them which meant she would be there as well.
Guildford walked in-between the fruit trees that dotted the royal garden, just behind the large hedge maze. Spotting an apple, he grabbed his dagger from its sheath and threw it, severing the fruit from its’ stem. He picked up the red apple, polished it off with his doublet before taking a bite.
“Don’t forget to pick up your dagger. You shouldn’t leave it lying around in the dirt.”
Guildford nearly choked, spinning around to see that Jane Grey staring at him with cold eyes. He swallowed the piece of apple, before awkwardly bending down to grab his dagger and return it to his hip.
“What crime have I committed?” Jane demanded. “What have done that you have chosen to ignore me for months? Or are you so petty you would treat me so cruelly just for giving another man my favor?”
“You mean your fiancé?” Guildford corrected.
Jane was taken aback. “What?”
“Ambrose told me that you and the Duke of York are going to be married.” He did not look at her, not wanting to see her sweet face as she spoke lies to him, giving him hope for a future that would never be theirs.
“That----there have been no plans,” Jane spluttered.
Suddenly enraged, Guildford hit the tree. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. You knew! You had to know that was what your parents and the dowager queen wanted. And why wouldn’t it be agreed to. You would find no better husband than a prince. Perhaps a king, but I suppose your mother didn’t bother telling you to spread your legs for him as he was already engaged!”
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. But he wouldn’t take those poisonous words back.
Whether or not she had meant to, Jane had been stringing him along for the past year, making him believe that they had a chance when she knew full well what plans her mother had for her.
Jane seemed to realize that he had spoken out of hurt instead of malice. She did not storm off as she had done all those months ago. Instead, she reached out to him, grabbing his sleeve.
“Guildford, please. The bible says Honor Thy Parents and we all must do our duties,” she recited, desperate for him to understand. “But that doesn’t have to change anything, we can still see each other, talk to each other. We will have to chaperoned, so no one thinks there is any wrongdoing between us.”
Guildford stared at her, wondering if she truly thought that this was something they could overcome or if she just wanted so badly to believe it was true.
“Your husband would never allow it,” he pointed out in a dark voice. “And the last thing I would want is anyone accusing you of treason. No. It is better to just leave now and pretend we meant nothing to each other.”
He began to walk away, steeling himself against the muffled sobs he could hear behind him. Her cries tore at his heart, ripping it into shreds.
Guildford Dudley was many things: insensitive, impulsive, temperamental. However, he was not stupid. This was for the best.
Unaware of the drama going on in his court, Ambrose was too busy lavishing kisses on his mistress’ naked skin.
Catherine Cooke had raven hair that made for a stark contrast when splayed about her pale shoulders, over her breasts. Her perfectly formed breasts that looked like two rosebuds just right for the plucking.
“My lord, you look like a wolf about to gobble me up!” Cat cried in mock horror.
Ambrose grinned at her. “Yes, I am the monstrous wolf who seeks to consume the innocent lamb.”
“Oh no, I beg of you to have mercy, please!” she begged, waving her arms dramatically as she arched her neck, allowing her love’s hungry mouth complete access.
Ambrose laughed at her playfulness, enjoying how she reacted to his games. He took a pink nipple in his mouth, relishing her pleasureful moans.
If only Joanna would be so flexible, the king thought miserably. Why had God cursed him with a wife made of ice? She had no passion, no flair. She seemed to exist to infuriate him, to taunt him.
She kept her true thoughts close to her chest. Ambrose longed to peer into her soul and learn all her secrets. He wanted to see her melt at his touch, to smile as she said his name filled with warmth and…love?
Jesus’ blood, what are these foolish thoughts? Ambrose shook his head as if to banish such an absurd notion from his mind.
Right now, he wanted to savor the dark-haired beauty in front of him, with glinting blue-green orbs.
Why would he even be thinking of his insufferable wife at a time like this?
August 23, 1552
Supper in the queen's apartments was a somber affair. Despite being married for half a year by now, the queen and the king scarcely interacted, finding they had few things in common. They sat opposite ends of a long wooden table that had a basked with ornamental fruit in the middle.
"Husband." Joanna's voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife. "I have a boon to ask of you."
Ambrose shrugged his shoulders as he cut into his venison, not even glancing up as he took a bite.
Joanna frowned at his dismissive actions, but she pressed on. "I wish for some more boiled cabbage. I have been getting a rather strong craving for them lately."
The English monarch nodded, still clearly half-listening. "I be sure to pass that along to the chef."
Why does she bother me with such trivialities? he grumbled to himself, wishing he had chosen to dine with his mistress instead, rather than enduring a boring meal with his stoic wife.
His wife rolled her eyes. "Ambrose." That caught his attention for she never used his Christian name when addressing him. "I have never quite had such a strong desire for anything than I have in the past months."
Ambrose frowned, trying to discern her meaning. His gaze shifted to her ladies who seemed to be holding back their amusement and to his own grooms whose visages shared his confusion. Then it clicked. "You are with child."
"I am," Joanna confirmed with a wry smile, placing a hand on her stomach. “The physician says we are to have our child sometime near Lady’s Day.”
The king let his utensils fall onto the plate with a clank as he leapt to his feet. Darting over to his wife with great speed, embracing her. "I am to be father again."
Joanna's smile slipped at the reminder that her husband already had a son---albeit a bastard who could never hope to succeed his father.
Although, she was aware that this was not meant as a slight, she could not suppress a fear of what would happen should the child she carried not be a boy. I pray I will have a son, for I fear what will happen if I fail him like my great-aunt failed his father, she mused.
Not wanting to dwell on those thoughts, Joanna melted against her husband, hoping that this was the start of a happier marriage.
September 18, 1552
Denmark
The hallowed halls of Haderslevhus were lovely as she walked down them. Princess Elizabeth had felt cooped up in her rooms, her limps cramped so she had decided that she needed to stretch her legs for a spell.
Not to mention how hot it is getting, Elizabeth observed as she paused in front of a window, thankful for the cool breeze floating in, giving her a moment relief from the sweat trickling down her forehead.
She wasn’t sure how women could handle being pregnant in the summer. Kat had assured her it would be worth it. That seemed to be her answer for everything. The bloating, the sickness, the feeling of something constantly pressing against her bladder, the cramps, and the labor pain she had not experienced yet----it would all be worth it once she had her son.
If it is a son. Elizabeth tried not to frown as her feet continued to carry her through the corridors, weaving through the courtiers, barely acknowledging their greetings with anything more than an absent smile.
She couldn’t help but wonder if her mother felt this kind of pressure, only to realize immediately, of course she did. Uncle George had told Elizabeth about the events leading to her birth and the events afterwards.
If anything, her mother was even more pressured to have a son after all the years she had spent fighting against Katherine of Aragon, the Pope, and the Holy Roman Emperor, it was imperative that she had a male heir. Not to mention her husband’s love could only be kept if she had the Prince of Wales he had desired for twenty years.
How long would Fredrick adore her if she---
The princess closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself. She did not want to give into those foolish feelings.
In fact, she would go see Fredrick right now, and he would tell her how silly she was being, and she would pretend to be affronted by his teasing.
With her hand on her belly, she made her way to her husband’s chambers. The sentry didn’t even wait for her order, opening the doors to allow her to enter. She wished he had not.
For there in her husband’s study were Fredrick and Anne, locked in a passionate kiss, their limbs entangled. When the door opened, they jumped apart, their expressions like guilty children who had just been caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
“Bess, nothing happened,” Frederick said. His tone was placating, and he moved towards her, his hand outstretched.
She recoiled, her gaze bouncing between her husband and Lady Hardenburg. She couldn’t believe she had been so stupid.
“Stupid. Stupid girl.”
“Don’t touch me,” she snarled as her husband continued to move towards her. “Don’t you ever touch me.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear out the hair of that hussy who was currently staring at her feet, her face red as if she was embarrassed. She wanted to slap her husband who months ago had made her feel guilty and sorry that she dared to listen to her gut instinct about them.
Most of all she wanted to crawl onto her bed and cry like a little girl. However, she would not give them the satisfaction of watching her break down. Instead, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts before fleeing the room, ignoring the calls for her to come back. She sprinted through the corridors until she reached her own bedchamber, flinging herself onto her mattress, burying her face in a pillow.
She could hear Kat above her asking her what had happened, then demanding answers from her ladies who had been accompanying her and had hurried after her as fast as they could.
“Oh God!” Suddenly Elizabeth clutched her stomach as she felt a searing pain in her stomach, and she could feel liquid between her legs. Her ladies quickly ran to her. “Not now. It is too early.”
If looks could kill, Prince Fredrick’s heart would have stopped beating by now. He and his parents were currently outside the princess’ chambers, waiting for news of Elizabeth's health.
Dorothea jabbed an accusing finger at her son. “I told you. I told you if you had any sense in your head, you keep your relationship with Lady Hardenburg discreet especially during your wife’s pregnancy.”
“And I told you there was nothing between us!” the crown prince shouted back.
Had she been a woman with less control of her emotions, the queen would have snorted. “I suppose what my daughter saw was just her imagination.”
“SILENCE!” King Christian III bellowed, glowering at both his wife and son. A tall man with brown hair and a bushy beard, he was garbed in black brocade with silver thread. “Fredrick, it is bad enough I have a son who is practically illiterate. I will not have you be a womanizer on top of it, causing scandal and flaunting your affairs.”
“It wasn’t an affair,” protested Fredrick. “It was a moment of weakness.”
“And you expect us to believe that when you two were alone together,” Dorothea snapped, her piercing gaze narrowed.
Christian was about to intervene for a second time when the royal physician emerged from the bedchambers, his expression grim. “I am afraid, Her Highness has lost the baby.”
The king heaved a sigh as his shoulders sagged. His wife shook her head sadly, her eyes shining with sympathy and despair. Fredrick got up and became walking towards the doors leading away from the bedchamber where his child died in a burst of blood and tears.
“Fredrick, where are you going? Your wife needs you!” The outrage was palpable on the queen’s face, furious at what she perceived as her son’s callousness.
Fredrick spun around, his expression betraying his guilt and devastation. “I think I am the last person my wife wants to see right now.”
Considering what had happened, neither of his parents were inclined to disagree.
Elizabeth was still laying on the bed, not caring what Kat said about them having to change the sheets. She felt too numb to do anything. Her child had died, and another man had used and betrayed her again.
“Stupid. Stupid girl.”
“Daughter, I know you are not just going to lie here feeling sorry for yourself.” It took Elizabeth longer than she should have to realize the voice and the soft hands pulling her up were not Kat Ashley.
Minutes later, she was in Dorothea’s warm embrace. “Now, you listen to me, I know how you feel. I had a miscarriage just a little while after Fredrick.”
The queen swallowed thickly, as it was still hard to talk about even after all these years went by. “I always loved riding. Unfortunately, once I participated in a hunt too enthusiastically and fell off my horse. To my shock, I was bleeding between my legs. The doctor told me that I had been pregnant, and I hadn’t even known it. Must have been in the early stages.”
She took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “It hurts no matter how long you’ve been carrying the child, but it is not something you can let control you. You must keep going. Keep preserving. Keep your head high, no matter how much it hurts you.”
She is not just talking about the miscarriage, Elizabeth realized.
Dorothea wordlessly pulled Elizabeth back into a hug, rubbing circles into her back to make her feel better. “All will be well, daughter, I swear it. All will be well.”
Fredrick came to her bedchamber about twenty minutes later. His mother gave him the fiercest glare before she vacated the room to let them talk in private.
“Bess, nothing happened,” he insisted.
Elizabeth shot up, her hair was matted with sweat, sticking to her forehead. “Are you telling me that my eyes were deceiving me? That I didn’t see you two kissing?”
“All right, one thing happened, but it wasn’t anything that should have upset you,” her husband defended.
Had Elizabeth been in a better mood maybe she would have recognized that he had not meant she was overreacting, nor was he implying that she was the cause of their lost baby.
However, she was not in the right state of mind to give Fredrick the benefit of the doubt.
“How dare you say that I shouldn’t have been angry!” she screamed, throwing a pillow at him. He ducked before it could hit him. “You told me that you had nothing more than an innocent friendship with her. You told me I could trust you! You lied to me!”
“Bess,” Fredrick tried to interject as he ducked the next projectile being sent his way.
“There is no one to blame for the death of our baby but you!” his wife screeched.
Something flashed across Fredrick’s visage, and for a brief moment, Elizabeth thought he might hit her. Instead, he strode out, leaving her a crumpled mess on her mattress.
Chapter 32: The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions
Summary:
The Guildford/Jane/Edward love triangle finally reaches boiling point. Lines are crossed.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
November 9, 1552
England
“Mama, what was Papa like?” Philip lisped. Just shy of his fifth birthday, his face was still round with baby fat and his little fingers kept reaching for his mouth despite his mother’s constant scolding. He had his father’s dark blond hair and the Tudor blue eyes. He was dressed in a white brocade doublet with matching hose.
The Dowager Duchess of Somerset was reviewing her latest draft of her mother’s biography when her son had entered her study.
He is a cherub, Mary gushed as her heart clenched painfully, wishing her husband were with her. They could watch their children grow up together.
“Mama!” Their son’s visage was alarmed. “Please don’t cry! I didn’t mean to make you sad!”
Mary blinked and touched her cheeks, surprised when her fingers came away wet. She quickly wrapped her limbs around Philip pulling him up to her lap.
“You didn’t make me cry,” she soothed. “Thinking of your papa makes me sad sometimes.”
Their son gazed up at her, chewing his lip in thought. “Cathy said Papa hated it when you were sad. He would do everything in his power to make you happy again.”
Mary let out a little laugh, warmth flooding her as she pictured her husband’s face in her mind’s eye, becoming melancholic. “Yes, he certainly would. I remember once he was so determined to bring me flowers, that he had to pick himself, he risked hitting a beehive just to grab a few wildflowers.”
“Did he get stung?” Philip wondered, a note of awe in his voice. It was as if he had just learned that the mysterious man of legend that was his father was in fact a mere human being capable of making mistakes.
He was not perfect, the widow mused. He was often foolish, imprudent, and reckless. But I loved him all the same.
“No, sweet one. He did not get stung,” Mary answered her son’s question. “But it was a near thing, and I scolded him for it, telling him that he should not have risked the ire of the bees just to bring me flowers. Do you know what he said to that?”
“What?”
“He said I was worth it,” replied his mother.
Philip’s smile spread across his face. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Do you think he would have liked me?”
“No. He would have loved you.” Mary beamed at their son, peppering his face with kisses.
“Mama, stop it!” Despite his protests, Philip broke out into laughter.
“Philip!” The door to Mary’s study flew open and Cathy stood in the doorway, her hand at her hips. “Are you bothering Mama?” Behind her, were her two sisters and Duchess Catherine who exchanged a smile with Mary.
The ten-year-old had taken after her Aunt Elizabeth, ruling her siblings with an iron fist. In contrast to their younger siblings who had their father’s dark blond hair, Cathy and Liz had the Tudor red hair.
“No!” Philip denied, shifting in his mother’s lap. “I was just asking her about Papa.”
At once Cathy softened. However, it was clear that she was not letting this transgression go, wagging her finger at him. “You still shouldn’t disturb her while she is working.”
“It is all right, darlings,” Mary cut in before the argument go any further. “I was just about to take a break.”
She glanced at the grandfather clock nearby, noting it was nearly noon. She had been working through the morning. A midafternoon meal with her children was just what she needed.
“Are you nearly done writing, Mama?” Mazie inquired as she grabbed her mother’s free hand.
“Almost,” Mary affirmed. She did not mention how hard she was finding it to write about her mother’s later years, not just because it was difficult to recall, but also, it was difficult to write about those years of the Great Matter and beyond without revealing her true thoughts on the travesty and the people who had caused it.
In her first draft, she had caught herself referring to Anne Boleyn as her father’s concubine and whore. Catherine, thankfully, had assured her that she would do her best to rewrite any paragraph to more neutral wording.
“You best hurry,” the Duchess of Bedford teased. “I hear the Duke of Kent is commissioning someone to document his sister’s life.”
Mary chuckled. “I wouldn’t put it past him to claim that I was copying him.”
In truth, it was unlikely that George Boleyn could get away with that as Mary had gotten permission and royal sponsorship from Ambrose and it was common knowledge around court of her biographic of her mother’s life.
The conversation continued as the family made their way to the drawing room where they would await the cooks finishing up the midafternoon meal.
November 24, 1552
Denmark
“How long are you going to punish me?”
Elizabeth didn’t even bother turning around. Instead, she focused on the fire, watching as the embers consumed the log. The bitter coldness outside surely felt like a spring day compared to the temperature inside.
“It was not my intention to punish you,” she responded, keeping her gaze on the dancing flames.
Her husband scoffed at her blatant lie. “You won’t even look at me.” When Elizabeth did not answer, he growled in frustration, pacing around her chambers like a caged bear. “What do you want from me? I already apologized! I sent Anna away! What more do you want?!”
“I want to go back in time to before I trusted you,” Elizabeth spat. It wasn’t just that he cheated. That, she could forgive. Mary had painstakingly explained to her, that yes, some men did like to sow their wild oats when they were young. That did not mean that they were all like father and they would grow out of that phrase.
It was the fact that he had lied to her and made her feel guilty for doubting him. If he hadn’t done that, perhaps she wouldn’t have gotten so upset seeing them kissing. Maybe she would still be carrying their child.
You are your mother’s daughter, and you have her temper, a little voice reminded her. No, she would have been angry and hurt either way.
“It was just a kiss,” Fredrick defended. “You are blowing this out of proportion.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, becoming very tired of the same argument they had every day since she came out of confinement. “Why are you here, Fredrick?”
“Because I don’t like fighting with you,” he answered. “If you would just put this behind you, we can go back to the way things were.”
Infuriated by his dismissal of her feelings, the princess pivoted, rage coursing through her veins. “Stop treating me like I am a fool. This wasn’t one time, heat of the moment action. You are infatuated with that woman, aren’t you? At least be a man and admit it!”
Fredrick lifted his chin up defiantly, his manner deceptively calm. “I could ask you the same question. Only about Robin Dudley instead.”
Elizabeth’s heart almost stopped. “What?”
“I know everyone thinks I am illiterate, but I can read between the lines,” Fredrick snapped. “You mentioned him so often I wanted to sail to England to duel him for your honor. I thought once you came to Denmark, you would forget about him, and there would be no one who came between us. Instead, you spend half your days with my mother.”
Any guilt or panic Elizabeth felt was washed away by outrage. “Do you mean to tell me that you had your dalliance with Lady Hardenberg out of revenge!”
“No!” Fredrick protested, throwing up his hands in the air. “Dammit, Bess, I shouldn’t have to share my wife with anyone.”
If she hadn’t been furious before, Elizabeth was now seething. “I will not apologize for learning from your mother on how to preside over the Danish court.”
“And I shall not apologize for looking elsewhere for companionship!” Fredrick shot back.
“By all means, Your Highness, go seek as much companionship as you want,” Elizabeth sneered with an exaggerated curtsy.
Fredrick spun on his heels and marched out of his wife’s apartments in a huff. The Crown Princess sank to her knees and hugged herself, wondering what she had just done.
December 31, 1552
England
“If you glare any harder, you might end up setting them on fire,” Robert commented from where he was lazily leaning against the wall.
Across the room, the musicians strummed their instruments as the dancers moved in rhythm, gliding like elegant swans on the water.
Guildford didn’t even spare him a glance, his dark orbs were glued to the Duke of York and Lady Jane Grey as they twirled around, moving in perfect synch.
“You are a fool,” huffed Robert, shaking his head. “She clearly has the same feelings for you as you do her. Why don’t you ask her to marry you?”
“I am the fifth son of a duke. She is the granddaughter of a princess,” Guildford protested. “She’ll never wed someone as low as me.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “How do you know that if you never asked?” When his brother did not answer, the younger Dudley clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You have to take a chance.”
“And how well did that work out for you?” Guildford detangled himself from his brother, still not looking at him.
“That was different.” Robert’s eyes darted to his wife, making sure she was safely out of earshot. “Elizabeth had a duty to Prince Fredrick.” His visage darkened as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Not that rotten knave was worthy of her graciousness.”
News of Elizabeth’s miscarriage, along with the cause of the tragedy, had reached England. Robert was not the only one angry at the actions of the Crown Prince of Denmark. Ambrose had been livid. He had to be talked down before he could send a letter filled with threats and expletives directed at his brother-in-law. Fortuitously, he calmed down enough to speak more diplomatically to the Danish ambassador, but he was quite cold with the man, making his displeasure known.
“Guildford, if you don’t ask her, you will regret it for the rest of your life,” Robert pointed out.
His brother grunted, his expression pensive as he continued to track Jane Grey. “I love her, Robin. I want her to be happy.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try,” prompted Robert, giving his brother’s shoulder a squeeze.
With that, he ambled over to his wife, his features were schooled into a mask of pleasantry.
I feel for poor Amy, she is doomed to be forever playing second fiddle to the shadow of Princess Elizabeth, Guildford mused.
The music had stopped and some of the dances were parting, preferring to mingle with the spectators. Jane was one of them. Seeing his chance, Guildford quickly approached her.
“My lady, a moment,” he implored her. “I must speak with you.”
Jane’s lovely eyes searched his face before nodding towards one of the doors. “Ten minutes,” she mouthed before stepping around him and joining her sisters.
Guildford swallowed but left in the direction she indicated, ready to wait for her whether it was ten minutes or ten hours.
Meanwhile Edward joined Ambrose and Joanna on the dais where they were entertaining a certain guest. The queen was showing now, having added layers to her skirts to accommodate her swollen belly.
“Sweet sister, should you not be in bed?” As he spoke, he bowed twice to the king and the queen.
“I am not tired,” Margaret declared before shooting Ambrose a grateful look. “Besides Amby decreed that I should be allowed to stay up. And he is the king, so everyone has to do what he says.”
The eight-year-old girl was garbed in a green dress with the winged Tudor roses embroidered in the fabric. Her grin was impish, and she seemed quite pleased with herself.
Despite their age gap, Edward adored her younger sister, doting on her as much as their mother did.
“We have some good news, Ned,” divulged Ambrose, a twinkle in his eyes. “Joanna believes that Philip will agree to a match between Infante Carlos and our dear sister.”
Joanna glowered at her husband. “That was supposed to remain between us. I haven’t secured my brother’s approval just yet.”
“Forgive me, I am just so pleased at the thought of my little sister becoming queen,” Ambrose admitted.
“And a fine queen she will make!” Edward declared, reaching out to pinch her sister’s cheeks.
Margaret giggled, blushing prettily. “Did you think he’ll like me?”
“He would be mad not to adore you,” Ambrose insisted.
“Absolutely mad,” Edward concurred, a firm nod.
Neither man noticed Joanna shifting in her seat uncomfortably, something that had nothing to do with her condition.
The little princess’s face scrunched up in thought. “Bess used to write her husband, didn’t she?” she recalled.
“That’s right,” confirmed her oldest brother.
“Then I shall write to Carlos.” Margaret’s sparkling blue eyes bounced to her sister-in-law. “Would he like that?”
Not even Joanna could resist the earnest excitement of the young girl. “I think we would. However, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”
“No, no, I’ll just write to him as a friend,” Margaret quickly added. “Even if the betrothal doesn’t go through, I can still have a friend.”
Never before had Joanna been filled with an urge to pick a child up and cuddle them. “That is a lovely idea.”
Margaret’s pleased expression was broken when she suddenly yawned, covering her mouth.
“I think the future Queen of Spain is ready for bed,” Ambrose declared, ignoring the annoyed look his wife sent his way.
“No, I am not,” denied Margaret as her eyelids began to droop.
“Come, little sister, let’s get you to bed.” Edward extended his hand, for her to take. Reluctantly, Margaret did so, attempting a half curtsey before Edward picked her up and carried her away.
Ambrose watched them with a fond expression before placing his hand on his wife’s belly. “Don’t worry, little one, your aunt will get to meet you before she leaves for Spain.”
Joanna wondered if he was trying to irritate her on purpose. Now being six months pregnant, she found herself having a little patience for her husband’s childness. She was hot, her limps felt cramped, and her head was pounding. Searching for a distraction, her gaze swept over to the musicians, seeing they were about to start the next song.
“You don’t have to sit here, Majesty. Why don’t you ask one of my ladies to dance?” Joanna suggested, gesturing to Lady Isabel and Lady Sofia. She was quite certain of their loyalty and character even if she wasn’t aware of the dark-haired harlot currently in her husband’s bed. They would not betray her by becoming her husband’s mistress.
“And leave you here all alone, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ambrose declared, much to Joanna’s surprise. “If you can’t dance, then neither shall I.”
The queen’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. “But I never want to dance.”
“That is hardly the point.” Ambrose seemed exasperated. “In your condition, you couldn’t even if you enjoyed such frivolous activities.”
Joanna’s eyebrow rose. “Are you making a jest at my expense?”
“You really are insufferable,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging.
As you have told me repeatedly,” responded Joanna dryly.
“Why are you so eager to get me to leave?” the king demanded. “Is my company that repugnant to you?”
Despite needing to hide the eye roll at her husband’s dramatics, Joanna felt a sliver of guilt. Ambrose was insensitive and churlish at the worst of times, often throwing out decorum and politeness to let others know of his disgruntlement for perceived slights or being forced to be attentive. However, there were times when he was being earnest and considerate even if it came off condescending. “Forgive me, husband, I am feeling tired and irritable,” she explained, cradling her belly as if to accentuate her point.
Ambrose rose to his feet, offering her hand. “Then we shall retire early.”
“There is no need for us both to be absent,” Joanna protested.
Her ladies and his grooms had noticed the king’s movements and were already making their way to the dais to offer their assistance.
“I shall return after I have escorted you to your chambers,” Ambrose uttered.
The queen wondered if he thought her a child with the way he fussed over her. Regardless, she accepted his hand, feeling too exhausted to argue. It was only when she stood up, allowing her cramped muscles to stretch, did she realize that the music and merriment had grinded to halt with everyone watching them, some in confusion and others concern.
“My lords, my ladies,” boomed Ambrose. “My son is overexcited tonight and has caused my wife to become tired. Therefore, we must take your leave. But please continue the festivities in our absence.”
“Did you not say you would return?” Joanna recalled as they swept out of the room.
“I only said it so you would stop arguing with me,” divulged Ambrose, sending her a coy smile. “You are so terribly stubborn that I have resorted to trickery.”
Joanna wondered if her husband would ever start making sense.
The small alcove where Guildford was waiting was lit by only one candle and so he had to squint to see the tapestry that swathed the wall. A scene from Greek Mythology. Judging by the three headed beast he could barely make out, battling against a muscular hero wearing a lion’s pelt it was one of the Twelve Labors of Hercules.
“Which labor was Cerberus?” Guildford mused aloud. “Tenth? Eleventh?”
“Twelfth,” Jane Grey answered, starling Guildford in the process. He had not heard her approach.
Guildford beheld her for a moment. She was garbed in a dress of burgundy brocade, a brown pendent studded with rubies and sapphires around her neck, and a pearl headdress upon her hair.
She was beautiful.
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” he admitted. He cursed his nerves as his stomach flipped flopped.
Jane Grey averted her eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I should come, considering how you have been avoiding me like I had the plague for nearly a year.”
“Jane, I have already explained to you, why I did that,” Guildford reminded her, running his fingers though his hair. He was beginning to think that maybe he should not tell her, keep it to himself, instead of dealing with the heartbreak that was sure to come.
However, Robert’s words reverberated in his ears, and he knew he could not let her marry the Duke of York without a fight.
“You have, but it does not hurt any less,” opined Jane, closing her eyes for a moment.
Now or never, a voice hissed in his mind.
“Marry me,” Guildford blurted out.
Now it was Jane’s turn to be startled. Her skirts rustled as she spun around, taken aback by his abruptness. “I beg your pardon.”
“Mary me,” Guildford repeated, taking a step closer to her until their faces were almost touching. “I know I don’t have a lot to offer you. I know I am not a prince. I know I am the youngest of five sons. I-I am rambling.”
“Yes, you are.” Jane did not move away. Her breathing had become ragged as her gaze rested on his lips.
Taking that as an invitation, Guildford closed the gap between them; his hungry mouth covered hers. The intoxicating heat contrasting with the coolness of his lips, and a soft mewl escaped her throat. He thrust his tongue inside, swallowing her moan.
Jane didn’t feel him move her, but the next thing she knew was her body was pressed against the cold stone wall and his hands were suddenly on her lower back, moving downwards to her bottom.
It wasn’t until she felt his hardness against her leg, did Jane realize this was quickly spiraling out of control.
Summoning up all the willpower she had, she placed her hands against his chest and pushed him away from her.
“Not like this,” she whispered, trying catch her breath.
“Do you not love me?” Guildford questioned, his chest heaving with passion.
Jane’s response was immediate, not even having to think of it. “I do. And it scares me.”
He snorted as if that was amusing. “Why would it scare you?”
“Because it means I am willing to throw everything away for you,” Jane admitted averting her eyes. “I fear I will regret it.”
Guildford’s gaze darkened. “Well, I would hate for you to regret anything.”
“Guildford,” Jane began. “Please you have to understand. My parents have a plan for me. I can’t just disobey them.”
“Ambrose would support us,” he contradicted. “If you asked him to, he would bless our marriage in an instance.”
“It is not that simple,” The oldest Grey daughter protested.
“Yes, it is,” Guildford argued. He then sighed. “You have made your decision. I sincerely hope you and Prince Edward will be happy together.”
“Gilly---”
“Lady Grey,” Guildford cut her off coldly. “I will take my leave of you.” With that, left her alone in the alcove.
As tears sprung to her eyes, Jane pressed a hand to her still tingling lips.
Unwilling to return to the great hall where she would be pestered by her sisters, Lady Jane decided to return to her rooms. It seemed that God was not on her side tonight for as she traipsed through the candle lit corridors of the palace, she bumped into Edward.
An apology was on the tip of the Duke of York’s tongue when he caught sight of her tear-stained visage. “Jane, what happened? Who hurt you?” he quizzed, cupping her face with his hand, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb.
“Oh, it is nothing, Ned, truly,” she lied.
“You are my fiancée.” Determination flashed across Edward’s countenance. “I refuse to let someone insult you and get away with it. Tell me who the black hearted rogue is, and I will make short work of him.”
Jane could not help but giggle at his attempt to sound intimidating. Judging from how he was smiling instead of being affronted that was what he was going for.
“Please, Ned, I fear it would be unbecoming of you to hit a lady.” Jane sent a silent apology to her sister. “I just had a row with Katie, and I just felt so bad, I was crying.”
There was a trace of doubt in Edward’s eyes. Nonetheless, he accepted her excuse. “I am pleased that I could at least bring a smile back to your lovely face. May I escort you back to your rooms?”
She shook her head, knowing her mother would have a fit if she saw her alone with a man---although less so than if she had caught Jane with Guildford.
Oh Gilly. A stab of guilt filled her. Why couldn’t she be brave? Why couldn’t she stand up to her mother for once and put herself first?
“Jane, may I kiss you?”
For the second time that night, Lady Grey was startled by the question. “What?”
Edward blushed and began to ramble, “I mean I know it has not been announced yet and we have to get permission from Amby, but we will be married, and I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss you. Only if you want to, of course.”
Jane swallowed as she stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Edward’s neck as he snaked his arm around her waist. The seconds seemed to tick by slowly as they inched closer until their lips touched.
It was an awkward and clumsy kiss. It could not be more obvious that this was Edward’s first kiss---something Jane would have found sweet under different circumstances.
When they pulled away, it was all she could do to keep her features schooled in a serene mask, praying that her smile wouldn’t slip nor would the tears she could feel behind her eyelids drop.
“Was that good?” The Duke of York questioned. His manner was so hopeful, so earnest, it broke her heart.
I can’t do this! Jane screamed in her mind. “It was very nice.”
That was the third time she lied to him tonight.
“I should get back to my mother before she sends anyone out to find me,” she professed.
Thankfully, Edward was far too pleased to notice how she was desperate to get away from him. He chastely kissed her cheek and bid her goodnight.
Jane waited until he had disappeared behind the corner before she took off running, in the opposite directions of the Grey apartments.
She knew what she had to do.
Meanwhile in the king’s apartments, Ambrose had returned to find his mistress naked on his bed.
“I kept waiting for you to ask me to dance,” she pouted as he began to remove his garments, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Ambrose apologized, his eyes roaming her shapely form. “It just didn’t feel right when my wife is pregnant and unable.”
This seemed to upset Mistress Cooke even more, she crossed her arms over her chest, blocking her lover’s leer from her ample bosom. “She doesn’t even like dancing. She just sits there like a fat sourpuss cow!”
Ambrose froze, a stab of anger ripping through him. He wasn’t sure why that upset him. In fact, he had called her two of those things at least once. However, it seemed wrong coming from anyone else’s mouth.
“Do not insult her.” He spoke in such a cutting tone, Catherine seemed to shrink into herself. “She is my wife and my queen. Not to mention she is carrying the heir to the throne.”
Cat crawled across the bed, staring up at him with such bewitching eyes so different from Joanna’s. “Forgive me, love. I just didn’t like being ignored.” She pressed her body against him.
“Well, I’m not ignoring you now.” With that Ambrose kissed her hard enough to knock her backwards onto the bed, his hands grabbing her breasts while hers reached for his hose.
Just before they could partake in passionate lovemaking, a knock came at the door and Ambrose was certain he would murder whoever it was.
“WHAT?!” he bellowed, detangling himself from his mistress. He would have her again once he finished laying into whoever dared interrupt him.
“There is a visitor anxious to see you,” Sir Martin announced from behind the safety of the door, knowing that the wood would stop Ambrose from strangling him.
“I gave strict orders not to be disturbed!” shouted the king.
“I know, Sire, and I told her that. But she was most insistent,” the hapless guard informed him.
Her? Ambrose’s brows knitted together as he tried to think there was a woman anxious to see him. Joanna? One of her ladies? Oh God! What if something has happened to her and the baby!
“Who is it? And what did she say she wanted?” the king interrogated, already hurrying to get his clothes back on.
“Lady Jane Grey and all she said was her words were for your ears only,” came the reply.
Ambrose dropped his doublet in surprise. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Catherine was also baffled by the turn of events.
Why would his cousin be visiting his private chambers—apparently unaccompanied---at this time of night?
“Bring her to my solar,” Ambrose commanded, fixing his jerkin so it wouldn’t look ruffled. He then turned to Catherine. “I am afraid that we must end early tonight. Jane wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important. I’ll have Sir Martin bring you back to your apartment.”
His lover stared at him in open mouth disbelief. However, he gave her no time to argue, having already hurried out of his bedchamber.
“Ambrose, I need your help.” The minute they were alone, Jane practically threw herself at him, tears flowing down her cheeks like twin river. “I love Edward, I do. But he is like a brother to me. I can’t do that to him. I just can’t marry him, knowing how he feels about me and how I…” she trailed off, shame shinning on her visage.
“How you love Guildford,” Ambrose finished for her.
He led her over a green armchair, settling her down on it before he took the couch adjacent to her. “Take a deep breathe and tell me what happened.”
“After months of pretending I don’t exist, Guildford asked me to marry him,” Jane confessed, pulling a handkerchief out of her dress, curled it around her fingers, and began to dab her eyes. “I told him I couldn’t. I couldn’t disappoint my parents. I couldn’t disappoint Edward.”
“He didn’t take that well,” guessed Ambrose.
“Would you?” Jane slammed her hand over her mouth, shocked at how she had just sniped at a king even if he was her oblivious cousin. “Forgive me, I----”
Ambrose dismissed her apologies with a wave. “Keep going. What happened next?”
“I was wondering the halls when Ned found me,” Jane continued. “He was being so sweet. And then he asked to kiss me.”
“Ned did that.” Had it been any other situation, Ambrose would have been proud of his brother for taking the initiative.
“Before I was certain that I would grow to love Edward, more than a brother.” Jane seemed to be gaining control of her emotions as she leaned forward in the chair, her voice still shaky. “Now I feel it isn’t fair. Not to Edward. Not to Guildford. Not to me.”
“Oh, Jane.” Ambrose reached out to take her hand in his. Then feeling like it wasn’t enough, he pulled her into a hug, unable to covey in words, how much he sympathized with her plight.
She was in between a rock and a hard place. Even with his help, the road forward would not be easy. It would still lead to heartbreak and conflict.
“Jane, tell me what you want me to do,” Ambrose whispered. He might be king, but this was one decision he could not make.
“I want you to make Guildford an earl in his own right and declare that we are to be married,” Jane responded, burying her face in Ambrose’s shoulder, clutching him like Margaret did when she had a nightmare and wanted her brother to comfort her.
“Done.”
“And I want you to swear to me that you will never tell Edward that I asked you for this,” she implored, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to hurt him anymore than I already have.”
“I promise he will never know,” vowed Ambrose. Elizabeth once told him, it was better that Edward and Margaret didn’t know about the things would only cause them pain.
Edward would be angry, but he would be angry at Ambrose not Jane.
I can live with that, he decided as he held his cousin close, wishing that there were a way he could make everyone happy, but he knew it was impossible. It will take time, but eventually Edward will move on and forgive me.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed your late Christmas present/early New Year's present.
Thoughts? Feedback? How was my buildup? What did you think of the scenes with Jane? Thoughts on Fredrick and Elziabeth's fight? Ambrose/Joanna. How Mary is literally the only one with a drama free family life.
Chapter 33: Innocence Lost
Summary:
The fallout of Jane Grey's decision hits the Tudor court fast and hard.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
January 2, 1553
“Why has the king sent for us?” Lady Frances Grey nee Brandon contemplated as she and her husband waited impatiently outside the monarch's private audience chambers.
Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset fidgeted with a diamond ring on his finger, a gift from the late King Henry. He had a pudgy face with a long brown goatee. His beady eyes narrowed as he thought it over.
“I don’t know. If it were about Jane’s engagement surely, he would have invited the Seymours,” he opined, his brow furrowed. “Or at least his brother.”
“I don’t like this. Something isn’t right.” Frances began to pace the room. Fortuitously, she and her husband were the only ones there. Although now that she thought about it, why were there no petitioners waiting for the king? Something was definitely not right about this situation.
“Do you think it is about those rumors?” voiced Lord Grey.
Frances’s eyes grew fiery at the reminder of the vile gossip that had been circulating court. Someone had seen Jane go unaccompanied into the king’s chambers and she had stayed with him for an hour.
“They are false,” she hissed, bristling at the thought of her daughter being accused of lowering herself to be become a royal mistress especially when she would soon be married to the Duke of York.
“Jane looked rather guilty when we saw her last night,” Henry pointed out, grimacing at the thought of his daughter acting like a wanton.
His wife pressed her lips together, but she found she could not come up with a convincing argument to explain their daughter’s strange behavior.
Nonetheless, Jane had been taught to be better than that. Frances was certain she would never shame her family. Something else was amiss, but it was not as bad as her daughter losing her virtue. She, like all the ladies of her station, had been taught to guard her maidenhood as if it were precious treasure.
It seemed as though they were waiting for their sovereign for hours, fretting and speculating, before the king’s secretary finally ushered them into the private chambers.
King Ambrose was sitting on a throne, his head held high. His features were smoothed into an impassive mask, not betraying a trace of emotion. He waited for the Greys to bow and curtsey respectfully before he spoke.
“My lord, my lady,” he greeted them formally. “I am aware that you have been looking for a husband for your daughter Jane.”
“We have, Your Majesty,” Lord Henry admitted.
“But we wouldn’t dare to make anything official without your permission,” Frances added hastily, an edge of fear in her tone. As the daughter of the executed Duke of Suffolk, she knew how carefully she had to tread around her cousin. She could not afford to anger him.
Ambrose nodded choppily. “As you should. However, I have found another bridegroom for my cousin.”
The husband and wife exchanged glances, surprised by this turn of events. Was he planning to marry their daughter to the Duke of Kent’s son to replace his sister in that match? If so, it wouldn’t be a complete loss. True, the Boleyns were upstarts, but they were permanently in the king’s favor which meant that whatever family married the heir to the dukedom of Kent would be set for life.
“Who?” The Marquess of Dorset dared ask.
“Guildford Dudley.” Ambrose tapped his fingers on the armrest, scrutinizing them carefully.
Frances Brandon bit back a horrified gasp. “Your Majesty, I am not questioning---”
“He will be given an earldom,” Ambrose quickly cut in before she could finish. He smiled weakly. “I would never allow my cousin to marry a man with no titles to his name.”
“You are most gracious, Sire.” Dorset inclined his head politely. “But may I ask why the Dudley boy? Not that I don’t think your judgement is impeccable.”
Ambrose raised a delicate eyebrow at the older man’s brazen attempts at flattery. “I am most pleased that you think so.” He tried to keep the note of mocking out of his voice. “The Duke of Northumberland was a great advisor to me, and Guildford has been a true friend and a blessed companion. I wish to reward both of them.”
Frances frowned in puzzlement. That made some sense, but why now? Why not a year ago when the duke had recently died? Then she recalled the rumors of Jane visiting Ambrose and how guilty her daughter had been acting. Suddenly, all the pieces fit together with a sickening clarity.
That little bitch! Frances raged inwardly, being sure to keep a serene expression upon her visage. She placed a hand on her husband’s arm, causing him to stop his pointless stammering. She genuflected deeply and spoke with as much sweetness as she could muster: “Thank you, Your Majesty, for this high honor. We are most pleased by this match.”
It was clear from his furrowed brows that her sudden acceptance of her daughter’s betrothed surprised the king, but his visage soon softened into relief, pleased that the hard part was over.
“Frances?” Hal questioned, confused that she was accepting the ruining of their plans so easily.
His wife squeezed his arm, signaling she would fill him in later. “May we go and share this news with our daughter?” she requested.
“Of course,” Ambrose acquiesced with a dismissive wave of his hands, all too eager to end this awkward meeting.
“Thank you,” Frances said through gritted teeth. She and her husband backed away from the throne, bending their knees before exciting the room.
Once they were outside, Frances marched towards the Grey’s apartments with only one thought on her mind: to make sure her dratted daughter realize the error of her ways.
The corridors were mercifully scarce of people as the Marquess of Dorset had to sprint to keep up with his wife’s brisk pace. Although her features were still perfectly poised with nary a flicker of the furious storm brewing inside of her, the large steps she was taking, the way her hands were clutching her skirts so tightly, her knuckles turned white, and her eyes seemed to glint angrily, it was clear that something had sparked her ire.
The Grey’s apartments were spacious and grandly decorated, fitting the status and station of the family who dwelled inside. Expensive artwork was prominently displayed on the walls, gold grandfather clock stood near the fireplace. A large leather couch was in the middle with two armchairs on either side.
Jane, Mary, and Katherine Grey were seated on the red couch, playing cards, when their parents entered. They rose to greet them. When Jane caught sight of her mother, she paled and that was all the confirmation Frances needed that her hunch was correct.
“YOU WICKED LITTLE SLUT!” she thundered as she strode to her eldest daughter, slapping her as hard as she could. Then she began to beat her with her fists.
“Frances! Stop this madness at once!” Henry Grey shouted as he ran to pull his wife off of their daughter. Mary and Katherine clutched each other, frightened by their mother’s attack on their sister, frozen in place as they watched the scene unfold in front of them.
“YOU WRETCHED UNGRATEFUL BRAT!” bellowed Frances as she pulled her daughter’s hair. “HOW DARE YOU! AFTER ALL WE HAVE DONE FOR YOU! YOU BETRAY US!”
Hal finally managed to subdue his wife, keeping himself in between the two women. “Frances, for Heaven’s sake, what has gotten into you!”
“Tell him,” the marquess snarled at their daughter. “Tell him how you have shamed us.”
“I love Guildford Dudley,” Jane spoke barely above a whisper. She stayed on the floor, her blue dress pooling around her. She was trembling so badly, her sisters rushed to hug her. “I asked the king to support our betrothal.”
Frances’ lips curled up into a sneer. “Well, if you know what’s good for you, you will beg for an audience with His Majesty, and tell him that you have changed your mind and that you want to marry the Duke of York instead. If you don’t---”
“That is enough.” Hal shook his wife a little, hoping to snap her out of her madness. Although he could not claim to be happy with Jane’s foolishness, surely this was just something she had done on impulse, and she would gladly rectify the situation.
“No.”
Both Hal and Frances stared at Jane in shock, unable to comprehend the word that had just come out of their normally sweet and bidding daughter's mouth.
“What did you just say?” inquired Dorset, not believing his ears.
Jane stood up, pushing her sisters behind her as she lifted her chain defiantly. “The king will want to know why I changed my mind and I wouldn’t dare lie to him.” There was an ounce of a jeer in her tone.
“You stupid chit,” Frances pushed past her husband, her hand raised, only for Jane to grab her arm, restricting her mother’s movements.
“Careful, Mother,” the younger woman threatened coolly. “If I were to tell King Ambrose of how you treated me, it would be very bad for you.”
“Jane!” Hal was aghast. Frances blanched and took a hasty step back, her arm falling limply to her side. “We are your parents.”
His eldest daughter smiled like a cat who had gotten the cream. “I know, Father. But you don’t have His Majesty’s favor, I do.”
“You better hope his blessing is enough for you shall get none from us,” Frances proclaimed.
Jane regarded her mother icily. “Very well. It matters not to me. After all, I have no need of you.”
Frances let out a shriek of anger before she stormed out of the rooms.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” Hal Grey muttered before he left as well---in the opposite direction of his wife.
“Janey?” Mary Grey tugged at her dress. “Are you going to leave us now?”
Her eldest sister kneeled down and wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling Katie down to join the group hug. “I will be leaving. In fact, I suspect it will be a long time before I come back to court.”
I can’t bear to face Edward once he learns of what shall happen, Jane bemoaned. “However, if you wish to come with me, I will arrange it.”
Before either girl could answer, the doors were pushed open and Guildford Dudley strode in, his grin threatening to split his face.
Jane rose from the floor, opening her mouth to greet him, only to be silenced by Guildford’s lips as he kissed her passionately.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” he commented once they parted.
“Did the king tell you?” Jane guessed.
Guildford nodded before dropping to one knee, holding her hand as he stared up at her. “Lady Jane Grey, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The lady smiled at him, her eyes filled with happy tears. “Yes.”
Her sisters burst into applause as Guildford gathered her in his embrace again, kissing her tenderly.
For just one moment, all was well.
Meanwhile back in the monarch’s private chamber, Ambrose had just finished filling his uncle in on the events of last night and this morning.
“I hope you are prepared for the fallout,” George remarked, licking his lips. He really wished Cromwell were here. He would have been able to see the consequences of Ambrose’s meddling and known how to deal with them.
Ambrose fiddled with a few papers on the table in front of him, keeping his gaze averted. “The Dorsets took it well.”
George let out a frustrated noise. “Of course, they did. They are still getting a good match for their daughter. It is the Seymours we need to worry about.”
“Ned will understand.” The young monarch seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as he was his uncle. “I will find another bride for him. A princess.”
“Now let’s not be too hasty,” George told him, not wanting Prince Edward to have a royal match. “Perhaps we can find a daughter of a German Duke.”
Ambrose opened his mouth to argue when there was a commotion outside, causing them both to turn.
“STAND ASIDE! I WANT TO SPEAK TO MY BROTHER AT ONCE!” It was Prince Edward. Ambrose had never heard his brother raise his voice and yet his bellowing was loud enough to shake the walls.
Minutes later, Edward burst into the chamber despite the sentries attempts to stop him. Ambrose quickly waved them off.
“Ned---” he began, only for the usually mild manned Duke of York to grab him by the collar and slam him bodily to the table, knocking over two candles in the process.
“WHAT DID YOU DO!”
Guardsmen Swete and Baxter roughly grabbed Edward and pulled him away from the king, Baxter even put his hand on the pommel of his sword in warning.
The Duke of York, while still seething, was able to force himself to calm down. He eyed the guards wearily as he stood up, shaking in barely concealed rage. “Did you sleep with her?”
Now Ambrose was confused. “Sleep with who?”
“What do you mean who?” Edward seemed enraged by that answer. “The whole palace is abuzz with rumors that my fiancée visited your bedchambers last night. Do you deny it?”
“I don’t deny that she visited me,” Ambrose confessed. “But I did not sleep with her.” He glanced at his uncle, wondering just how far the rumors had spread. He prayed they had not reached his wife. He had been to discreet with his mistress and the last thing he wanted was to upset Joanna in her condition.
“DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL!” Edward thundered. “YOU SLEPT WITH JANE AND ARE NOW FORCING HER TO MARRY YOUR FRIEND!”
Ambrose stared open mouthed at his younger brother, far too shocked to even be offended by that accusation. How could Edward think he would do something so horrible? He was about to correct the duke, tell him that Jane had asked to marry Guildford.
However, the words remained frozen on his tongue. He had promised his sweet cousin that he would not divulge their conversation and besides, no matter how angry he got at Edward, he couldn’t bring himself to tell him something that would hurt him.
“Ned, I swear to you that is not what occurred,” Ambrose protested, trying to come up with an explanation that would be acceptable. “Guildford is my best friend, and he loves Jane---”
“I am your brother,” interject Edward. His face contorted with rage. “Or at least I thought I was.”
The Duke of York turned his back on his brother and stormed out without waiting to be dismissed.
Despite the flagrant display of disrespect, Ambrose did not call him back, knowing there was nothing he could say to make it better.
He’ll get over it in time, he speculated. Ned won’t stay mad at me.
It took him a minute to realize that George and the guards were still in the room, observing him wearily as if they were waiting for him to lose his temper.
But Ambrose felt tired, emotionally drained. Besides, if there were rumors that he slept with Jane---thank God, Guildford had not heard of that piece of gossip when they spoke----then he best make sure that his wife knew they were false.
“Uncle, I want a list of every perspective bride for Ned,” the king commanded as he began to stride out of his chambers, calling over his shoulder, “And yes, that includes princesses.”
As he strolled down the passageways with Arthur Pole and Henry Cheyne following him, he could hear whispers from the courtiers ambling about the corridors. They would suddenly become quiet whenever Ambrose got close enough, giving him a clear idea of what they were discussing.
However, the king knew if he reacted, this would only put more fuel to fire. Instead, he continued making his way to his wife’s apartments. Joanna was in the drawing room, playing cards with one of her ladies.
“Husband,” she greeted him politely, rising to bend her knees.
Before addressing her the monarch signaled for his grooms to wait outside. “Wife. I wish to speak with you in private,” explained Ambrose, his gaze veering towards her duenna, who usually was a good indicator of whether or not his latest offense had been learned. The older Spanish woman kept her gaze on the ground, but her rigid body language suggested she was displeased.
She knows and if she knows, Joanna does as well, he deduced with a heavy sigh.
Thankfully, his queen dismissed her ladies without a word of complaint, keeping a hand on her belly, before gesturing to the seat across from hers. “Would you like to play?”
Ambrose blinked, glancing down at the cards at the table before dropping in the wooden chair. He checked the cards of Joanna’s opponent. “Lady Isabel had a good hand,” he noted as he placed them on the deck so his wife could reshuffle them. “It seems I saved you from embarrassment.”
“We were not playing for money,” Joanna declared, her eyes on the deck of cards as she dealt three cards for each of them. “Therefore, it didn’t matter who won or lost.”
“Then what is the point of playing?” Ambrose questioned, as if he were unable to process something not being competitive.
“Sharing a quiet pastime with a good friend,” answered his wife simply. “Now what is it you wanted to tell me?”
The king coughed, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, trying to choose his words carefully. “There is a rumor going around court that my cousin, Jane Grey and I slept together. I wanted to be sure you knew that was false.”
Joanna raised a delicate eyebrow. “And why should I be concerned about who shares your bed?”
Ambrose scowled, annoyed by her reaction. “Of course, you don’t care,” he muttered under his breath. “You are a block of ice.” He wasn’t sure why this disappointed him. It wasn’t like he wanted her to be jealous.
His wife was nonplussed by his insult. “Do you wish for me to care about your choice of mistresses?” Ambrose got a vague sense that he was being mocked. “I could give you a list of reasons I don’t think Mistress Cooke or Mistress Rich are suitable.” Now he was certain she was mocking him. He decided against correcting her that Mistress Rich was not his mistress.
“Regardless, I just wanted to apprise you.” Ambrose pushed back the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as he got up. He was in no mood to argue. He was about to leave when he saw Joanna wince, gripping the edge of the table tightly. Within seconds he was at her side. “What is it? What’s wrong? Should I summon the physician?”
“No, no.” Joanna sat back, taking a deep breath before continuing, “The babe is merely kicking a bit hard.”
Ambrose’s eyes lit up and he reached towards her belly, only to hesitate. “May I?”
His wife nodded. “If you wish.”
The king placed his hand on her swollen abdomen. His eyes lit up as he felt a thump against his palm. “I felt him. Our son is strong.”
“He is,” Joanna agreed, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
When their son was still again, Ambrose returned to his seat, picking up his cards.
“Why did Lady Grey visit your chambers late at night?” Joanna questioned as she regarded her own cards with careful consideration.
Her husband’s gaze flew to her, his countenance betraying his surprise. His shoulders then sagged as he remembered the argument he had with his brother. “This does not leave the room.”
If the queen was perplexed by this request, she did not show it. “Very well.”
“Jane came to me because she loved Guildford and Edward, but in two very different ways,” Ambrose began. “She saw Ned as a brother. However, she didn’t want to hurt him.” He continued to relay all that had happened that night, feeling good to get it off his chest.
Joanna listened intently, a frown upon her face. “Well, I hope they are very happy, having left you such a big mess to clean up.” Her voice was rough with disapproval.
“It will blow over eventually,” Ambrose insisted.
“You are far too optimistic for your own good,” she commented, shaking her head. “This is not something your brother will forgot or forgive and worst of all, thanks to your promise to Lady Jane, he will continue to believe it is solely your fault.”
“You don’t know Ned like I do,” protested the king. “Sure, he is angry now. But eventually he will get over it. He always does.”
“For your sake, I hope you are right,” Joanna declared as she laid her cards on the table. “A king and a queen.”
Ambrose groaned as he showed his hand. “Knaves. Another round?”
“Do you have nothing better to do then to spend time with a block of ice?” inquired Joanna as she shuffled the deck again.
“It is warm enough in here that you might melt in a few hours,” Ambrose jested. A chuckle escaped his wife’s lips before she could smother it. “Good Heavens, did I actually manage to get a laugh out of you?”
“Well, you finally said something somewhat amusing,” Joanna answered dryly.
Ambrose could not help but laugh at that. They continued to play cards well into the afternoon and the king did not even mind loosing most the games.
“How could he do this to me?” Edward lamented, angry tears springing to his eyes. He faced the flickering flames in the fireplace, trying not to weep in frustration.
He thought of poor Jane, forced to marry that muscle-bound brute. Oh, how he longed to rescue her from such a fate. There was a part of him that wanted to sprint her away so they could elope. However, the rational side of him reasoned that would only lead to them both being arrested.
I wouldn’t even put it past Ambrose to do something that horrible, he seethed, still feeling the sting of his brother’s betrayal.
A pale hand is laid upon his arm. He turns to see his mother beside him, dressed in a gown of silver brocade, her sympathy painted on her visage. “It is because he is afraid of you.” Her voice is scarily above a whisper.
Edward’s eyebrows knitted together, perplexed. “Afraid of me?”
Jane nodded in confirmation. “He knows that you should be the king and he fears allowing you to marry someone who could strengthen your claim.”
A chill fell over the Duke of York as if someone had dropped down his spine. “Mother, you speak treason.”
“I speak the truth,” Jane contradicted. “I have been quiet for far too long. You deserve to know what you are being denied. You were always your father’s true heir. Ambrose and his sister were born out of wedlock, while the late Queen Katherine still drew breath.” Her chest heaved with passion, although she took care to keep her voice low.
“I don’t understand. I thought Father annulled his marriage with Katherine of Aragon before marrying Anne Boleyn,” Edward recited the words he had heard so many times in his youth.
“The laws of men cannot overrule the laws of God,” insisted Jane. “God’s representative, the Bishop of Rome, proclaimed the union between Queen Katherine and King Henry valid. Anne Boleyn and her vile followers tricked your father into believing otherwise, provoking him into breaking away from the church.”
Horror and terror were making Edward’s stomach flip-flop. This could not be true. If it were, that would mean that Ambrose had stolen his birthright. Just like he stole everything from me. He shook his head to clear it of that traitorous thought.
No matter how angry he was at him, Ambrose was still his brother. Besides, surely if this were really the case, the people would have risen up against this injustice.
His mother seemed to mistake his silent horror for shock for she reached up to cup his face with her hand. “Oh, my poor sweet boy. I tried to speak up for you, tried to snap your father out of the spell he was under so he could see the truth, but I was banished for speaking out against your brother, forced to stay away from you.”
Edward’s eyes widened. That was the reason his mother was sent away. That was what she had been mistaken about? Why had no one told him? If it wasn’t true, why did they feel the need to silence his mother?
So many questions and so few answers left Edward overwhelmed, his swirling so much, he felt dizzy.
“Mother, I…” he trailed off, feeling tongue tied.
“Hush, love, do not fret,” Jane assured him, kissing his forehead. “Be patient. God will right this wrong. I assure you.”
There was a hurried knock on the door, and Edward tensed, half-afraid that someone had heard his mother and they were here to arrest her.
“Come,” Jane called, moving her hand back to her son’s sleeve, giving it a pat.
A breathless servant entered, his eyes wild and his face pale. “My lady, my lord, you must come at once. Princess Margaret is ill!”
The chilly sensation gripping Edward’s bones intensified.
Time had lost all meaning from the moment his sister’s illness was announced to when the physician emerged from the bedchambers where she was languishing.
The Seymour family were clustered around Edward, all of them feeling the same dread he was. Standing a little bit further away was Ambrose, having come running when he heard the news. He did not dare approach his brother, unsure if he would accept any comfort or reject it, still angry about their fight.
Thomas Wendy looked old and weary as he stepped out of the room, the grimness of his wrinkled face left little doubt that the princess inside was extremely sick.
“Princess Margaret has a terrible fever,” he announced, not beating around the bush. “She also has a rash on her body and white spots in her mouth. I am afraid she has measles.”
Jane Seymour let out a sob, causing her sisters to hug her. Outbreaks of measles had been known to cause the death of hundreds of children.
“Will she get better?” Edward asked in a small voice.
Dr. Wendy beheld him with sorrow. “I will do all I can for her. In the meantime, it is important that we keep her isolated. Otherwise, this could turn into an epidemic.”
“I want to see her,” Jane declared.
“Janey,” Dorothy began, attempting to touch her sister’s arm, only to be shaken off as if she were an annoying fly.
“No! My daughter is ill, and I shall see her!” the dowager queen’s eyes flashed with the fury of a mother bear whose cub had been separated from her.
“As will I,” Edward agreed with his mother.
It took some arguing but Edward and Jane were allowed to enter the room as long as they stayed a few feet away from the bed.
Margaret had always looked small, but today she seemed as tiny as a newborn. Her skin was unhealthy pale with the edges of a red rash creeping up her throat. She blinked blearily at her brother and her mother as they entered, as if she could quite recognize them.
“Mama? Ned?” she murmured.
The Duke of York had to grab his mother by her arms to stop her from racing to the bedside.
“We’re here, sweetheart.” Jane bit back a sob. “We’re here, my darling girl.”
“I don’t feel well,” Margaret uttered, a trickle of fear in her voice. “I am not going to die, am I? I don’t want to die.”
“No, little sister, you’re going to get better,” vowed Edward. “In a few weeks, you will be all better. Then in a few years, you will be Queen of Spain.”
“Yes,” Jane laughed almost manically. “You will be the queen of Spain! Won’t that be wonderful, darling, you a queen?”
“I’d like that,” agreed Maggie, her hair matted with sweat. “When I get better, may I go to Denmark to visit Lizzie?”
“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you want.” The hysteria in his mother’s voice was beginning to unnerve Edward and he knew they had to leave before it frightened Margaret.
“You should rest now, Maggie,” the Duke of York opined. “You will get better quicker if you rest.”
“I do feel tired.” Margaret’s eyelids drooped. A strangled sob escaped his mother’s lips. “Don’t worry, Mama. I am just going to sleep for a little while.”
“Just for a little while, sweetheart,” Jane cried, tears coursing down her face. “Stay with us. Please stay with us!” When Edward finally got her out of them, she clung to him tightly.
March 17, 1553
“It’s a girl!”
Ambrose could sense the gazes on him, piercing into his soul, waiting for his reaction. He wanted to roll his eyes.
Even his father, obsessed with sons, would not complain about having a daughter on the first try. Besides, unlike his father, he had a male heir, two if one counted young Philip, Duke of Somerset.
My father’s obsession hurt his wives and his children, Ambrose recalled. I shall not fallow his path.
Deciding he could care less what the pack of courtiers felt, he simply strode into his wife’s room. A smile on his face. It wasn’t until he had reached the doorway, did it all come crashing down.
Will England lose a princess as it gains one? He pondered, the picture of his little sister now covered in red spots sprung to his mind. She had not gotten healthier, and the doctor feared if things did not take a turn for better, she would die.
It was a harrowing thought, his eight-year-old sister, the picture of innocent and sweetness with her golden hair, sparkling sky-blue eyes and bright smile. It marred what should have been a happy day in his life.
“Husband, will you not greet your daughter?” Joanna’s voice seemed far away. He glanced up to see her frowning at him, holding her daughter to her chest almost protectively.
Ambrose blinked. His feet had a mind of their own it seemed as they had made their way to Joanna’s bedside. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there, but the room was devoid of anyone else. Not even the lioness Leonor was there, guarding her charge from the insensitivity of her husband.
“We can’t name her Margaret,” Ambrose blurted out.
Joanna let out a breath she had been holding and there was a flash of relief dancing across her visage. She had not known what to make of her husband gloomily standing there, his gaze fixed to the floor. “No, it is too soon and too fresh.” She glanced down at her daughter, scrutinizing her features. “Perhaps Mary after our sisters.”
Ambrose winced. I would rather people not start questioning if history would repeat. “There are so many Marys. And Elizabeths, come to think of it.”
His queen rested against the white silk pillows. Above the bed was green canopy with gold trimmings. “Very well. Then is there a name you prefer?”
“Joanna. Joan for short.”
Surprise blossomed on her face like a flower. “You want to name her after me?”
Ambrose shrugged. “It is a good name.” He edged closer, tilting his head as he studied the bundle in her arms. He was pleased that there was no hint of the Hapsburg jaw, but she did have the long nose of her mother. She stared up at him with brown eyes---Boleyn eyes----which almost made him want to reconsider and name her Anne. However, he meant what he said before. He wanted to give his daughter a name that was not used so often.
Well, it certainly will be used now, he mused with a smile tugging at his lips. He lifted his hand and placed on the baby’s head, marveling at how large it was in comparison to his daughter.
“She is so precious,” he murmured, bending down so he could press a kiss to her forehead. “A perfect princess.”
“Our daughter,” Joanna concurred.
The new parents enjoyed the blissful moment together, their minds solely on their baby girl.
April 6, 1553
Once Queen Joanna was churched, the remains of the court had all but fled Whitehall, unwilling to stay a moment longer with a sick girl in close proximity. The only reason they had not left earlier was because it had been too late in the queen’s pregnancy to move her.
Because of the doctor’s restrictions. Edward had not laid eyes on the newest member of the royal family. He had learned of the Tudor princess from a messenger who only stood by the door to relay the news to his steward. He had been surprised to learn that she was named Joanna. He suspected that Ambrose was so disappointed at not having a son that he had disavowed naming her, leaving it to his wife.
He was not the only one who had not been introduced to the Princess Joanna. Since Margaret’s illness, her household and her relatives had remained isolated so they could not contaminate the rest of the occupants of the palace.
Not that Edward had really been bothered by it as it gave him the excuse to avoid Ambrose. The pain of his brother sabotaging his relationship with Jane Grey, who would soon be forced into a loveless marriage with a man unworthy of her was still hurting him.
Worse, the words of his mother were still echoing in his mind, watering the seed of doubt. He knows that you should be the king and he fears allowing you to marry someone who could strengthen your claim.
Is it true? He wondered. Could Ambrose really be a bastard and I am the one who should have been Father’s heir?
“NO!”
A scream of pain interrupted Edward’s brooding and he took off running for his sister’s rooms. Despite the doctor’s instructions, his mother had not been able to stay away from her daughter’s bedside.
As he suspected, Jane Seymour was crouched by Margaret’s bed, holding her hand, and weeping loudly. His sister was still. Her eyes were closed, her chest did not move, and her golden hair was splayed out on the pillow like a halo.
The Duke of York collapsed onto his knees, his breathing ragged. She was just a child! He screamed at the heavens. She was eight! Why take her?! Why?! He felt a mixture of burning rage and crushing devastation.
Although he was nearly nine years older than his sister, they had been close. As he grew apart from Mary and Elizabeth, it was Margaret he had a bound with. They had been the outsiders of the family, ignored by their father, alone together.
Maggie was gone, never to a queen, of Spain or anywhere else for that matter. Now Edward had no one at all to share his troubles. It was like being at Windsor Castle, feeling trapped, lonely, forgotten, and uncared for by everyone.
“Ned.” His mother dropped Maggie’s hand and threw her arms around her son. “Oh, my darling Ned, please don’t leave me.”
Edward embraced his mother, burying his head in her shoulder as he did when he was a child. “Never, Mother, never. We shall never be separated again.”
She is all I have left, the duke realized. Elizabeth is in Denmark, Mary is lost in her religion, Ambrose has turned against me, Jane has been taken from me and now Maggie is dead. Everyone he had ever loved was gone except his mother. Not even Catherine Parr or his own father cared for him as his mother did.
“We will get through this together,” Jane professed, cupping his face. “We will be strong.”
“I know.” The Duke of York closed his eyes, sternly reminding himself that men did not cry. It took all of his self-control to keep himself from weeping in his mother’s arms like a baby.
Notes:
I know Frances Brandon beating her daughter were just rumors. But the scene of Jane standing up to her abusive mother was just too good for me to pass up.
Much like Philip, I always planned for Maggie to die. That's why I kept adding her in more scenes in previous chapters so her death could be more impactful.
Unlike Philip, Maggie's death was not solely for dramatic and angst purposes. As you might have picked up in the last scene, Maggie was one of the people who kept Edward from feeling isolated. Now that she is dead, this is just one more tie that has been severed.
Little Joan is here. The apple of her father's eye.
Chapter 34: Waiting to Strike
Summary:
Death shakes up the Tudor court as the future becomes uncertain.
Notes:
Happy twosday, everybody. In case anyone has missed the joke, it is 22.02.2022 on a Tuesday.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
August 25, 1554
“Hello old friend,” George greeted the man on the bed with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
Lord Thomas Cromwell’s face was withered and haggard. His hair white and his eyes bleary. He languished on silk sheets. He had a handkerchief pressed to his mouth so he could cough into it. He was dying, there could be no mistake about it.
“It is good to see you,” the old earl commented with a grandfatherly smile. “I am surprised that the king is not with you.”
George chuckled. “Oh, he wanted to, but thankfully I managed to convince him not to. Telling him I would pass on his gratitude for your long years of service.”
“It was my duty and my pleasure,” admitted Cromwell. The tender moment was ruined when he broke into a series of hacking coughs.
“I don’t know how England will survive without you,” George commented once the older man had gotten himself under control.
“Oh, I am sure you will manage,” Cromwell professed. “Ambrose is growing into his role, and you are growing into yours.”
“Not fast enough,” Kent disagreed. “Not when the Seymours are plotting.” With Philip, John, and Gregory Cromwell dead, they had lost the people who had been able to integrate with the Seymours and report on their activities. Even Gregory’s widow could not be counted on anymore, considering she barely interacted with her siblings.
This left them completely blind to the Earl of Hertford’s scheming.
“You will figure something out.” Cromwell lay back on the pillow, closing his eyes momentarily. “Just try not to make any enemies who will go rushing to Hertford within seconds.”
George grunted, his face twisted in disdain. “It is not my fault that people still look down at the Boleyns for archiving what they themselves could not.”
“That is true,” rasped the dying man. “But you do not help yourself by acting arrogant and impulsive.”
Kent narrowed his eyes on him. “My, my, aren’t you being blunt.”
“I have a day at most on this Earth, my lord, I might as well use it effectively.” Cromwell let out a dry chuckle that quickly turned into a series of hacking coughs.
George’s lips twitched upwards. “Even dying, you are still determined to serve the realm.”
“I have served two kings,” Cromwell noted. “Everything I have done is for them.”
“And nothing for you.” George’s manner was of playful disbelief.
“It has had some perks,” the earl admitted, his tone melancholic. “But I have lost much as well. My loving wife, my sweet daughters, and my wonderful son. Now after so many years, I will be reunited with them all, secure in the knowledge that I have provided for my descendants.”
“Henry Cromwell certainly has big shoes to fill,” commented George as his gaze drifted around the chambers, fixating on a portrait of the Cromwell family, painted almost a decade ago. It included his deceased wife and daughters.
“He will do it,” the retired Lord Councilor insisted. “He is young, but he is smart like I was. He can adapt, I am certain of it. He may not reach the heights that I did, but he will make his own mark on the world.”
George laughed. “I never took you for an optimist.” There was no response to his jest. He waited for a few seconds, his gut churning. “Have I finally shocked you into silence, my lord.” No sound at all.
Finally, the Duke of Kent turned around. Cromwell was now slumped over, his eyes closed, and his chest still.
And then there was one, George mused miserably as he moved closer to the bed, impulsively covering the old man with the white sheet, hiding his weakness from the world. “Goodbye, old friend.”
He would stay in the Cromwell home for one more night----after all, Henry Cromwell was a friend of his son’s-----then he would return to Whitehall, to pass the news on to Ambrose.
Today, they had lost a true friend, and a trusted advisor. A resourceful man who had a nose for information and could sniff out intrigue like a rat could find cheese. Ambitious and self-serving as he might have been, George knew there was no man he had rather worked side by side with over the years.
November 8, 1554
“The babe was stillborn. There was nothing we could do.” The midwife was a plump woman with a motherly face, warm brown eyes, and yet the soft words that fell of her lips were like a blow to the face, hard and painful.
It had been so wonderful when Joanna discovered she was pregnant again, a year and a half after their daughter. Two children after two years of marriage spoke of good omens to a union that had start off rocky.
Alas, it was not to be.
Ambrose did not bother asking what the gender was, he wordlessly passed the midwife, striding into his wife’s room, trying to keep the disappointment from his visage.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting----perhaps Joanna languishing on her bed, pretending to feel nothing. He did not think he would see tears, or her kissing the head of a small bundle, wrapped in a blanket, unmoving and far too small.
Dona Leonor bent her knees as she turned, spotting him in the doorway. She then left with the stillborn baby, with the queen’s other ladies on her heels.
The king approached the great bed with apprehension, scrutinizing his wife's face. Her eyes were puffy and red, and there were tear marks on her cheeks. I didn’t even know she could cry, Ambrose mused. Thankfully, he kept that particular thought to himself. Instead, he lowered himself to her side, slipping under the white silk sheets, wrapping his arms around her.
“It was a boy,” Joanna informed, averting her gaze, but not objecting to his touch. In fact, she clung to him, burying her face in his chest. It was the most vulnerable, he had ever seen her.
“It is all right,” he assured her. “We are young. We will have many sons and daughters. We just need more time.”
Joanna didn’t respond aside from miserable sniffles. Unwilling to allow awkward silence to fall over them, Ambrose continued to talk. “I was thinking perhaps bring our daughter to court.” He would also ask Mary to stay longer, certain that she would be able to cheer her cousin up.
His wife did not react to his offer, annoying him slightly, but he reminded himself that she was grieving just as he was.
“Perhaps we could arrange a state meeting in Hungary, visit your sister,” he suggested. He paused for a moment before quickly amending his sentence. “When you are feeling better, of course. Or we could go to Spain, see your father and your brother. Would you like that?”
Again, she said nothing, just running her fingers over the fabric of his clothes.
She is tired, Ambrose deduced. Exhausted both mentally and physically. She’d probably rather have quiet and be alone than me rambling on and on.
With that thought in mind, the king moved, getting ready to leave the bed. To his surprise his wife grabbed his shirt, lifting her head so their gazes met. “Where are you going?” The was a slight edge of desperation in her voice.
“I thought you would need some space,” admitted Ambrose, wondering if he would ever please her. She was so very frustrating.
“No. Please don’t…. Stay.” The queen spoke so quietly, her husband barely heard her. He moved back in place, holding her tightly as she readjusted herself.
“Would you like me to keep talking?” he questioned. A moment passed before her head bobbed up and down. “Anything in particular?”
“Your letters.”
Ambrose’s brow furrowed in confusion. “My letters?”
“You used to include poetry you composed yourself when you wrote to me,” reminisced Joanna.
“I didn’t realize you liked them.” Ambrose tried to recall if there any hint that she had enjoyed his badly formed sonnets in those polite but stoic responses she had sent to him.
“I never said I didn’t.”
Well, you never said you did either. The monarch had to bite his tongue so not to snap at his wife. They had just suffered a terrible blow. After nine months of waiting for their prince, he was born dead, never to open his eyes, never to use his lungs, never to grow as his sister would.
Instead, he held his wife close and began to recite a poem he had written years ago, only to fumble with the words. To his shock Joanna would finish it or she would correct him if he misremembered something.
The next thing, Ambrose knew, the room was pitch dark, but he didn’t bother getting up and retiring to his own chambers. He just removed his jewelry and his outerwear before returning to his wife’s side, not wanting her to wake up alone.
November 13, 1554
It was bone chilling cold; the ground was covered in a thick level of snow. The Earl of Hertford preferred it that way as it meant there was less chance of someone eavesdropping.
Edward Seymore’s gaze swept across the frozen garden of the Palace of Placentia just in case there was someone hiding behind the ice-covered branches of the leafless trees. Beside him, his companion shivered, rubbing his brown deerskin gloves together, pulling his furs closer.
Henry Pole, the Earl of Sailsbury, was a stout man with a narrow visage, and a pale complexion. He had outlived all his sons who dies without issue so it would be his nephew, Arthur, who would one day inherit his earldom.
“My apologizes, my lord, I thought it better to talk out here instead of inside,” Edward reasoned. “Less chance of Kent’s creatures lurking about.”
His sister had hoped with the black covid dead, George Boleyn would be short any powerful allies, seemingly forgetting that the crafty duke had secured the favor of Northumberland, Norfolk, Somerset, and Suffolk----newly reinstated. Not to mention the primate of the realm---Archbishop Cranmer was so firmly in the Boleyn’s faction, it was a surprise that he was not fully decked out in their colors.
As for the other sycophants of court, those who were not firmly on the Boleyn side were too much of wild cards to discern whether they would try side with him or if they would just toy with him until they could trap him like the insipid husband of the Princess Mary.
As if I could be so easily trapped, Edward huffed. Luckily, I had John Dudley on my side. It is a pity I cannot say the same about his son.
He had thought to reach out to the second Duke of Northumberland, but he thought better of it as he doubted the proud uncle of the king’s only bastard would be willing to betray him. Besides, despite being the youngest, Guildford Dudley had a hold over his siblings, and he would never allow them to even consider betraying his best friend.
The only hope Edward had for the youngest Dudley boy was that he would drive Thomas Howard straight into the Seymour faction.
“It is quite all right, my lord,” Hal Pole assured him, pulling the fellow earl from his thoughts. “I just pray that we get this over quickly so I can warm myself in front of the fire.”
Hertford nodded. “Has our source reported anything about Her Majesty’s condition?” Despite the compassionate nature of his words, it was clear by his cold demeanor that he did not care whether she lived or died.
“She is in perfect health,” Sailsbury divulged. “Aside from grief, there are no signs that the stillborn babe has affected her.”
“I pray that she will follow her great-aunt’s footsteps.” Seymore’s eyes glinted coldly as his thoughts raced. “Nothing but girls and dead boys.”
Pole seemed startled at his companion’s statement---not out of any compassion though at being so dismissive over the royal couple’s tragedies. “Would it not be better if she were to have no children at all? What if King Ambrose chooses to make his daughter his heir over Prince Edward?”
“After all the trouble his father went through to get a male heir, I very much doubt he would do so,” the earl insisted, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “And if he is so foolish that would just add to his undoing.”
The Earl of Sailsbury’s eyebrow shot up his forehead, peering at his co-conspirator inquisitively. “How so?”
“It will give those who do not wish to have a queen on the throne another incentive to follow us,” Edward Seymore speculated. “Not when there is a fully grown prince who just happens to have more legitimacy than his brother.”
“And what if Prince Edward does not agree?” Hal Pole inquired. After all, their plotting meant nothing if the boy they sponsored refused to go against his brother despite the tension between them.
A ghost of a smile appeared on Hertford’s countenance. “Much like his uncle, the king is his own worst enemy. He has done his very best to lengthen the divide between them. Now with my sister whispering in Edward’s ear, it will only be a matter of time before Edward is ready to declare himself the true ruler of England.”
The whole mess with the Greys had not been enough to completely destroy the relationship between the two brothers, but considering the nature of both boys, it would only be a matter of time before the monarch did something even worse.
“And what of Catholicism? You promised to bring England back to the fold,” Sailsbury reminded him. “We all know that the Duke of York has argued with Princess Mary over religion.”
“Patience, my friend,” Edward Seymore instructed. “These things take time. My nephew is still learning and maturing. Soon he will understand that Catholicism is the true faith.”
Or at least, he will learn to pretend that he follows the Bishop of Rome, he sneered inwardly. As much as it vexed him to have to submit to the corrupted old man of the Vatican who only could call himself God’s representative was because of the thick pockets of his supporters, it was necessary.
“He will need a Catholic wife, preferably a princess.” Hal Pole was unaware of his companion’s true thoughts, his visage pensive.
“Why a princess when he could wed a queen?” Edward smirked at the other man who was baffled by this.
“A queen?” he repeated.
“They say the Dauphin of France is sickly,” opined Edward. “Who knows? Perhaps Queen Mary of Scots will need a new husband.”
As snow began to fall, the two men continued their conversation, making plans that they knew they would not come to fruition for years to come.
November 30, 1554
“Princess Mary is here, Majesty,” Dona Leonor announced as the woman in question entered the queen’s private audience chambers, curtsying deeply.
Joanna inclined her head at her duenna, indicating that she wanted to be left alone with her cousin, gesturing for Mary to rise.
As Mary got to her feet, her scrutiny bounced around the chamber, inhaling sharply as she noted how similar it looked to what she could recollect of her mother’s chambers.
The drapes, the lace tablecloths, the statuettes were all Spanish design. All that was missing was the figurine of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus. That currently was on her mantelpiece in Hudson.
“Is something wrong?” the queen inquired, noticing the sadness painted on Mary’s visage.
“Not at all,” affirmed Mary as they sat on a big white couch. “I was merely reminiscing about my mother.”
“Queen Katherine was a remarkable woman,” Joanna intoned. “May she rest in peace.”
Mary fought the urge to shush her. After years of being careful not to refer to her mother by her rightful title----not even after her father’s death for fear that Ambrose’ enemies or allies might take that as her confirming that she did not see her oldest half-brother as the rightful king.
As much as it pricked at her conscience to deny God’s law, Mary had made her peace with the way things were years ago, certain that the Almighty Lord would forgive those who acted in ignorance instead of malice. She made the cross sign which the queen copied.
Mercifully, Joanna changed the subject. “My sister writes to me that the negotiations for the match between your daughter, Elizabeth and Archduke Ferdinand is progressing well.”
The Dowager Duchess of Somerset beamed at her. “Wonderful. Please be sure to tell them that Elizabeth is getting a purely Catholic education.”
In truth, all of Mary’s children---barring Cathy as she was very much her daddy’s daughter---preferred to follow their mother’s religion. In Philip’s case, Mary tried to discourage her son, fearing that if the Duke of Kent caught wind of it, he might accuse her of corrupting him, turning him against Ambrose.
“Ambrose has suggested that we arrange a state visit.” Joanna seemed oblivious to the conflicted nature of her cousin. Her stoic mask crumbled momentarily. “He suggested it over a fortnight ago, so I am not sure if he is still considering it.”
Mary searched Joanna’s countenance, realizing the tragic event that had happened earlier that month. She had no doubt that was what Joanna was referring to. She was glad to hear that her brother made such a proposal as it meant that he was showing empathy instead of blaming his wife as their father had.
“I wish to express my condolences again for your loss.” Had Mary thought it be welcome, she would have patted Joanna’s arm or pulled her into a consoling hug. But she was aware that the former Spanish princess was not a woman who was comfortable with physical affection.
Joanna took a deep breath, rallying herself. “It is done. Life goes on, and I should not dwell on it. I am young and so is His Majesty. We will give Princess Joanna many siblings in the future.” She seemed to be trying to convince herself of this as much as she was Mary.
However, her cousin did not press the subject too hard, knowing that while Joanna had not quite reconciled with giving birth to her stillborn son, it still was not her place to pry.
“Perhaps I should drop hints to Ambrose to invite King Maximilian and his brother to England,” Mary offered. “I shall mention that it might be a good idea to have Archduke Ferdinand meet his bride-to-be as she is of marriageable age.”
The Dowager Duchess’s heart clenched as she realized that her oldest were almost fifteen. Fifteen years ago, she and Philip had just been married, basking in each other’s love. How time flew by. I have been lax looking for a husband for Cathy, she realized. Perhaps the Duke of Norfolk? He is Catholic, but he is friends with Ambrose so he might be acceptable.
“That be a wonderful idea,” Joanna agreed, shifting in her seat. “I am sure my husband will be unable to say no to his sister.” There was an undercut of bitterness in her tone.
Dammit, Ambrose, what have you done to this girl? Mary wondered. She knew her brother had a tendency to run his mouth when he was frustrated or angry, but deep down he was a good boy who loved fiercely, and he had the compassion and humility that both his parents lacked.
Unfortunately, he had barely shown his wife any of that. Oh, according to her spy also known as Elizabeth Tudor, Crown Princess of Denmark, Ambrose was slowly but surely falling head over heels for his wife, but he was still thinking that his insults were not hurting her.
I cannot blame him fully for that, opined Mary. I am sure that the relationship between his aunt and his uncle has somewhat skewered his perceptive of marriages.
The Duke and Duchess of Kent were well known for their bickering. However, what Ambrose didn’t know was that before he was born that bickering had been anything but playful.
Not wanting to say any of that aloud, Mary decided to move to a new subject. “I hear my goddaughter is coming to court for Christmastide.”
Joanna’s brown orbs sparkled with delight. “Yes. She will be staying with us until Lady’s Day.”
“Marvelous. I cannot wait to see her.” With that, Mary began quizzing Joanna on how the little princess was, rightfully suspecting this would take the other woman’s mind off of her troubles.
December 27, 1554
The musicians strummed on their instruments, filling the room with a jaunty tune. The courtiers danced, their laughter and cheer reverberating off of the white stone walls.
Above it all, sat Queen Joanna dressed a black brocade gown with a silver trim. Glistening white pearls decorated her headdress, her ears, and her neck. Her posture was rigid on the golden throne as her gaze latched onto the couple dancing in the center of the room.
Her husband was beaming as he twirled his mistress around, lifting her up as they continued to step in time with the music. They were in perfect sync as graceful as two swans on a lake. In contrast to the queen, Catherine Cooke wore a fetching gown of red with golden embroidery.
Joanna tried not to pay too much attention to it, focus her thoughts on the news she had received from her sister. After the untimely demise of King João’s only surviving son, João Manuel, his widow Catalina of Austria had been married to the new heir of Portugal, the son of the late Infante Duarte, Duke of Guimarães also named Duarte.
Philip was not happy about this, having hoped that he would be declared their uncle’s heir. However, he knew that the male descendants of the sons of King Manuel came before those who could claim Portugal from the female line.
“HOW DARE YOU!”
Joanna’s head snapped up, startled. She was not the only one. The music had grinded to a halt as the people stopped what they were doing to stare at the scene unfolding before their very eyes.
Ambrose loomed over his mistress who had dropped into a deep curtsy, his eyes flashing with rage. “You do not get to speak about my wife that way!”
“Your Majesty, forgive me, I meant nothing by it,” Catherine Cooke squeaked, her head bowed and her cheeks becoming pink in embarrassment.
The king’s gaze narrowed, his nostrils flaring, his lips curved in a grimace. “I know exactly what you meant by it. I suggest you take your leave.”
With the girl’s back to Joanna, she could not see her face, but she suspected that Mistress Cooke was wearing a forlorn expression. However, when Ambrose did not soften, she rose from the ground, grabbed handfuls of her skirts, and hastened out of the room. She was too humiliated and devastated to even think of proper protocol.
Ambrose took no notice of the people around him, instead he strode up to the dais, inclining his head politely before reclining in the throne next to his wife’s.
“That was kind of you,” Joanna stated once the courtiers returned to their socializing, acting as though the last five minutes had not occurred.
“No one insults my wife,” the king professed. He did not elaborate on what she had actually said.
“Except for you,” opined Joanna coolly, a delicate eyebrow quirked.
“I don’t….” Ambrose spluttered, recoiling as if she had just slapped him. “That is completely different. I don’t ever mean it.”
“Oh, so you don’t think I am a cow, a fish, ugly, a block of ice,” Joanna listed. She wasn’t sure why she was antagonizing him, but at the same time, the notion that he didn’t---
“No. I just say those things when I am frustrated or angry,” Ambrose protested, looking at her as if she was the strange one.
Unwilling to let this descend into an argument, Joanna just closed her eyes and turned her head towards the dancers. Suddenly, a hand grasped hers, soft lips touched her fingertips.
“You are my queen and that will never change,” he assured her.
Joanna never knew how much she needed to hear those words until they had already been said.
March 8, 1555
Denmark
“My boy. Oh, my precious, darling boy.”
Fredrick smiled lovingly as his wife held the baby close to her. The newborn Prince Harald had sky-blue eyes, high cheek bones, and a wisp of blond hair on his fragile head.
His birth coincided with Elizabeth finally forgiving Fredrick for their fight. Oh, she proclaimed to have forgiven him long before that, but the Crown Prince of Denmark and Norway was quick to pick up on his wife’s behavior and mood.
Even during her pregnancy, or perhaps because of her pregnancy, she had been keeping him at arms’ length, only making a small effort to return the affection he lavished on her.
It was no matter to Fredrick as he was determined to win his wife back, show her that his tryst with Anna was a brief fancy of a foolish young man. Elizabeth was the only woman he wanted----he had always wanted.
And if a certain adorable baby helped him worm his way back into her heart, cause all thoughts of Dudleys and England to disappear, then so be it.
“Isn’t our son the most handsome boy in the world?” Elizabeth cooed as she sat in the rocking chair, she had ordered to be brought to her room. Although she was still in confinement, she refused to be stuck in bed all day, instead enjoying sitting in the wooden chair, rocking and singing to their son.
It was a most heartwarming sight.
“Yes, my love, he is,” Fredrick agreed as he laid sprawled out on the bed, watching his wife and son as if they were the most amazing sight in the world. “I confess that I have some disappointment as I had hoped we would have a daughter as beautiful as her mother.”
The red-haired princess glanced up, a radiant smile tugging at her lips. “You might be the only man in all of Europe who wants a daughter instead of a son.”
“Not instead,” the Crown Prince contradicted. “I just wanted a little girl first so we could have our Anna. A Harald does just as well.”
“I hope your father is not too upset that I choose Harald instead of Christian for his name,” Elizabeth voiced, as she shifted the babe in her arms, trying to soothe him as he began to fuss.
“He was a bit disappointed until I explained your reasoning,” Fredrick divulged as he placed his hands under his head. “Named for the Viking king who ruled both Denmark and Norway. My parents appreciate the symbolism if nothing else.”
“Our son will make a fine king,” Elizabeth proclaimed. “Just like his ancestors.”
“I could not agree more, my darling.” Fredrick got up off the bed and went over to lay a kiss on his wife’s forehead and then his son’s downy head. He then impulsively scooped up the babe and held him over his head. “King Harald the Fourth of Denmark and the Fifth of Norway!”
His broke out in giggles as he continued to present the “king” to the “kingdom” with over-exaggerated flair.
Notes:
As I have noted, Prince Harald of Denmark and Norway is named after Harald Bluetooth, a viking king of Denmark and Norway.
Duarte, Duke of Guimarães (1541) is the posthumous son of Manuel's youngest son Duarte, Duke of Guimarães. All of his other sons, aside from Jao, never had any children. Philip of Spain, being Manuel's grandson from his oldest daughter, Isabel, is hoping the pattern will repeat.
Anyone notice some foreshadowing in the scene between Hal Pole and Edward Seymore.
Chapter 35: Speak With a True Heart
Summary:
The three married couples deal with the pain both spoken and unspoken.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
February 14, 1556
Denmark
“There is someone here to see you, Your Highness.”
Elizabeth glanced up from the book she had been so absorbed in. She could tell immediately from the grin on her cousin’s face and the way she seemed to be bursting with excitement that the visitor was someone she would be quite happy to see.
The crown princess waved her hand, signaling for Annie to let whoever it was in. She let out a gasp of joy when her guest entered her chambers.
Dressed in an elegant black brocade gown with slashes of grey with a high collar, and a matching Spanish headdress, was Princess Mary Tudor. She also had a jeweled pendent around her neck.
Elizabeth knew that princesses did not run but seeing her sister in person after five years was almost too much for her as she rose from her chair and sprinted to her sister’s side, hugging her fiercely.
“Sweet sister, I have missed you so!” she proclaimed as she breathed in the Spanish perfume. It reminded her of a faint memory from her childhood: Spanish perfume and a soft musical voice singing.
“And I you, dearest Bess,” Mary affirmed, kissing the top of her head.
Elizabeth detangled herself from her sister, clasping her hands tightly. “What are you doing here? Why did no one tell me you were coming? We must have a feast in celebration especially when it is so close to your----oh, no! I already sent your birthday gift to England and---”
“Bess, breathe,” Mary cut in with a laugh. “Your husband and I wanted to surprise you.”
“And not to worry about the gift, Your Highness,” Kat Ashley spoke up. “I made sure to intercept it.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped towards her governess/lady of the bedchamber, her expression fierce. “You knew!”
“I did.” The older woman did not look shamed by this in the slightest, knowing her former charge would not hold it against her in the face of a reunion with her beloved sister.
The princess gave her a look that made it clear they would have words later. Then she turned to Mary with a winning smile. “I don’t suppose you brought my nieces and my nephew.”
“I did, but I wanted to see you first,” Mary explained. “They are outside, waiting for a royal summons.”
“Kat, tell them they are permitted to enter,” Elizabeth instructed. “And send a message to the kitchens to send up some pastries.”
Lady Ashley curtsied before scurrying out the door. While they waited, the crown princess brought her sister over the couch quizzing her on how things were in England.
“Ned and Ambrose seem to be getting along again,” Mary divulged. “But there is still some tension.”
Elizabeth sighed. Although Edward had come to his senses about Jane Grey, he still felt Ambrose had picked his best friend’s happiness over his brother. It didn’t help that Robert and Edward had a falling out over Guildford which made the Duke of York inundated with loneliness.
“I wish I could go to England and knock their heads together,” she grumbled.
Mary chuckled, patting her sister’s hand. “I’m sure you could. Even miles away, you wield quite a bit of influence over them both.” Her countenance crumbled momentarily. “I cannot claim the same. At least not anymore.”
The crown princess’s brows knitted together, opening her mouth to question her sister when the doors flew open as her nieces and her nephew burst in.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she beheld them. When she had left, Cathy and Lizzy had been little sprouts, and now they had blossomed into two beautiful, tall, and slender women. Even little Mary and Philip had grown so much she hardly recognized them.
She quickly left the couch to embrace Mary’s children, gushing over how happy she was to see them as she had their mother. Has it really been five years since I last laid eyes on my family? Elizabeth mused. She wondered if she could convince her father-in-law to let her and Fredrick, along with baby Harald, make a state visit to England.
“These are for you, Aunt Elizabeth,” Philip spoke up, holding out a crumbled bunch of yellow wildflowers.
Mary the Younger added mischievously, “They are from all of us. Unless you don’t like them then they are just from Philip.”
Cathy and Lizzy giggled as Philip shot his sister a dark look.
“Mazie,” their mother scolded, giving her daughter a stern glare.
“I am just joking, Mother,” the youngest daughter insisted, playfully nudging her brother.
“Well, I love them,” Elizabeth praised as she accepted the flowers with a brilliant smile.
“That’s not all we brought,” Cathy proclaimed, her secretive manner causing Elizabeth to notice that her hands were behind her silk skirts. “Mother wanted to bring it to you personally.” With a flourish, she presented a leather-bound book with a pomegranate engraved on the cover and in golden letters was the title: The Life and Times of Catalina de Aragon: the Spanish pomegranate.
The former English princess stared at the book with her dark orbs glinting with delight, she took it gingerly, treating it as though it was a precious and delicate artifact.
“Read the inscription!” Mazie instructed excitedly, bouncing up and down.
Elizabeth flipped the cover over, and read the dedication out loud, “To my darling siblings, who made it all worth it.” She pressed her hand to her chest, collapsing on the couch, and embraced her sister. “Oh, Mary. Truly?”
There was also a dedication to those who supported her like the late Duke Philip and Duchess Catherine Parr. And a small note of her love for her precious children. Oddly, the late King Henry was not mentioned at all.
“Truly,” Mary responded, her visage gleaming with the love she had for her younger sister. Those days at Hatfield would have been unbearable, had it not been for Elizabeth.
Suddenly the doors opened, and Prince Fredrick entered, carrying an almost one-year-old babe. “Prince Harald wanted to meet his aunt and cousins!” he exclaimed.
“Fredrick.” Elizabeth’s voice was sharp and accusatory. “You knew.”
Her husband gave her an innocent smile. “Knew what, my love?”
“You knew Mary and her children were coming for a visit and you did not tell me,” she elaborated. However, she was on able to keep the stern expression upon her face when her baby boy was waving at her from his father’s arms. Already the boy had the most dazzling smile, warm brown eyes, and the most pinchable cheeks.
“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Fredrick affirmed as Elizabeth’s nieces crowded around him to coo over the baby. “When your sister suggested it, I just couldn’t resist. Was it not pleasant, my love?”
Elizabeth sniffed haughtily as she held her sister’s hand. “That is hardly the point.”
“Your momma’s just being grumpy,” Fredrick stage-whispered to the baby as he bounced him and down. “She is very happy with me and will show her gratitude in just a few seconds.”
“Don’t you lie to our son,” Elizabeth mock scolded, her lips quivering upwards as she got up and swept up to them, kissing her son’s cheeks.
“Mama!” Harald babbled happily.
“My baby,” Elizabeth gushed, kissing his head.
“Your husband,” Fredrick reminded, puckering his lips. His wife laughed, before obliging with a chaste a kiss. He then directed his next words to their son. “You see, Harald, your momma can never stay mad at me. She loves me too much.”
“I do,” his wife agreed. “Even when he hides things from me.”
There was an uncomfortable beat after that. One that could be felt by everyone in the room. Fredrick seemed to freeze while Elizabeth averted her eyes.
“A tour!” Fredrick exclaimed. “With your permission, Your Highness, I would like to give your children a tour of the palace.”
“That is all right with me,” Mary assured him.
With that, her daughters and her son followed Fredrick and Harald out of the Elizabeth’s chambers.
“Bess,” Mary began, once they were alone with even Elizabeth’s ladies having departed to give the two sisters some privacy.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” her sister interjected as she ran her hands through her hair. “I just meant him keeping your visit a secret. It had nothing to do with Lady Hardenberg. I haven’t thought of her for years.”
Mary patted the spot next to her. “Come here, dear.” Elizabeth did so, cuddling up to her sister as she had done when she was a child. “Do you trust him?”
“Yes.” Conviction rang in the woman’s voice. It had taken time, but eventually Elizabeth had regained her faith in her husband, knowing he truly did not want to hurt her.
“Then all you have to do is make sure he knows that,” Mary told her gently. “Even the happiest marriage takes work, sweet sister.”
“Not everyone can have a Philip,” quipped Elizabeth.
“Oh, Philip and I have had our moments,” her sister contradicted. “There were times when we would have the most dreadful fights, but we would never let the hurt and our anger simmer for too long.”
“I just want things to go back to the way they were,” Elizabeth muttered.
“They will,” Mary insisted. Her visage crumbled momentarily, her breath becoming hitched in her throat. “Just cherish the time you have with him. For you never know how long we have on this earth.”
Elizabeth rubbed her sister’s arm sympathetically, understanding what she meant. Then she changed the subject to all she hoped to do during Mary’s stay in Denmark.
The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur, filled with spending every moment with her sister, and her sister’s children, soaking up their presence, like a dog would lap up praise.
It was only shortly before the early birthday feast did Elizabeth manage to get her husband alone, herding him into a small antechamber. Instead of speaking, she kissed him lovingly.
“Not that I am complaining,” remarked Fredrick as they parted. “But any special reason for pulling me in here?” He glanced around the room, and Elizabeth could practically hear the dirty thoughts going through his mind. She playfully smacked his arm to get him to focus.
“I just wanted to say thank you for arranging my sister’s visit.” She quickly affected a stern expression. “However, I still wish you had told me, so I was adequately prepared.”
Fredrick leaned against the wall, next to Flemish designed tapestry of Denmark’s patron saint, King Canute the Holy. He spoke in a tone that one would use on a small child who was confused about certain concepts. “My love, the point of a surprise is to thrill and delight someone. Telling them would ruin that.”
“I can assure you that seeing my sister, not to mention my nieces and my nephew, in person after five years, would thrill and delight me whether or not I knew about it,” argued Elizabeth. She then cupped his cheek, tracing his jawline. “But I appreciate the gesture nonetheless.”
“And that is what makes it all worth it,” professed Fredrick as he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her forehead chastely. “Seeing you happy.”
“I love you,” Elizabeth murmured as she closed the gap between them.
“And I you,” her husband breathed.
No more words were needed. The past stayed where it belonged as the couple looked towards the future with bright eyes.
May 21, 1556
England
“I am not made of glass!” the Countess of Leicester exclaimed, giving her husband a glare that was dripping with irritation.
Guildford Dudley beheld his wife for a moment. She was dressed splendidly in a gown of tawny damask with extra layers of fabric to accommodate her growing belly. The amber encrusted necklace she had gotten as a wedding gift sparkled on her pale neck. Her lovely hair was done up behind the brown French Hood.
A vision of loveliness, he professed before raising an eyebrow at her, acting as though he was not overcome by her dazzling beauty that seemed to increase with her pregnancy glow. “Dearest Jane, you look as though you are about to collapse. I was merely suggesting we take a moment to rest.”
Never before had Jane resembled her cousin, Princess Elizabeth, with her glower being almost lethal.
“Guildford, you are fussing over me like a mother hen,” she complained, wagging her finger at him. “I am four months pregnant, not an invalid.”
They had taken a stroll in the gardens, admiring the colorful flowers that were in bloom. The meadow of red, yellow, white, and blue were a welcome sight after months of slush and snow.
As they walked, the Earl of Leicester had noticed his wife seemed to be fanning herself and was out of breath, so he had suggested they sit for a while. When she refused, he pressed her on it, pointing out that walking too much might be harmful for her health. Jane had been annoyed at the implication, finding his manner condescending.
“We can retire to our rooms if you wish,” proposed Guildford. “Perhaps send Matt to the kitchens for some pastries.”
Jane licked her lips, her mouth suddenly watering as she pictured the scrumptious goodies. She was certain that their steward, Matthew, would make sure the kitchens prepared the ones she loved the most.
She was about to acquiesce when her name was called, causing the couple to stiffen as they slowly turned towards the interloper.
“Lady Jane!” Prince Edward was jogging up to them, his face glowing with clear joy. His pace slowed, and his countenance faltered when he caught sight of her swollen belly. His tone changed from a cheerful greeting to more subdued address. “Lady Jane, I wanted to express my condolences for the loss of your father.”
If looks could kill, the Duke of York’s heart would have stopped beating. “Yes. It is a sad time for us.” Guildford wrapped his arms around his wife. Although, Jane had been estranged from her parents for the past two years, she had still grieved her father greatly, so much that her husband had feared she might have a miscarriage. He had just gotten her mind off of the late marquess when the Prince of Prats had brought it up.
Jane, on the other hand, was more feeling uneasy coming face to face with Edward when the last time she had seen him, she had kissed him, and then ran off to his brother to beg for him to arrange her marriage with another man.
When she had learned of Princess Margaret’s illness and subsequent death, she had wanted to reach out to him either by letter or in person to express her condolences, but she feared that this would make matters more complicated.
Judging by how he had yet to acknowledge Guildford’s presence and was staring at her pregnant stomach with clear longing and jealousy, she knew she had been right not to comfort him.
I hate being cold to him, but he mistook my friendliness to him as returning his affection the last time, professed Jane, sympathy filling her as she spoke out loud, “Thank you, Your Highness, you are most kind.”
A flash of hurt flickered across the Duke of York’s visage, rebuffed by her formal manner. He inclined his head before turning walking briskly away without another word.
“Ambrose is far too soft on him,” Guildford growled. “Two years, and he still can’t get it through his head that you choose me and not him.”
Jane wiggled out of his arms, her disapproval palpable on her visage. “You are one to talk. It has been a decade since you and Ambrose were taken hostage. Nonetheless, you still haven’t forgiven the Duke of Norfolk for the actions of his grandfather and his father.”
Guildford gaped at her, shocked she would bring that up. “That is completely different,” he spluttered. “Thomas Howard is just like every other Howard, grasping, deceitful, and traitorous to the core.”
The fact that the same could be said about his family seemed to be lost on him. Jane shook her head. “My point was sometimes it is hard to let go. No matter how much healthier it is not to dwell on something, you can’t help---” she broke off with a strangled sob, thinking of how she had not spoken to her parents in the past two years. She would never get the chance to make with her father now. He was gone and would never meet his first grandchild.
Her husband quickly embraced her, whispering comforting words in her ears. “Let’s go back to our apartments.” With one arm around her waist, his fingers lightly caressing the bulge of her belly, he began to lead her back to Whitehall, dark thoughts swarming in his mind.
Jane sees the good in people, but she blind to the truth, he opined inwardly. Sooner or later, Edward and Thomas would show their true colors, and it would be he and Arthur Pole who picked up the pieces.
“A child! You want me to marry a child!”
The privy chamber was thankfully empty as Ambrose had dismissed his advisors, allowing his brother to speak to him privately. The privy council session had convened shortly after Edward’s run in with Jane and that worthless knave Guildford----who clearly was possessive as he was ill-tempered---and the Duke of York had already been in a bad mood when the meeting started.
When Ambrose had announced that he was arranging a betrothal between Edward and the French Princess Marguerite who was the same age as his youngest niece, the Duke of York had been barely able to contain his fury.
“She is a princess, Ned, I would have thought you would be happy,” Ambrose protested, rubbing his temples in frustration. What did his brother want from him?
“Were there no princesses not nearly twenty years younger than me?” Edward demanded as he got up out of his seat and began to pace around the room like a chaged beast. “Christina of Sweden is unmarried and only two years my junior. Dorothea of Denmark is almost a decade younger, but still not as large of an age gap. Not to mention your queen’s Hapsburg cousins.”
“Neither Denmark nor Sweden offer a dowry the size of the French match,” explained Ambrose, trying not to loose his temper at his brother. “We have already gotten two Hapsburg matches. We need one with France. I thought you would rather marry the child then the girl with the club foot.”
“What about Elizabeth de Valois?” Edward questioned.
Ambrose had to bite back a sarcastic retort. Instead, he spoke as calmly as he could manage in this moment. “Her parents want their oldest daughter marrying a king or a crown prince, not a second son.”
The Duke of York scoffed. “As usual, you can’t resist reminding me that I always come second to you.”
Ambrose slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit Ned, what do you want from me! We all have to do our duties whether we like it or not. Elizabeth married Fredrick and I married Joanna despite our reluctance.”
His brother glared daggers at him. “Don’t get sanctimonious on me. Everyone knows if Bess asked to stay in England and marry Robert Dudley, you would have moved heaven and earth to make it happen. But when I wanted to marry the woman I loved, you---”
“She didn’t want to marry you,” Ambrose interjected. Although, he had not told Edward of what Jane had said that night, he was certain that his brother had to realize by now that their cousin wanted to be with Guildford.
“She only thought that because your precious friend managed to mask his true nature!” spat Edward. “Perhaps she didn’t want to marry me. But once we were wed, I would have showed her what a true and loving husband was, and she would have eventually returned my feelings.”
The king opened his mouth to refute his brother, but the image of Joanna flashed in his mind. They had started the marriage hating each other, but as time went by, softer feelings began to sprout like flowers blooming out of the cold and icy ground.
Edward took his silence for guilt. “You choose your friend’s happiness over mine. And now you think a mere child who I won’t be able to marry for another fifteen years can replace what you took from me!”
Ambrose inhaled sharply, pushing his chair as he got up. “You will marry the French Princess, Ned. Regardless of your feelings, Elizabeth and I did what we had to for England and now it is your turn.”
The Duke of York snarled wordlessly before storming out of the room. As he did so, he nearly bumped into Mary who was waiting to be admitted.
“Ned, are you well?” she inquired, catching sight of the angry on his face.
Ambrose is weak, Edward snarled to himself, his lip curling up in disdain. He lets everyone take advantage of him. If I were king, Mary would have given up on her foolish religion long ago. He did not answer his older sister, just stomping away, leaving her to stare after him sadly.
Minutes later, Mary was ushered into the privy chamber where Ambrose was leaning against the table, his arms crossed over his chest, scowling. However, his eyes lit up when his gaze fell on his oldest.
“Mary, I have excellent news!” he proclaimed. “The wedding between your daughter, Lizzie and Archduke Ferdinand is set for next year. I have convinced the Imperial ambassador to have it here….I have done something wrong and you’re upset with me.”
As Ambrose had been speaking, he realized that his sister had what Elizabeth described as the deeply disappointed expression---an expression no child whether they be offspring or sibling wanted to be directed at them.
“John Fitzroy is here,” Mary noted coolly.
At the mention of his son, the monarch smiled. Although he could not claim to have been very involved in the boy’s life---making scarce visits over the years---he had sent him many gifts and read every letter about the boy with great eagerness.
“Yes, I thought that much like myself, Bess, and Ned, it would do Joan some good to share a household with her brother,” he explained.
To his surprise, his sister went from disapproving to horrified, blanching as she stuttered out, “You are planning on having your trueborn daughter share a household with your natural son.” Her tone grew loud with her shock and disbelief.
“Well, I haven’t made any plans yet, perse,” Ambrose defended weakly, wondering what he had done wrong this time.
“Ambrose, do you know who Hal Fitzroy is?” questioned his sister.
“He was our father’s natural son by Bessie Blount,” the king answered. His brows knitted together, trying to understand the connection. Aside from them being born out of wedlock and acknowledged, he could think of none.
“There were rumors that our father wanted him to be his heir,” Mary began. “Even when he made me the Princess of Wales, he made steps to bolster Fitzroy’s position, making him a duke two times over and paraded in front of the court for all to see my mother’s failure.” She swallowed thickly closing her eyes for a moment. “I know you mean well. But you have to understand that even without our father’s actions, this looks like you are not only reminding everyone that you have a son, but that he is to be treated equally if not better than your daughter.”
Ambrose went over to her, hugging her. “Forgive me, Mary. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories for you.” He was kicking himself. He had just finished his sister’s book a few days ago. It had not gone into great detail about the Hal Fitzroy years (presumably to avoid insulting their late father), but it touched upon how Katherine of Aragon was reminded of her failure when her husband threw extravagant celebrations for the ennoblement of his only son.
He had been so swept up in nostalgic memories of his childhood that the implications of his illegitimate son sharing a household with his legitimate daughter were lost on him.
“It is not me I am worried about,” the former princess professed.
The king was aware that she was concerned about his wife’s reaction to John’s presence, let alone his now scrapped plan for the shared household. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Good.”
Ambrose smiled softly. “I had a thought. A less controversial one. If Joanna and I don’t have a son, perhaps Joan could marry Philip. That way the Tudor dynasty continues, and Joanna would marry a man closer to her standing.”
Mary beamed at him. “Now that is an excellent idea.” Oh, there would be some bumps in the road as there was no telling if Philip would be as accommodating of his wife as his father was of his mother, but it was certainly a solution that would make everyone happy.
Well, almost everyone. Mary frowned as she remembered the fury that seemed to roll off the Duke of York in waves. She wished she could understand what was upsetting her youngest brother, but unlike Ambrose and Elizabeth, he was pushing her away. Every day, he grew more isolated from his family, and Mary feared what this would mean for the future.
Unaware of the discussion in the privy council, Joanna was entering the nursery, expecting to see her daughter. While Joan was there, she was not alone. There was a boy playing with her.
“Mama!” Joan smiled with delight when she spotted her in the doorway, tugging the boy’s sleeve so he would come with her. “This is John. He is my brother.”
Her sweet daughter had a round and open face, almond-shaped brown eyes that seemed to sparkle when she was happy, and dark blonde hair that bounced when she ran. At age three, she didn’t seem to understand why or even notice how uncomfortable her mother was at being introduced to her brother.
Joanna’s gaze swept across the room. Her daughter’s maids had averted her eyes as did the women who had come with her husband’s bastard. Then her scrutiny fell on the boy in question.
Lord John Fitzroy had been born just a few months before Joanna had arrived in England. He was now a boy of five. His hair was a dark red, almost brown, his visage was long and narrow like his maternal grandfather. Unlike his half-sister, it seemed the boy knew full well that his presence was not going to be welcomed by the queen as he kept his gaze to the floor and shifted uncomfortably.
“Hullo, Your Majesty.” the five-year-old spoke barely above a whisper.
“It is very nice to meet you,” Joanna greeted him gently. After all, he was not to blame for his father’s actions. Furthermore, she had no intention of letting anyone see her react, let alone her young daughter.
As much as she longed to turn on her heel and go straight to her chambers where she could brood over this slight, she refused to let anyone see her pain.
I thought things were getting better, she bemoaned to herself.
With Ambrose banishing his mistress after her insults, their trip to Austria months previous, and the planning of the wedding between the Lady Elizabeth and Cousin Ferdinand, Joanna had thought that they were finally getting over the rough patches that plagued their marriages.
But out of nowhere, her husband decided to bring his bastard son to court and introduce him to their daughter without even having the decency to tell her, completely blindsiding her.
Worse, what if this meant that Mazie Dudley was his mistress again? Catherine Cooke and Eleanor Rich were mere fancies that faded with time. But there was history with Mazie that extended past their shared son.
Fearing that she might say something that she would regret if she did not leave, Joanna tried to make an excuse to retire. However, her daughter would have none of it.
“Oh, please Momma, stay,” she begged as she grabbed her mother’s hand and tugged on it. “Papa said he’d come back after his meeting, but he hasn’t yet. Please play with us.”
Joanna chewed her lip as she searched for the right words. The decision was taken out of her hands when the herald announced the king’s approach.
When Ambrose entered and saw her, his guilt was visible on his face. However, it was only a brief moment, for when his eyes landed on his two children, he kneeled down and wrapped them both up in a bear hug.
“Forgive me, I was caught up with matters of the state,” he informed them, before glancing up at Joanna. “I thought I would get here earlier.”
His wife beheld him coolly, wondering what his plan was. To bring them both to her, expecting her to accept his son, the living reminder that she had yet to birth him a male heir.
Ambrose met her gaze, and she was surprised to see a plea in his eyes. “I thought we could go for a stroll in the gardens together. Would you like to join us, Joanna?”
She opened her mouth to give him a frank no, but the sight of the same imploring expression on his daughter’s face was enough to give her pause. But it was the sight of John Fitzroy who decided the matter for her. The poor boy looked uncomfortable and uneasy, clearly showing more tact, awareness, and understanding then his father did.
Joanna had no intention of making the boy feel like he was at fault in a situation that was solely his father’s doing.
“Perhaps you can show Lord Fitzroy your favorite fish,” she suggested, taking her daughter’s hand again. She deliberately did not look in Ambrose’s direction, instead focusing on Joan while giving some attention to John.
She would have a conversation with Ambrose later. For now, she would just focus on letting the half-siblings begin to bound. For all her belief on propriety and etiquette, Joanna was not going to deprive her daughter a sibling’s love, something she could not help but notice John seemed to lavish on Joan who returned it most enthusiastically.
May 22, 1556
In the end, Joanna found that there was very little that needed to be said. Ambrose had brought his son to court for nostalgic purposes, not caring about how it would seem or how she would feel about it.
As frustrated as she was at her husband, the queen accepted the explanation especially when it was confirmed by Mary and moved on. Or at least she tried to.
It was still in the back of her mind, even now, as Ambrose had her pushed up against her bedchamber’s wall (because the bed was apparently too far away) and was kissing down her neck, his hand tracing her leg under skirt.
Maybe that was why when her husband whispered, “I want you” in her ear, she replied sardonically, “You never wanted me.”
Well, that, and it was the truth. He had never wanted her, and he made it clear for the past five years.
Ambrose actually had the gall to be amused by this, chuckling. “You never wanted me either.”
What happened next Joanna could not explain why she had done it, revealed that intimate part of herself. The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “I loved you.”
His fingers ghosted over her skin and his lips were inches away from her ear, allowing her to feel his hot breath. She half wanted to deny she had said those words, tell him that she was tired so perhaps he should return to his own chambers tonight.
“When?” croaked Ambrose, adjusting his position so their gazes were locked.
“When?” Joanna repeated, suddenly inundated with frustration and anger. She could feel tears prickling at the edges of her eyes. “Before I came to England. Before I knew how you truly thought about me.”
Ambrose stared at her, his expression unreadable. He then brought the hand currently not under her skirts up to her cheek, caressing her skin. “I have hurt you, haven’t I?”
Joanna said nothing, not trusting herself to remain calm. At this moment, it was difficult for her to keep her usual stoic and dignified demeanor.
“I think I am falling in love with you,” the king declared, his eyes riveted to her face.
The queen closed her eyes, her heart beating fast. “Ambrose, I know you think you are being kind, but I don’t need your pity.” She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I always pictured my wife being someone like me,” her husband continued. “Someone who enjoyed my little games. But you were the exact opposite. You frustrated me. Infuriated me. And yet, over time, I thought of you more and more. I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”
“I want to believe you,” Joanna murmured.
“You don’t have to yet. I have the rest of my life to convince you.” Ambrose kissed her passionately, undoing the straps of her dress.
They never did make it to her bed. Oddly, Joanna didn't mind.
Notes:
I agonized over the last scene because I wasn't sure if it fit. However, I found it was too important not to write as it is the turning point in Ambrose and Joanna's relationship.
Chapter 36: Breaking Point
Summary:
Ambrose tries to do good and it ends up backfiring. Meanwhile, the Tudor family suffer another painful loss.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 5, 1558
“What was your wedding like, Mother?” Lizzy questioned. She was in a black and yellow ensemble, representing the Hapsburg colors; her front was encrusted with sapphires in the shape of a cornflower and a rose shaped ruby necklace hung around her neck.
Mary smiled sadly as she brushed her daughter’s hair. Her gaze slid to the mirror, remembering how on that day she had stared at her own reflection, wondering the same question her daughter had asked, only her lovely mother had not been there to answer. She had died years before Philip ever arrived in England, unable to witness her beloved daughter’s happy day.
“Mother?” Lizzy was staring at her quizzically, concern marring her lovely features. “Is all well with you?”
No. Mary bit her tongue, knowing she could not be honest, ruining her daughter’s special day. She had always striven to keep her children sheltered from the harsh realities of the world, wanting them to keep a hold on their childhood innocence.
Instead, she smiled sadly. “I was reminiscing about that wondrous day. Your grandfather walked me down the aisle. I remember how he clutched my arm, telling me that I would always be his precious pearl.”
In that moment, the words had not rung hollow; Mary had been touched by those sentiments, taking them as proof for all his father’s cruelties, he did love her. As he brought her to her new husband, she had basked in the warmth of his affection, allowing it to wash away all the pain he had caused her albeit temporarily.
Lizzy turned back to the mirror, her shoulders slumping. “I wish father was here to walk me down the aisle.”
Mary’s hand wavered above her daughter’s head, trying to keep her expression composed as her husband’s pale visage flickered in her mind’s eye. She remembered the devastation that had hit her family when Philip had died.
From the moment he had gotten sick, darkness had hovered over their household like a cloud. Then when he died, it was like a damn had broken, the murky waves of their despair crashing over them, as they struggled to keep their heads above water, fearing that they might drown in their grief.
“Mother?!” Lizzy leapt up, placing her hand on her mother’s cheek that had become wet. “What is it? What troubles you?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Mary patted her hand, gently moving it back down. “I am just so emotional about you growing up and getting married. My baby girl is a woman now.”
It was clear from Lizzy’s expression that she didn’t quite believe her mother. However, she mercifully let the subject go; in no small part to her twin and Lady Parr entering.
“Oh, Lizzy, you are breathtaking.” Cathy rushed forward to embrace her sister, not noticing their mother turning away so she could brush the tears off her face. “Archduke Ferdinand is a very lucky man.”
The young man had arrived in England along with his oldest brother, Maximilian, and his brother’s wife, Maria, who just so happened to be the English Queen’s elder sister. Joanna had arranged for Mary to meet the three of them the day before the wedding, allowing her to connect with more of her mother’s relatives.
“Come. Mazie and Philip want to see your dress,” Cathy proclaimed as she linked arms with Lizzy and practically pulled her out of the room.
Mary moved to follow when the Duchess of Bedford placed a hand on her arm. “How are you feeling?” she inquired.
The Dowager Duchess of Somerset smiled brittlely. “I am most well, dear Cate. Why would I not be? It is my daughter’s wedding day.”
Katherine Parr scrutinized her, searching her features fore falsehood. “Are you certain?”
“It is my daughter’s wedding day,” Mary repeated firmly. “All is well.”
Her friend’s countenance remained skeptical and concerned, but she did not press Mary further, nodding before they linked arms and strolled out of the chambers, smiling as they heard the excited chattering of the Somerset siblings.
Meanwhile, in the queen’s apartment, Princess Joan was being introduced to her aunt. Archduchess Maria was a tall woman with a narrow face, and a strong jaw. She wore a black dress with pearl drop earrings and long pearl necklace.
Her stern expression softened considerably when her little niece curtsied and greeted her in fluent Spanish.
“She is delightful,” Maria declared to her sister, not taking her eyes off of the child. “A true princess.” She then directed her next words to Joan. “Have you been saying your prayers?”
Joanna frowned from where she was sitting, a hand pressed on her swollen belly. Did her sister think she was raising a godless child? She knew Maria was unhappy with how lax her husband was about religion and how she had encouraged Joanna to try and influence her husband to return England to the flock of Rome.
Even if I could do that, it would be testament to declaring the late King Henry a liar and my husband a bastard, Joanna thought somberly. Even stubborn Philip had acknowledged the foolishness of such a move, although he was more concerned how it would be reflected on the Hapsburgs than how it would undermine the Tudors.
“I have,” Joan replied cheerfully. “Lady Stafford told me to make extra prayers for a brother.”
The queen had to plaster a smile on her face when her daughter turned to her with eager eyes and clasped hands. “That’s very good, sweetheart.” She then signaled for Lady Stafford to take Joan out of the room, after she bid them good day.
Once they had left the drawing chamber, Maria turned to her sister, her brow shooting up her forehead. “Is something troubling you?”
“I am certain that our cousin had made similar prayers for her mother,” Joanna remarked. “Unfortunately, they went unanswered.”
Maria’s lips thinned as she went over to his sister, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret. You are young and have many years left to give birth to a son.”
Easy for you to say, Joanna bemoaned to herself. You and your husband have had eight children in the past decade. Three of them healthy boys.
“Your husband has not been unkind about it, has he?” Maria interrogated in a manner that suggested she might be so inclined to express her displeasure if her sister confirmed her suspicions.
Granted at most she could do was counsel her husband to abandon the peace treaty they currently had with England, but it was still a sweet gesture. According to what she said when Joanna had visited her two years ago, she had been in complete agreement with their brother when he had raged upon learning about the filth Ambrose had sprouted on his wedding night.
“No. He has not.” Joanna grimaced. Even in the days of their marriage where she had been certain that Ambrose loathed her, he had never once berated her for her two miscarriage and one stillbirth. He clearly loved and doted on their daughter.
“I have heard rumors of his bastard,” Maria persisted. “That he will give him his own household and title.”
“False rumors,” replied Joanna firmly, keeping her tone measured. “He does spend money for the boy’s care and education, but he has no plans to go further than that.” She bit her lip for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Ambrose is sentimental. Sometimes it causes him to act without thought. However, our cousin is good at curtailing his more impulsive decisions.”
Maria nodded in approval. “I would expect nothing less from a granddaughter from the Catholic Monarchs.”
“Are we not granddaughters of the Catholic Monarchs?” the queen inquired.
“Yes, but we are more graceful in our natural element,” quipped Maria with a half-smile. “Princess Mary knows how to navigate the English court, and she certainly has power over her brothers that many a sister wishes she could have.”
A chuckle escaped Joanna’s lips. “As I have said, my husband is sentimental. His sisters mean the world to him.” She did not add that Mary had revealed to her in confidence that she long suspected that Ambrose secretly blamed himself for his mother’s death and their father’s treatment of his sisters.
Maria let out a heavy sigh. “I am glad you are thriving here, Juana, in a country filled with heathens. I pray that Princess Mary was able to teach her children the true faith.”
The queen gave her older sister an apprising look. “As it has already been disclosed, the Lady Elizabeth follows her mother’s faith.” It wasn’t even a matter of pretending; she had questioned the girl herself and found nary a hint of deceit. Lady Elizabeth was Catholic to the core, albeit a moderate with reformation leanings.
The archduchess raised a hand in defense. “Even if I had my doubts, I know you would never lie to me. Nonetheless, she will be under close scrutiny once she arrives in Vienna. Furthermore, my brother-in-law is not like my husband and has low tolerance for heresy.”
Archduke Ferdinand was polite and courteous when he met the English court, and certainly was charming with his bride-to-be. Nonetheless, as a fervent Catholic, he understandably was weary about marrying a girl who had been raised in a Lutheran country.
“I assure you that he has nothing to be concerned with,” vowed Joanna.
“Very well, sister.” Maria patted her hand. “I trust your judgement.”
Thankfully, the wedding went smoothly, Archduke Ferdinand and Lady Elizabeth of Somerset were wed by a Catholic priest, and the celebration that followed was filled with good cheer and merriment.
Mary observed Maximilian and Ambrose as they discussed something quietly; judging by their gesturing and mischievous smiles, it was likely about their wives. She watched as the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk sneak away from the feast, as if they were secret lovers going to have a tryst. Robert Dudley patted his wife’s stomach and made a comment to his older brother that caused a roar of laughter from the other man.
Then her gaze landed on Edward, and she felt something squeezing her heart. The Duke of York was sitting a few seats away from the royal couples, his express grim, and it was only years of etiquette training that stopped him from slumping in his seat. While everyone was socializing, he seemed to be more concerned about the meal in front of him, not even glancing at the people around him.
Oh, Ned, what can I do to help you? Ever since Margaret’s death, Edward had become more and more closed off, isolating himself. She had tried to reach out to him, only to be rebuffed each time. It was disheartening to say the least.
The princess rose, meaning to go to her brother, beg him to speak to her for a moment. But as she did so, she nearly crumpled as she was overwhelmed with shooting pain in her lower torso and there was a familiar feeling of something trickling down her legs.
“Mary.” Catherine Parr’s hand was on her arm.
She waved the other woman off, struggling to keep composure. Her gaze bounced around the banquet hall, relief flooding her when she realized only the Duchess of Bedford had noticed.
She quickly whispered an excuse to Cathy, knowing her daughter would repeat it if anyone asked. She then made her way to her own chambers, ignoring the sound of footsteps, as she was quite certain she knew who was following her.
Mary had scarcely arrived at her apartment when Katherine Parr and Susan Clarencieux practically accosted her, both bombarding her with frantic entreaties of summoning the physician and lying down.
“Ladies, please, let us make sure there is something to be concerned about first,” commanded the princess, unwilling to start a panic. She prayed her daughter would not get wind of this and would leave England unaware of her mother’s plight.
With that thought in mind, she retired to her bedchambers. Without another word, Susan began to undress her as Katherine hurried to fetch linin and basin of water. Her maid’s nimble fingers worked quickly to free Mary from the layers of fabric that kept her swollen abdomen hidden.
“It is a tumor, my lady,” the doctor had advised her grimly. “A tumor on your womb.”
Mary closed her eyes and sucked in a breath as her lady led her to the bed, her legs feelings wet and sticky.
“My lady.” Susan’s voice was gentle and pleading. Wordlessly, Mary spread her legs. A moment later, her faithful maid spoke again. “You have stopped bleeding at least. I still think we should send for a physician.”
“No. It will only spread gossip,” protested the princess. When she caught sight of Susan’s anxious countenance, she added, “If I start bleeding again, I shall summon Dr. Paxton, but until then I think it is best to say I had a headache and went to sleep early.”
The Duchess of Bedford returned with Jane Dormer, another of Mary’s maids. She made the sign of the cross when she saw the state the duchess dowager was in but said not a word as she tended to the dried blood on her mistress’ legs.
Katherine on the other hand fetched a fresh nightgown for Mary while Susan went to summon another servant to bring a glass of milk and pastry to nibble on from the kitchens.
Mary could not help but smile as the three women fussed over her. Perhaps she should have felt annoyed at them treating her as if she some small child, incapable of taking care of herself. However, she could not deny a feeling of pleasure knowing she had true friends she could count on.
September 29, 1558
For three months, his sister had managed to keep her failing health hidden. But eventually she could hide it no more. She was now languishing in St. James Palace, growing weaker every day. Once they learned of the news both Elizabeths immediately bounded towards England, racing to her side.
While his niece remained in St. James Palace, the Crown Princess of Denmark arrived at court, having been all but banished by their older sister.
“Banished? A bit harsh, Bess,” Ambrose commented as they took a stroll in Whitehall’s gardens, being sure to walk along the path with trees shielding them from the rays of the summer sun.
“Well, what else would you call it?” Elizabeth grumbled. Her outraged words were undercut by the slight hitch in her breath and her sniffle as she wiped her eyes.
Ambrose quickly threw his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close, taking advantage of the lack of courtiers and company to comfort her openly. “I would call it an older sister not wanting her younger sister to be chained to her side throughout her visit.”
In truth, Ambrose wanted to return to St. James, be at Mary’s bedside, as he had been unable to do so with John Dudley and Princess Margaret. Alas, even if it were not for his kingly duties, Joanna was due to give birth any day now and he could not miss the birth of his child.
Why has God cursed me to lose a relative every time I gain one? The king lamented, before speaking out loud in what he hopped was a cheerful manner. “Besides, I am certain your new niece or nephew is eager to meet you.”
The former English princess beamed at that. “I was quite happy to meet Joan. She is a darling child. And I must admit that I like her mother as well.” Elizabeth turned her head to give her brother a furious look. “I trust you have not made any more accusations about incest.”
Ambrose gaped at her, his jaw dangling like a fish. “I was drunk and that was five years ago,” he spluttered, shocked that she would even bring it up. He had rather hoped his unfortunate behavior on his wedding night would be forever forgotten.
“Well, I wasn’t here to yell at you then,” defended his sister. “Not even our father went that far.”
The monarch hung his head. “I know, Bess. I was….” He trailed off as he searched for the right word to describe how he had treated his wife. Knowing how she had loved him for years before coming to England only made his actions and insults worse.
“An arse,” supplied Elizabeth in a deadpan voice. She chuckled when her brother’s countenance became flummoxed.
“I am your king,” he reminded her, half teasing. “I do not deserve such disrespect from my subjects.”
Elizabeth’s dark eyes twinkled with mirth. “I am no longer your subject. I belong to the Danes now.”
Ambrose threw back his head and belly laughed. “Such lies, Bess. We both know you belong to no man.”
Elizabeth grinned at him. “I have missed you, brother.”
“And I you, sister.”
They were about to finish their stroll when a messenger came running towards them.
“Your Majesty, the queen is in labor!” he exclaimed.
“Go,” Elizabeth told her brother. “I wanted to speak to Edward. Fredrick and I shall be there shortly.”
Ambrose kissed her cheek before hurrying back down the path with the messenger on his heels.
Elizabeth ambled past the decorative shrubbery and the many rose bushes. Years later and he is still searching for a pink and white rose, she mused with a smile tugging at her lips.
She reunited with Annie and Kat as she returned to the patio that was in front of the garden. “Before I become an aunt again, I wish to see Ned,” she declared before inwardly commenting, “And give him a piece of my mind.”
Ambrose had multiple reasons why he could not see their dying sister---not that had stopped him from making five trips to see her over the past month. Edward on the other hand had no excuse and had yet to visit her.
In fact, Elizabeth herself had been in England for longer than a fortnight and she had not seen hide or hair of her youngest brother. It could not be more obvious he was avoiding her, and she was about to put a stop to it.
As she walked down the corridor, nodding at the people who greeted her, spotting tapestries depicting famous knights and battles, she was suddenly thrust back to the days of her girlhood in her father’s court.
Even after he died, Elizabeth could see the remains of his court, only the faces were wrinkled and haggard and there were fewer decorative ornaments. Now, there were new visages around her, and the splendor were more subdued with a few touches of wealth spread sparingly throughout.
Her brother liked finery, but he feared making the same mistakes their father made, and so he spent money cautiously. It was ironic how their father had been determined not to be a miser like his father, only for his son to decide to be the opposite.
“Bess!” Elizabeth spun around, her eyes lighting up at the familiar voice.
“Robin.” Conscious of the eyes upon them, the pair did not rush and hug each other as they did as children, but they did make an exaggerated bow and curtsy before exchanging a chaste kiss on the check.
“Welcome home, my princess,” Robert greeted, doffing his black cap with the white ostrich feather. “It is quite wonderful to see you. I must say you look as lovely as you always do.”
“And you, my lord, have grown quite dashing. I see your beard finally grow in. No longer baby faced,” Elizabeth teased.
Robert chuckled as did some of the nearby courtiers including Kat and Annie. “I would like to think in spite of this, I still have my boyish charm.”
“I am sure your wife thinks so.” Appearing out of seemingly thin air, Fredrick strode to Elizabeth’s side, a tight smile on his face. While his wife had been walking with his brother, he had been taken by Thomas Howard on a tour of the palace. From behind him, the Duke of Norfolk seemed very much like he wished he had gone in a different direction.
“Your Highness.” Robert bowed again, but there was a noticeable stiffness in his shoulders.
“I hear she is pregnant,” Fredrick continued, placing his arm around Elizabeth who had to resist the urge to slap it away. “I would like to extend my warmest congratulations on the behalf of the both of us.”
His wife schooled her features into a serene mask, fighting down the ire of that comment. As though she could not speak for herself.
“I think you very much for your kind words,” Robert declared, his tone perfectly polite, but there was a strong note to it “Amy and I couldn’t be happier. As a good husband, I would never do anything to upset her or humiliate her.”
Fredrick’s grip tightened catching onto the hidden meaning. He then laughed jovially. “Then she is a lucky woman to have such a loving husband. You certainly have found the wife you are worthy of. I am sure you will make her feel like a queen.” The words you could never give Elizabeth the life she deserves hung in the air unsaid.
The younger Dudley’s eyes flashed with anger, and he seemed ready to fire off a rebuttal where it not for the timely appearance of his brother.
“Robert!” the Duke of Northumberland came bounding towards the small group, making a hasty greeting to the Prince and Princess of Denmark before seizing his brother’s arm, making up a transparent excuse before ushering him away before the situation could escalate.
Elizabeth paid no mind to this instead beginning to walk in the direction of Edward’s apartments, causing Fredrick to have to dart after her. She spoke in Danish so those listening could not understand her. “Why didn’t you just pee on me? That would have been a more subtle way of marking your territory.”
From behind her, she could hear Annie making conversation with Thomas Howard with Kat chiming in every few moments. The three of them, pretending that they had no idea of the conversation happening before them.
“He started it,” Fredrick grumbled. “Treating you like you weren’t a married woman. Complimenting you. He was practically undressing you with his eyes.”
Elizabeth struggled not to glare at him. “Don’t be vulgar.” She huffed in frustration at her husband’s behavior. “Is this why you came to England? To keep an eye on me.”
“No, I came to England because I….” Fredrick trailed off, averting his eyes. He placed his arm around his wife again and this time she had no wish to shake him off, thoughts of Roberts turning towards her ailing sister instead. “I have written to Father, and asked to be allowed us to stay until Lady’s Day.”
“Thank you.”
The rest of the journey to Edward’s apartments were done in silence. Thankfully, the Duke of York was willing to agree to speak to his sister privately, leaving her husband to be entertained by Norfolk and her ladies.
Edward’s solar was not so different from what she had seen in Ambrose’s private audience chamber. From the green and white wall hangings, the portrait of their family the late King Henry had commissioned. The only difference was the painting of Dowager Queen Jane, the late Princess Margaret, and him hanging above the mahogany table in the center of the room.
She did not have long to dwell on her surroundings as Edward came into the room and immediately went to hug her. “I’m sorry, I haven’t spoken to you, Bess, I have just been…” Edward took a deep breath. “How is she?”
“How is she?” Elizabeth repeated incredulously. “Our sister is dying. She has been getting worse for the past three months and you haven’t been to see her once.”
Edward took a step back, running his hand through his golden hair. “Bess, she doesn’t want to see me.”
“How can you say that?” she demanded. “She is your sister. She loves you.”
“I haven’t been kind to her,” admitted the duke. “I have been pushing her away for years.”
“And this might be your last chance to make up with her,” Elizabeth insisted.
“It is not that simple, Bess.” Edward turned away from her. “You have no idea what I have been going through.”
His sister stared at him with an open mouth. “What you have been going through!” she screeched. “Our sister grows weaker every day. She is suffering slowly, and it pains me that I am unable to help her.”
“You think I don’t know what that’s like!” Edward roared back, his hands curled into fists. “Where were you when Maggie was dying? Where was Ambrose? Where was Mary? I was there by her bedside as she died! Held her hand like a big brother should, comforted her. No else cared.”
“I cared,” protested the red-haired woman. She had wanted to go to England for her sister, but had been pregnant during that time, only to have miscarriage. It had been doubly devastating. “I was heartbroken when she fell sick and wanted nothing more than to go home and tend to her.”
“We were alone together. Now I’m just alone,” Edward continued as if she had not spoken.
Elizabeth rushed forward putting her hand on his cheek. “You are not alone. You have me---”
“You are in Denmark,” Edward interrupted. “With your husband and son.”
“You have Ambrose,” opined Elizabeth, unable to dispute his words. She had often wondered how she could continue helping her brothers from an ocean away. How could she possibly keep her promise to keep them safe from the Boleyn and Seymore fighting when she was in another country.
Edward chortled mirthlessly. “Ambrose? Our wonderful king. The man who spends his days, thinking of ways to make my life miserable.”
Elizabeth recoiled as if slapped. “Ambrose loves you, Ned. I know he sometimes does the wrong thing, but he cares about you very much. He writes to me constantly about how much he cares for you, that the fact that you keep pushing him away hurts him.”
“Hurts him!” Edward jeered, his lip curled up in a sneer. “He sold my fiancée to his best friend. He is always calling me a baby, never listening to my advice. He is planning to marry me to a child. He has no respect for me or my family.”
“He is your family.” Elizabeth could feel anger filling her. What happened to her sweet and gentle brother? When he become so bitter and self-concerned. “Mary and I are also your family.”
“Are you?” the Duke of York contradicted. “Mary cares more about her precious religion so much that she doesn’t care that she is essentially saying that we are all doomed to hell. And you got my uncle killed!”
As soon as the last sentence flew out of his mouth, the self-rightness drained out of Edward, and he paled. “Bess, I didn’t mean---”
He cut off by Elizabeth’s hand connecting with his cheek, sending him sprawling backwards. Then she turned on her heel and stormed out of his private rooms, leaving him alone with his bitterness and guilt.
“It is a girl, Your Majesty.”
Ambrose bit back a groan. As much as he wanted to believe he was different from his father, but he could not deny that he was disappointed that he had no living son in nearly a decade of marriage.
The people loved Mary. It was only my father who had his doubts, he reminded himself. Although he was glad for his birth, the circumstances would never cease to haunt him. If it weren’t for his sister, he would wish his father never laid eyes on his mother for all the pain it caused.
“Healthy?” he inquired.
The lady curtsied, a small smile on her face. “In perfect health.”
He rubbed his face in relief. “Good. And the queen?”
“Very well.” Lady Russel affirmed.
Ambrose nodded before walking out of the rooms, ignoring the scattered murmurs in his wake. His mind racing as he thought over Princess Joan. He had considered it for years, but now he was certain. It made sense.
Declare Joan his heir, marry her to Philip Tudor, allowing to keep those who grumbled about foreign king silenced. He just needed to get parliament on board. England might not have Salic law, but with another adult prince, it would still be an upwards climb. He needed to have parliament on his side.
“Your Majesty.” Much like the late Thomas Cromwell, Lord William Cecil was in his office, working diligently. “Is everything well?” Although he was the king’s secretary, George viewed him as his right-hand man, often joking that Cecil was after his position as Lord Chancellor. He rose from his chair and bowed as Ambrose entered.
“I have a second daughter, my lord,” announced Ambrose, nodding his head at the man.
“I will have the announcements drawn up,” professed William. He waited expectantly.
“Isabel,” the monarch divulged. “Princess Isabel for my sister and the queen’s mother. But that is not why I am here.”
Cecil inclined his head, having already guessed the reason. “Your succession.”
“Correct,” Ambrose intoned as he leaned against the windowsill, glancing out at the blue sky. It was a cloudless day, the sun shining brightly. “My wife and I have been lucky twice, but it has been almost a decade since we were first wed. I am concerned.”
William Cecil was no longer a new member of the king’s council and therefore was quite in control of his emotions. However, one could detect an ounce of anxiety in his voice. “Your Majesty, the queen and you are young. There is time for you two to have many children: boys and girls.”
Ambrose wondered if Cardinal Wolsey was this nervous when his father had asked for a divorce from Queen Katherine. “And what happens if we don’t? My daughter will need a strong support base behind her.”
His secretary exhaled deeply, clearly relieved that there would be no second Great Matter. “You wish for your daughter to succeed you.”
“I have hope that Queen Joanna will provide me with a son eventually,” remarked Ambrose. “Nonetheless until that time, I want Princess Joan to be confirmed as my heir as soon as possible so England can get used to the idea.”
“I shall draw up the proclamation at once.” The was no mistaking the clear pride in Cecil’s voice, clearly eager to prove himself useful to the king.
“Good. Now if you excuse me, I have a daughter to meet,” Ambrose proclaimed. He silently mused. I better hurry before Elizabeth finds me and drags me to Joanna’s bedchamber by the ear.
Perhaps he would stop at the nursery first, a possible queen-to-be needed to meet her newest sister.
September 30, 1558
The day was hot as the councilors met up in the privy chambers. They shuffled about, moping their brows with their handkerchiefs as they sat down.
King Ambrose sat at the head of the table as he always did just as he always did. As usual the Duke of York was not on his right side. Instead, the Duke of Kent sat next to him, guarding his place jealousy, not allowing anyone who wasn’t approved by him to get any favor from the monarch.
Edward glowered as he sat down, barely listening to inane conversation about the granary, christening, and Catholic preaching----that Ambrose would do nothing about, letting them sow discord among the people.
“I am also pleased to announce that I have decided to officially betroth my sweet daughter, Joan to my nephew, the Duke of Somerset.”
Edward winced at the indirect reminder of his sisters. He had yet to apologize to either of them. Elizabeth was right. He was behaving selfishly, and his words yesterday had been uncalled for, if not outright cruel.
“Furthermore, I have decided to draw up a new Act of Succession,” informed Ambrose, snapping his fingers at Cecil to read the document.
“If King Ambrose and Queen Joanna do not have any male heirs, Princess Joan will be next in line----”
“WHAT!” the Duke of York shot up from his seat, unable to keep the shock and outrage from his face. His uncle grabbed his sleeve, but Edward shook him off. “You can’t be serious. I am your heir.”
Ambrose gave him a look like he was a moron. “This is not France. Salic law does not apply here, Ned. Joan and Isabel are my heirs. You will come after them if they have no issue.”
Edward’s expression resembled someone who had been stabbed. “You can’t do this.” He glanced around wanting someone to speak up and decry his brother’s attempt to disinherit him. “Our father worked so hard to continue the Tudor dynasty, and you are destroying it.”
The brown-haired monarch’s countenance darkened with displeasure. “A daughter ruling would not destroy our dynasty. Besides, Father has already come up with the precedent of children taking their mother’s house so even if there was no Philip Tudor, Joan still could carry our name.”
“You would do anything to humiliate me, wouldn’t you?” accused Edward. “You hate me so much, you just jump at the opportunity to put me down!”
“By God, you sound like a child!” Ambrose declared, throwing his hands up in the air. “You have no place on my council if you throw pathetic little tantrums. Get out!”
I’ll show him a tantrum. The Duke of York took the folder in front of him and threw it as hard as he could at a wall before he stormed out. As he went down the corridors, he recalled Maggie’s death and his mother’s words.
He is afraid of you.
He knows that you should be the king.
You were always your father’s true heir.
Was it true? Was his brother really so afraid hat he would steal birthright that he would do anything to undermine him? Perhaps Ambrose really did see him as a threat and not a brother.
That was the only explanation for it. Mary and Elizabeth would make up excuses for it. But Edward knew the truth. He had always known the truth. He was alone.
“Nephew.” The Duke of York nearly jumped when he heard his uncle’s voice. The Earl of Hertford had managed to catch up with him. “Come. Let’s talk.”
With that, Hertford placed a hand on his shoulder, a grim smile tugging at his lips.
November 17, 1558
St. James Palace had been commissioned by King Henry in the 1530s, on the site of a former leper hospital dedicated to Saint James the Lesser. It was a small palace for a royal residence, often used to escape court life.
After her niece’s Christening, Elizabeth had returned to her sister’s side. Things had gotten worse, the Duchess of Bedford had fallen sick with influences as did several members of Mary’s household.
Everyone was required to leave, but Elizabeth refused until she had said her goodbyes. Cathy, Lizzie, Mazie, and Philip had already down so. The four of them were devastated by their mother’s condition and being forced from her in what was possibly her last days.
The Crown Princess of Denmark sat by her sister’s bedside, as they discussed court. “Ambrose and Edward are still not speaking despite it being months since Ambrose’s announcement.” It did not help that the House of Commons agreed to making Joan, Ambrose’s heir. Although she would not receive the title Princess of Wales as Joanna was in her twenties and therefore, she still had time to give birth to a male heir.
“He’ll get over it eventually,” Mary professed. She was spread out on her bed, she did not even have the energy to lift her head.
Elizabeth let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know about that. Edward seems to think that he is alone, and everyone is out to get him. I don’t know how to help him.”
“Bess, you can’t help him. He is a grown man, capable of making his own decisions,” Mary voiced softly.
The younger princess frowned. “Do you not remember the promise we made to protect them? To stop them from being caught up in this senseless war of politics.”
Pale and haggard, Mary stared up at her sister with sorrow pained on her visage. “That was when they were children, Bess. Now they are men, no longer willing to stay behind our skirts, listen to us when they are acting foolish. We have no choice but to let them work this out themselves.”
Elizabeth wiped her moist eyes, hating how true that was. She could feel something brewing in her brothers’ relationship. Something foul and dark. A warm hand was placed on hers. She glanced down at her sister.
“I remember when I first saw you,” whispered Mary. “I was so angry, desolate, and jealous, I wanted to believe you weren’t our father’s child. But as I scrutinized you for a sign, all I saw was a baby girl with red hair like our father’s, and even when you opened those eyes, her eyes, I knew in my heart that I was always going to love you.”
Elizabeth’s lip wobbled as she threw herself upon Mary. “Please, don’t leave me, sister. I need you.”
“Oh, Bess, you don’t need me. You are amazing and you always will be,” declared Mary adamantly. She fumbled as she took off something from her hand and pressed it into her sister’s palm. “Here. This is my wedding ring. I want you to have it.” It was a gold band studded with emeralds. “This way you will always remember me.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, listening to her sister’s heartbeat, taking comfort in her embrace. Her tears did not come until Mary’s chest was still and there was nothing to listen to, but her own weeping.
Notes:
I was going to include a scene where Mary reunites with Katherine and Philip, but I felt it did not fit in with the chapter's tone.
Chapter 37: The Begining of the End
Summary:
Four years pass before a move is made, one that will shake the kingdom to the core.
Chapter Text
January 18, 1562
Scotland
Mary, Queen of Scots, and Dowager Queen of France, was a slender red-haired woman, dressed in all white, mourning her husband’s death. After so many years she had finally returned to Scotland after spending her childhood in France.
She had come home to find a divided country, torn apart in matters of religion. It did not help that she was nothing more than a stranger, having not been in the land of her birth for nearly two decades.
Thankfully, she could count on one person: Lord James Stewart, 1st Earl of Moray, her bastard half-brother. Despite being a leader of the Protestant faction, he had proven himself to be loyal to her above all. Therefore, when he came to her with a prospective husband, she knew she could not discount his words.
“Prince Edward of England,” Mary repeated. He was tall man with a narrow face, dressed grandly in black ensemble with gold embroidery and buttons decorating his doublet. “Is he not engaged to Marguerite?” Her heart clenched at the memory of her beloved François’ sisters. They had been her family since the age of five. Leaving them to live in a land of strangers had hurt just as much as loosing her husband.
François should have lived, she lamented. We should have spent many years happy and had many children to rule both France and Scotland.
“The Earl of Hertford assures me that the betrothal is not official,” divulged Moray. He then lowered his voice. “My queen, even those of the Lutheran faith believe that Anne Boleyn was never truly married to the English king, and therefore it is only Queen Katherine and Queen Jane’s children who have a right to the throne.”
Mary raised an eyebrow, knowing insistently what her brother was getting at. “Are you saying that King Ambrose is no true ruler? I do not think his Spanish wife, nor her relatives will agree.”
That had always confused her. If King Henry and Anne Boleyn were not truly married, why would Queen Katherine’s nephew marry his daughter to a bastard, tying his blood to the spawn of the woman who had cost his aunt and cousin everything?
Moray shifted uncomfortably, his eyes drifting towards the windows of the private audience chambers, not meeting her gaze. “I cannot speculate the emperor’s motives or how his son will react.”
Had she not possessed an ounce of tact, Mary would have snorted. Philip of Spain would not tolerate his Spanish sister being replaced by a half-French woman. Never mind his duty as a brother, he would not want England to side with France over Spain. He would sail his armada in defense of the bastard king, just to keep their alliance.
If her brother noticed her disbelief, he said nothing, just pressed on, “However, I am certain that once you marry Prince Edward, we can get the support of the pope who will declare Ambrose a bastard and a usurper, urging the good Catholics of England to revolt against him. They will back you and the Duke of York. With the bishop of Rome’s support, neither the King of Spain nor the Holy Roman Emperor will be able to intervene.”
Mary chewed her lip in thought. She also had a claim to the English throne through her paternal grandmother, Margaret Tudor. Her marriage to Edward would combine both claims. Together they could rule the continent of Britain, expelling the infidels just like Isabel and Ferdinand did for Spain. They could become the Catholic monarchs of their time.
There was just one problem.
“And how will this come to pass?” she inquired. “I highly doubt that King Ambrose will agree to let his brother marry a queen even if he does not know the true reason behind the match, not when our children will have such a strong claim to the throne.”
Moray smiled grimly. “He will know nothing about it. If you agree, the Earl of Hertford shall smuggle himself and the Duke of York to Scotland. The marriage will happen shortly afterwards whereupon, Prince Edward will denounce his brother as a heretic and a usurper.”
The way he laid it out, it seemed so simple. But nothing in the young queen’s life had been easy. She had lost her father when she was mere days old, shipped off to France to keep her out of the hands of ambitious lords, became a widow as a teenager, returned to a land filled with hostile people who seemed to think she did everything wrong no matter how hard she tried to appease them.
“Will my subjects accept a foreign king?” she wondered.
“I won’t lie and say they will be pleased,” the earl admitted warily, his expression sympathetic. “Especially not when your marriage will be a prelude to a war. Regardless, I think that they shall come around in time.”
Mary nodded, fingering the crucifix around her neck. “Do you truly believe that this is the best course?”
“I do,” Moray said firmly. “It would stop the constant fighting between our countries and perhaps bring an end to the unrest that troubles your reign.”
“And what of his religion?” the queen interrogated. “He has been raised as a Protestant, has he not?”
“I have discussed that with the earl, and he assures me that his nephew shall gladly covert to Catholicism,” Moray affirmed, not even the slightest bit annoyed that his sister’s perspective husband was so willing to recant what he believed to be the true faith. But then again, he always felt politics outweighed all matters of religion. “All has been arranged, sister. We are merely waiting for your answer.”
Mary took a few steps towards the window, her mind drifting to François. His health was weak, but his heart had been strong. He had just needed more time to grow, and he would have been a fine king. The loss of him still stung even though it had been a year since that dreadful day.
Oh, my François if I could mourn you forever I would, she lamented. But I must move on and do my duty. Please know that I shall always love you.
A soft breeze flowed in through the crack in the window gently blowing past Mary like a tender touch of a lover. The queen let out a sigh. It was a sign; François had sent his blessing.
“Tell the Earl of Hertford that I await my future husband most eagerly,” she declared. She did not turn as Moray bowed and left her alone in her chambers. Instead, she just lost herself in her memories of happier days.
April 9, 1562
England
The court was in high spirits for the king’s birthday. And why wouldn’t they be? England had much to be thankful about in the last year. James Boleyn had been wed to the queen’s lady, Isabel after many long years of courtship. Furthermore, a new royal baby had been born in December. Another girl, yes, but as she was healthy, the Princess Anne was celebrated with good cheer.
And yet as Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, watched the festivities from his seat, he couldn’t help but notice there was a dark cloud hanging over the merriment, blackening what should be a sunny day.
As he has for the past four years, the Duke of York refuses to return to court even for his brother’s birthday, he noted with a frown. Ambrose thought this was just his brother being a baby. Thomas was not so sure.
He got up from his seat slowly, trying not to be noticed as he left the banquet hall, ducking into a small antechamber, knowing that he would be followed soon enough. As he waited, his mind drifted to many years ago, when he was a small child reeling from his father and his grandfather’s treason.
The Duke of Kent had taken him into his study and sat him down, a gentle expression on his visage. “Thomas, did your father say why he had kept Ambrose hostage?”
Thomas fidgeted in his chair, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears at the mention of his father. “He said he and grandfather were being framed and that we had no choice but to flee.”
George rubbed his face in frustration. “Well, he wasn’t wrong.”
This got the young boy’s attention and his heart soared, praying that this meant his father was not a traitor and would be returned home. But that brief spark of hope was extinguished when his cousin’s grim countenance did not change.
“Norfolk and Surrey’s plot was not against Ambrose, but me,” he began with a trace of outrage in his calm voice.
“You? Why?” Thomas’ brows knitted together in confusion. His father had always stressed the importance of family. Why would he and grandfather for that matter conspire against the Duke of Kent?
The older man sighed. “I cannot speculate on their motive, Tom nor will I for that hardly matters now. Your grandfather and your father made a fatal mistake, they conspired with Edward Seymore.”
“The Duke of York’s uncle?” Thomas clarified, wondering what the Earl of Hertford had to do with this sordid affair. Then he remembered his father’s rant about trusting the wrong person and being framed.
“That’s right,” intoned George. “Edward Seymore baited your grandfather into writing that they could remove Ambrose from the throne and place Prince Edward on it before he brought it to King Henry’s attention. His Majesty might have forgiven them, or at least given them a lighter punishment, for conspiring against me, but not against his heir.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in shock, understanding what his cousin was getting at. “But if you know this, can’t you use it to convince the king to exonerate them?”
George shook his head sadly. “I have no proof, other than my own gut instinct and the word of your grandfather, who is a traitor. Not to mention your father’s actions made him look guilty as sin.”
“But if it weren’t for Edward Seymore, my father would never have done such a thing in the first place,” Thomas burst out, angry tears springing to his eyes. His father was a good man, who had been so desperate to get himself and his family out of England, he did something very foolish.
To his surprise, arms encircled Thomas, and he found himself being pulled into a warm embrace. “I promise you that one day Edward Seymore will get his just deserts,” George vowed.
“Brother.” Henry Howard the Younger entered the antechamber, pulling Thomas out of his reminiscing.
The Duke of Norfolk inclined his head in greeting. “Were you followed?”
“No.” Unlike his brother, Henry Howard was lanky with a fuller face and smaller eyes. He also wore a smart beard on his chin while Norfolk preferred to be clean shaven. While Thomas had lived with the Kents, Henry had lived with their aunt Mary, widow of the king’s bastard son, Hal Fitzroy. And yet the two brothers had remained close, together they would regain their house’s reputation.
“Did it work?” Thomas asked.
The Earl of Hertford had made several subtle attempts to sway Thomas to his side, unaware of the younger man’s deep hatred for him. During one of these conversations, he had let slip an incident that only three men knew about, a fight between himself and Guildford where the Marquess of Dorset had insinuated that he was seeking to marry Cathy Tudor, in hopes of claiming the crown for himself.
Now Guildford would not have mentioned this to anyone least Ambrose found out, nor had Thomas said anything, least it brought Cathy any unwanted attention. That left only one person: Arthur Pole.
Suspicious, Norfolk had recruited his younger brother to help his sniff out Hertford’s spy among Ambrose’s circle of close friends.
“Like a charm,” his brother huffed, glowering. “According to the Viscount Beauchamp, who is ignorant to his father’s plotting as far as I can tell, the earl has called his daughter to court, and she is quite eager to meet me.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle at his brother’s annoyance. “Forgive me, but I needed it simple and innocuous enough that they wouldn’t become suspicious that this was a trap. Seeking a bride for my younger brother who is currently third in line for my dukedom was tempting for the ambitious earl.”
“Couldn’t you have said you were looking for a bride for Ambrose?” Henry grumbled, meaning his nephew.
Ambrose Howard had been born five years ago to Thomas’ first wife, Mary FitzAlan. Sadly, she died just eight weeks later.
“Edward Seymore has no daughters or granddaughters young enough for a match,” Thomas pointed out, his mind drifting to his young son who had lived for five years without a mother to care for him.
He had been rather lax in choosing a second wife, but over time he began to grow close to Cathy Tudor. After the death of her mother and the Duchess of Bedford, she had raised her younger sister and brother herself. She was a remarkable woman and Thomas had found himself falling in love with her as she did with him.
All he needed was King Ambrose’s permission and they would be wed.
“The plan worked. We know Arthur Pole is Hertford’s spy. What now?” inquired Henry, pulling his brother back into the discussion at hand. “Do we tell the king?”
The Duke of Norfolk shook his head. “Ambrose won’t believe it. He refuses to believe that those he thinks are his friends are capable of betraying him. Which is nice when Gilly is accusing me of being a traitor, not so much now. Besides our proof is circumstantial. We need more.”
“Just as long as your plan doesn’t involve me getting married, I’m in,” Henry affirmed, reaching out to squeeze his brother’s shoulder.
We shall avenge you, Father, Norfolk vowed silently. The man who betrayed you and grandfather will pay.
Back in the banquet hall, Ambrose was cheerfully unaware of what the Howard brothers uncovered. Instead, he was teasing his cousin for having waited so long to get married.
“Everyone could see the way you were fawning over her,” he boomed, causing James Boleyn to duck his head in embarrassment. “The way you would sometimes find an excuse to accompany me when I visited my queen.”
“I don’t mean to contradict you, Your Majesty, but I believe you asked me to accompany you,” reminded the Earl of Wiltshire.
Ambrose gave his cousin a disgruntled look. “Because you wouldn’t take the initiative. It was either that or order you to ask for Lady Isabel’s hand. Be glad I went with the first one.”
The polite chuckles around the table became guffaws at the king’s last sentence. Even the new Countess of Wiltshire had to hide her smirk behind her goblet.
“Arthur, what about you?” Ambrose directed his words to his next target.
“Me?” Arthur Pole affected a scandalized expression. “Lady Isabel is quite fair, but I think it would be ungentlemanly to ask for her hand in front of her husband.”
This caused everyone even James to chuckle.
Ambrose grinned at his friend. “Not her, you silly lout. When are you getting married?”
“I am afraid I have not met the right woman yet,” admitted Arthur with a shrug. “But I will keep searching, I assure you.”
“What a pity. I was very much hoping for another godson named Ambrose,” Ambrose grumbled.
“I promise you that when I have a son, he shall be named after the King of England,” Arthur declared, rising his goblet to toast Ambrose. Had anyone been watching him carefully, they would have noticed his hand trembled so much that the wine almost spilled.
July 30, 1562
Joanna was pacing. That was Ambrose’s clue that something was terribly wrong. His wife did not pace. They had been married for a decade, and while he liked to think he defrosted her somewhat, she still kept her emotions concealed behind a stoic veneer. For her to be anxious over something was a clear sign that something bad had happened.
She did not speak, she merely thrust a piece of parchment at him, her fingers shaking as she did so. He had never seen her so overcome with emotions before. It was unsettling to say the least.
Ambrose’s blue orbs scanned the words. He blinked, not quite making sense of what he was seeing. Horror began to churn in his belly as he read it again and then again. It couldn’t be, could it?
Queen Joanna of England, greetings.
I hope this letter finds you well. I received your congratulations on the birth of Infante Denis with great joy. Maria and I are thrilled to have welcome our son into the world. Carlos has behaved himself thus far, but I will still be keeping an eye on him, least another incident happens.
Joanna, I write to you, not just to exchange pleasantries. My spies in the Vatican have reported a visit by the Scottish ambassador who asked an audience with Pope Pius IV. Unfortunately, the meeting was done privately, away from listening ears. However, Cardinal Borromeo has learned the reason for it.
The Scottish queen is due to marry again. Her chosen husband is Prince Edward, the Duke of York. They are, with the pope’s blessing, going to press his claim to the English throne, declaring your husband a heretic and a bastard.
Make no mistake, Joanna, I may not care for your husband, but I refuse to allow anyone to say that you married beneath your station nor take away the birthright of your daughters. The Spanish armada will sail to protect England.
Yours, Felipe the Second Rex
“This is not true,” Ambrose declared after his ninth time reading the explosive missive. “This cannot be true.” No. Edward would not do this to him.
“What reason would my brother have for lying?” Joanna demanded.
“I can’t speculate on his motives,” Ambrose snapped, walking over to the fireplace, tearing the letter into bits and then throwing them into it. “Clearly, this is some sort of trick. Ned would not betray me. No matter how angry he is at me, he will come around eventually. He always does.”
“It has been four years since he has even been to court.” Joanna was not sure if she should feel outraged that Ambrose was calling her brother a liar or pity that the king was so willfully blind to what was in front of him. “Every letter, every invitation, you have sent him as been ignored.” She decided not to add that if Edward was not the king’s brother, he would be punished for being so blatantly rude towards his sovereigns.
Ambrose’s expression became baleful, his shoulders slumping. “That is still a long way from trying to usurp my throne.”
Joanna softened a fraction, sympathy flooding her. “Felipe would not have written to us if this was not the truth. He has nothing to gain from this.”
The king let out a sigh, a wave of nausea rushing through him. “I will order Ned to come to court. If he refuses, I will instruct my men to bring him by force. But I know this has to be a misunderstanding. It must be. Not Ned.”
His wife was always so good at keeping her expression guarded. But this time her countenance faltered, allowing the doubt and anxiety he felt to flicker across her face.
August 7, 1562
It was sweltering outside. The summer heat seemed to have intensified early, causing everyone to desperately seek out a cool spot in the palace to escape from the suffocating weather.
There was no escape in the privy chambers where the king and his councilors waited for news. There were two members missing, the Earl of Hertford and the Earl of Salisbury. Coincidentally, no one had seen Arthur Pole either.
Thomas glowered at Guildford when he remembered having gone to the king to suggest searching the Pole residence.
“What are you saying, Thomas?” Ambrose demanded. He and the Marquess of Dorset were alone in the room with the Duke of Norfolk.
“Your Majesty, some months ago, I discovered that Arthur was spying on you for the Earl of Hertford,” Thomas explained, going on to narrate the ploy he had cooked up with his brother to test the other man.
“And why do you not come to me with this before?” interrogated Ambrose, his fists clenched. It seemed that every passing day that his brother did not arrive, he was becoming less sure of his innocence.
“It was circumstantial. I doubted you’d believe me, not without hard proof,” divulged Thomas, wishing very dearly that he had done so. Cathy would have some very choice words for him when she heard about this.
“You could have told me!” Guildford shouted, his face becoming red. “I would have beaten the answers out of that traitor. God dammit, Thomas, you are useless!”
Thomas laughed mirthlessly, his expression incredulous. “You? You would have become convinced that I was trying to frame Arthur. I was a child and you insisted that I was just as guilty as my father and you haven’t stopped in the past decade!”
Guildford’s mouth snapped open and shut like a carp, unable to come up with a retort, something Norfolk had seen as a victory.
The memory of Dorset’s biting words made Thomas’s glare harden. Although Guildford had his back towards him, he could tell by the way Dorset was sitting stiffly and yet determinedly not turning his head, that he could feel it.
A kick to his shin caused Thomas to look away, his head snapping towards the man on the other side. George kept his gaze on his nephew, but slowly shook his head, silently telling Norfolk to cut it out.
Sir Francis Knollys, the Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, entered the chambers, nervously tugging at his chain of office that he wore over his black attire with a white ruff around his neck. His pale complexion was tinged with pink from the heat, his dark eyes were downcast.
His voice came out as a whisper, but it seemed to reverberate off the walls. “Your Majesty, I have received the reports. The Duke of York, the Earl of Hertford, and the Earl of Salisbury have fled. Their servants do not know where they have gone. We shall continue to question them and search every part of the estates----”
Fists hitting the table caused him to fall silent. All eyes darted to the king, expecting a violent outburst. Ambrose had both of his parents’ fiery tempers. The confirmation of his brother’s betrayal would unleash an inferno.
Instead, the king’s expression was blank, his tone deathly cold. “I want every associate, and relative of the Seymores and the Poles questioned and searched.”
Suddenly the conversation he had with his father resounded in his mind.
Queen Jane believes that Edward is your true heir because Elizabeth and I were born when Mary’s mother was still alive.
And that’s why I cannot let Edward go see her. She might make him think the same thing and then when I die you and your brother might start fighting.”
“I want my stepmother arrested on the charges of high treason,” he ordered, his voice still deceptively calm.
“Ambrose, let’s not be too hasty,” George began. It wasn’t that he objected to Jane Seymore being arrested, in fact there was a part of him that felt she should have been jailed for the slander she spewed.
However, questioning so many people would take up time they did not have. It was better just to round by those they knew were close to the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury, question and arrest them.
Ambrose scowled blackly, gritting his teeth as he barked at the Duke of Kent. “Four years, uncle. For four years my brother has seethed and apparently conspired with his uncle the entire time. And yet somehow, you were unaware, despite having people watching them both. How the hell did you not know!”
The Duke of Kent stared down at his hands, shamefaced. “I was getting bad intel. Hertford must have somehow known about the servants you were paying.”
“Or Arthur Pole told him,” Norfolk spoke up from his seat. “He would have been privy to at least the conversations about the Earl of Herford.” George had never mentioned who he was hiring to watch Edward mostly because Ambrose would not hear of it.
“Does it matter?” Guildford asked, finally breaking his silence. He still deliberately avoided Thomas’s gaze. “The fact is we were ignorant of the Duke of York’s plans and now we have a fight on our hands. It is time to prepare for war, my lords.”
Notes:
We didn't get a lot of Ambrose's thoughts, mostly because he is still very much in denial despite how angry he is. He is also in the stage of bargaining, wanting to punish whoever poisoned his brother's mind. He will react more in the next chapter.
As for Thomas Howard, while he knows deep down that his father was guilty of treason, the Earl of Hertford makes for an easy target. He and Cathy will be touched on in later chapters.
I love the irony of Spanish armada helping England instead of attacking it especially when I have had King Philip of Spain be the final enemy in the past two stories.
Chapter 38: In the Eye of the Hurricane
Summary:
The aftermath of Edward's absconding to Scotland leads to dire consequences.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
September 10, 1562
War was inevitable. Everyone knew it. Tension swept over the residents of Greenwich Castle; the halls were filled with whispering courtiers.
“I hear that the devil in Rome has issued a Papal bull, declaring Prince Edward, the true king.”
“Does the Vicar of the Vatican truly believe that Prince Edward will be a good little Catholic after the way he admonished the late Princess Mary for her faith?”
“I suspect he does not care as long as the traitorous wretch can pretend to follow the Catholic rites.”
“Christ’s blood, the hypocrisy is sickening. They would put a mule in a frock and call it God’s representative if someone paid them enough.”
“I hear some of the lords of the North are fleeing to Scotland to pledge their allegiance to the false king.”
“Neville and Percy are leading the traitors.”
“They shall be crushed just as they were when the Pilgrimage of Grace occurred.”
“King Ambrose will destroy them.”
“Even his brother?”
“Especially his brother.”
“Your Majesty, I swear on the lives of my sons that none of my siblings nor I had any knowledge of my parents’ treason.” Anne Seymore was slim woman with delicate features. She was wearing a gown of blue with silver embroidery.
She kneeled at the bottom of the throne; her hands clasped together as she made her passionate plea. Her gaze was downcast, but the way her shoulders shook, Ambrose knew she was crying.
Anne Seymore was perhaps the only one of her family that was not under suspicion despite both of her parents fleeing with Prince Edward. She owed this to being the wife of John Dudley, the second Duke of Northumberland.
Ambrose eyed her coldly. Her blonde hair was tied in a tight bun that was visible in the hood she was wearing. She reminded him too much of his stepmother who had appeared sweet, only to reveal her true self----a jealous, bitter woman. His father’s wife was sitting in a cell in the Tower of London, awaiting her trial.
The king’s scowl grew blacker as he recalled the gall of the other woman, begging for an audience as if he ever wanted to speak to her.
“Perhaps your other siblings are innocent,” he conceded with a bit of reluctance. “But are you telling me your brother knew nothing? He absconded with Katherine Grey without seeking royal permission. Not to mention he is his father’s heir. Do you really expect me to believe he was ignorant?”
The monarch gritted his teeth, his hands clenching at his sides. When he had learned of Lord Beauchamp and Lady Katherine’s elopement, he had half a mind to sent them both to the tower. Unfortunately, he had listened to Guildford who had asked for clemency on the behalf of his wife.
He had been too soft in the past, allowing the slights and insults to pass over him, acting as though they had barely mattered. It was time to remind the world that he was a lion, using his powerful claws and jaws to rip his enemies apart.
A hand touched his skin lightly, and Ambrose’s gaze slid towards the throne next to his. Joanna kept her expression perfectly composed; her stoic mask so smooth even those who knew her for years could not guess what she was thinking. Over the years of their marriage, Ambrose had grown better at seeing the tiny signs in his wife’s body langague that indicated her opinion. She believed the duchess’s proclamation of her siblings’ innocence and was urging him to show empathy.
The monarch let out a heavy sigh. It would do him no good to become paranoid. That had been his father’s fatal error, a weakness that the Earl of Hertford had exploited to his own ends. Besides, his interrogators had gotten little from the younger Edward Seymore. He had been nothing but cooperative albeit extremely nervous. As hard to believe as it was, it seemed that he truly was ignorant of his father’s schemes.
“Very well. Your siblings will be freed from house arrest,” he decreed. “And the Viscount Beauchamp shall be allowed to return to his estates.”
He will be watched, the king added silently. He would take no chances. He could not afford to trust easily especially not with the Seymores.
Anne Seymore’s visage lit up with relief. She curtsied deeply. “Thank you, Your most gracious Majesty.”
With a wave of his hand, Ambrose dismissed the grateful woman, leaving himself and Joanna alone.
“Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment,” Joanna advised wisely.
“I am not angry,” Ambrose murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m hurt and broken-hearted.”
Joanna entwined their fingers. “I cannot imagine how much this betrayal must be hurting you.”
“He was my brother and I trusted him,” the king professed, letting his head hit the back of the chair. “I loved him. Never for a moment did I think he was capable of this.”
“It is hard for anyone to believe that their siblings could be capable of such deceit,” professed the queen, squeezing his hand. “Your subjects love you. Prince Edward’s rebellion is doomed.”
“There are some men who disagree,” Ambrose opined, turning his head to face her. “Some nobles of the North have rallied to my brother’s cause.”
“And they will soon regret their foolishness,” Joanna insisted, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Furthermore, my brother’s armada is set to sail in the spring in your name. He will aid us.”
Ambrose pressed his lips together. “And you are certain of this? With the pope’s bull…” he trailed off.
“Philip views Edward’s bid for your crown an insult to our family’s standing,” Joanna noted. She did not seem perturbed by her brother’s lack of altruistic motives. If anything, she seemed quite pleased. “The pope would not dare to excommunicate him, not when Spain remains the sole country that has not been touched by the reformation, aside from Italy of course.”
The brown-haired monarch decided to ignore the implication that the reformation was a bad thing. Instead, he leaned over the armrests of their thrones to place a chaste kiss on her lips.
“I am lucky to have a wife like you at my side,” he murmured. “I love you, Joanna.”
A smile spread across the queen’s face, painting her normally stoic visage with a warm glow of happiness. “And I love you, Ambrose.” They remained sitting together, basking in their affection.
“You are being stubborn,” Cathy scolded.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?” They were currently in the Howard apartments, playing chess. Or rather, they were sitting at a chess board, but neither had made a move in the past hour.
“You know exactly what I am referring to,” Cathy huffed. She tugged at the heart shaped necklace around her neck, a gift from her late mother. “Guildford is finally ready to move past his silly little grudge and you aren’t giving him a chance.”
The Marquess of Dorset had sent an invitation for Thomas to join him on a hunt. Norfolk had sent a polite but firm refusal a few minutes previously.
Thomas scowled. “It is not enough for him to just reach out. I want an apology for the way he has been treating me like a criminal. When he found out that I was asking Ambrose for permission to marry you, he accused me of trying to steal the throne.”
“I am not saying you aren’t wrong to be angry,” she affirmed with a sympathetic smile. “But I know you, Tom, you want both of your friends back. So if this is his way of burying the hatchet, let him.”
Her husband-to-be pouted playfully. “I hate when you are right.”
Cathy smirked, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Then you must always hate me.”
“Never,” Thomas denied, reaching over to kiss her hand. “I love how opinionated you are. How intelligent you are. And how much you care for my son.”
Catherine Tudor’s features melted at the mentioned of her future stepson. “He is a very sweet boy.”
“Already, he calls you Mama,” noted Thomas, stroking his beard as he recalled his son’s latest letter. “He is most eager for you, Mazie, and Philip to join our household.”
“Philip and Mazie are similarly excited,” reported Cathy. There was a flash of sadness darting across her countenance. “It has been a while since they had something to celebrate.”
Thomas squeezed her hand. Even four years later, the loss of the two women who raised them was strongly felt. He struggled to come up with some comforting words, when his steward entered and informed him that the Marquess of Dorset had sent another message.
Annoyed at the interruption, Thomas took the parchment from him and read it. He let out a low growl when he finished.
“He is the most shameless wretch I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” he proclaimed as he tossed the message on the table, pinching his temples in frustration.
Intrigued, Cathy picked up the parchment. “The hunt is to cheer up Ambrose, stupid,” she read out loud. A giggle bubbled up from her lips, and she hurriedly smashed her hand against her mouth.
Thomas glared at her. “You find this amusing?”
“No.” Cathy struggled to contain herself. “I just find the way he worded it amusing. As though that is supposed to make you want to come.”
“Unfortunately, it does,” Norfolk admitted. “Ambrose needs a distraction. I think we all do.”
Cathy rose from her seat, crossing the floor to lay a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Then we shall go.”
“We?” Thomas repeated, surprised that she would invite herself. His fiancée just crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, unamused. “We,” he relented, knowing this was not an argument he could win.
Hever Castle was a place of comfort. It was a reminder of better days the Boleyns were far more carefree. Whenever he came home from court, George always felt like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Sometimes, he would spend time with his children, enjoying the precious moments before he had to return to work. Other times, he would sit outside, reminiscing about his childhood with his beloved sisters.
At least that is how it usually went. This time, the Duke of Kent could take no reassurance from the hollowed halls of his home. Instead, he locked himself up in his study, scrutinizing his ledger, trying to find a clue within the pages. He was in there for a whole day, only getting up to relight the candles.
He barely registered the door opening, nor did he look up when he heard a scraping on the floor as a chair was dragged to his side.
“George, what are you doing?” Jane Boleyn inquired.
“I must have missed something,” George answered, half to himself. “I had spies in Hertford and York’s household. How could I have missed them panning to go to Scotland?”
“As Thomas noted, it was probably Arthur Pole who warned Herford about your spies,” Jane reminded him, placing her hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t stress yourself over this. Why don’t I get you a drink?”
“No,” George snapped. “I don’t want anything.”
“This worse than I thought,” Jane decided, her eyes wide. Her husband was never one to pass up a goblet of wine. “James.”
Their son must have been waiting outside the door before he came in seconds after his mother called for him.
“Father, please, we are worried about you.” James did not pull up a chair, but he did stand on the left side of the desk, his manner deeply concerned. “You have not eaten or slept for the past thirty hours.”
“I don’t need sleep or food,” George insisted. “I am perfectly fine.” He kept his bleary gaze glued to the pages.
“I wish Anne was here. She’d be able to make him stop,” James muttered as he ran a hand through his brown hair.
Suddenly a hysterical sob reverberated off the walls. It took George a few minutes to realize it came from him. Then it was like a dam burst and he began to weep. "I failed her. I failed her,” he blubbered, burying his face in his wife’s lap. “I was supposed to protect her son and I failed her. Anne, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Because he had not been careful enough, Anne’s son would have an army marching to usurp his throne. He had been so arrogant, believing he had gotten the best of the Earl of Hertford, never imagining that he had tricks up his sleeve.
“You have not failed yet.” Jane stroked her husband’s hair. “We will prevail. I know we will. You Boleyns have an uncanny knack for beating the odds."
James nodded in agreement. “Mother is right, Father. King Ambrose will defeat his brother and the Scottish queen.”
George wished he could share their optimism. But he was too emotional drained to argue. Instead, he allowed his wife to lead him to their bed, chuckling fondly when James tucked him in.
September 19, 1562
Denmark
When Elizabeth opened her eyes, she realized two things. One, she did not remember going to sleep. And two, her husband was at her side, holding her hand tightly. She opened her mouth to ask what happened, only for it all to come flooding back. The explosive missives that had caused her to faint.
Edward had sent her a letter, explaining that he was going to fight for his claim for the English throne, asking for her support. She hadn’t believed it at first, thinking it was some sort of trick by someone who wanted to frame her sweet baby brother.
Then Ambrose’s letter came, and Elizabeth found herself in her worst nightmare: her brothers had turned against each other. They would now be on the other side of the battlefield, ready to kill----
“Bess, Bess, stay with me.” Fredrick’s voice was pleading and frantic. He grasped her chin and turned her face towards him, their gazes connecting. He then grabbed a nearby goblet and pressed it to her lips. “Drink.” It had been a shock to learn from Kat Ashley that his usually strong wife had fainted. He had insisted on immediately running to her side.
For once, Elizabeth meekly obeyed, still shaking in grief. She took a large gulp of the claret, something she instantly regretted as the sloshing liquid seemed to lurch back up her throat.
“I knew this would happen,” she mumbled as she whipped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I knew if Mary and I were not there, they would keep fighting. I should never have left England.”
She froze, realizing the implication of her words and she turned ready to apologize, only for Fredrick to got on the bed and wrap his arms around her.
“Bess, I do not mean to be cruel, but you understand that your brothers are not your responsibility,” her husband uttered gently. “They are grown men. Even if you had no duties here as the Queen of Denmark and Norway, you still could not save them from themselves.”
Elizabeth turned her head, burying her face in his shoulder, taking comfort in his musky scent. She knew he was right. Before Mary had died, things had already been tense between Edward and Ambrose. With both of them refusing to see it from the other’s point of view.
And now it was too late. There was no going back after this. Ambrose and Edward had destroyed their bonds of brotherhood. There was nothing Elizabeth could do about it. For the first time in four years, she was glad Mary was dead for that meant she would not have to witness their brother’s falling out.
“Ned wrote to me,” she murmured. “He asked me to do the right thing and support him when he declares himself king. He wants me to pick a side, his side. How can I do that? How can I choose between my brothers?”
“He has to know that you would not back him, not when your legitimacy as well as Ambrose’s is on the line.” Fredrick’s lips curled into a sneer. “He wants to play victim, decry you as a disloyal sister.”
“No,” denied Elizabeth. “He wants me to choose him over Ambrose. That is all he ever wanted.” Her heart clenched as she thought of that sweet little child who would makes wishes on dandelions with her.
She remembered the time, before Ambrose went to Ludlow, the three of them played together, chasing each other around the Hatfield, driving Lady Bryan mad. They had been so carefree then, so happy.
Now her brothers were fighting, and Elizabeth feared the next time she received a letter, it would be an announcement of one of their deaths.
“I made a promise with Mary to always protect them,” Elizabeth recalled as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I have broken that promise.”
Fredrick stroked her hair. “You did everything you could, Bess,” he soothed. “It is not your fault.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?” contradicted Elizabeth.
The queen cried in her husband’s arms, clutching him tightly as if she feared he would leave her if she let go.
October 2, 1562
Scotland
“You said she’d be safe,” Edward snarled, his fists clenched at his side as he glared at his uncle. “You said that Ambrose would not touch her!”
When the Earl of Hertford had told his nephew his plan to escape to Scotland, Edward had wanted to go to his mother so they could flee together. But Kimbolton was closer to London than it was Scotland and Hertford had feared they would be discovered if they did not leave immediately.
He had assured the Duke of York that Ambrose would not dare arrest his own stepmother, an anointed queen, putting her on trial for treason. However, after making the journey to Edinburgh Castle, they learned that the English king had arrested not only Queen Jane, but several of the Seymores and all the remaining Poles. A message had just arrived announcing that the dowager queen had been found guilty of high treason.
“We had no time,” the earl protested, his expression deceptively calm. He and Ann had left their children behind, believing that they would be safe from prosecution as their parents had deliberately left them in the dark. “Once the Scottish ambassador went to Rome, your brother would have learnt our plans. Getting your mother would have only slowed us down.”
“So you abandoned her like she was a piece of luggage!” Edward shouted. “She was your sister, my mother. Do you care anything for your family?”
He let Uncle Thomas die on false charges, the prince remembered silently. He is willing forsake my mother to the same fate.
“Sacrifices had to be made,” his uncle retorted. “Your mother would understand if it meant making your king.”
“Don’t you dare,” growled Edward, his lips curling in disgust. “My mother is not some ambitious knave like you. She wanted me king because it is my birthright. You were willing to let it be stolen from me until it became clear that Ambrose would not give you any favors.”
Hertford’s countenance twisted into an angry glower. “Watch your tone, you ungrateful brat. After all I have done for you, you will respect me.”
“Uncle, it may shock you, but I am not stupid,” jeered Edward, not backing down. Instead, he stared at the earl as if he were dirt on his boot. “You have nothing. Only I can give you the titles and prestige you so desperately crave. I promise you that if my mother dies, I shall hate you forever and you will gain nothing.”
Before Hertford could retort, Edward span on his heel and stormed out of the chamber, matching down the corridors, overwhelmed with anger and grief.
My brother hates me so much, he is willing to kill an innocent woman just to hurt me, Edward lamented, angry tears prickling behind his eyelids. How had it come to this? Why did Ambrose have to let his jealousy and anger turn him into this unrecognizable monster?
The prince suddenly felt a wave of nausea and he had to lean against the stone wall to steady himself. All he wanted was not to be seen as second best to his golden brother. All he wanted was to have what was his by rights.
But Ambrose was greedy and power-hungry, and done his best to kick Edward to the ground, unwilling to allow him to stand. He had taken everything from his younger brother and now he was planning on murdering the one person who had loved Edward unconditionally.
“I will kill you for this,” Edward vowed through gritted teeth. “I shall not rest until you are dead, you heartless whoreson.”
“Your Majesty, are you well?”
Edward blinked, raising his head. He was surprised to see the Queen of Scots standing there, her ladies behind her. Considering they seemed concerned and not horrified, he guessed they had not overheard his words.
The prince tried to smile charmingly. He had only spoken to his future wife a handful of times. They would be married in a few days’ time. She was not an unpleasant woman even if she had insisted that he convert to Catholicism before they were wed.
As much as it pained me to renounce the truth faith, it had to be done, he mused, annoyance filling him as he thought of how hypocritical it was for the pope to only accept his status as the trueborn son of the late King Henry, only after he declared himself Catholic. Uncle said this will only be a temporary measure, once I am safely on the English throne, I can go back to the true religion.
“Just a bit tired, my lady,” Edward affirmed, offering his arm to her. “Perhaps a stroll with a beautiful woman as company, will do me some good.”
Queen Mary took his arm gladly, flashing him a winning smile. As they walked through the corridors, the Scottish monarch began to point out the historical figures depicted on several tapestries such as the famous William Wallace who had fought against the English for Scottish independence.
Edward only listened with half-an ear, his thoughts drifting to his mother, fearing what would become of her.
I will avenge you, Mother, he promised silently.
October 31, 1562
England
It was cold in the Tower of London. The winter chill seemed to have started early. And yet Ambrose felt nothing. He felt nothing as he watched the traitors climb the scaffold, said their last words, and then were behead by the axe. In truth he barely even saw them, his eyes for the last one fated to die.
Jane Seymore wore a blue petticoat over her simple grey gown, trimmed in fur and with a mantle of ermine. Despite her modest dress, she still held herself like a queen. She did not shake as her ladies did when each of the traitors died nor did she cry out. She only bowed her head, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
Ambrose had to admit he was surprised to see her so demure. When she was first arrested, she had begged him for an audience, sending him letter after letter, pleading with him to speak to her. When the judges at her trial had pronounced her guilty, she had dropped in a dead faint and had been hysterical for days.
It seemed that she had come to accept her fate.
At last it was Jane’s turn, and she climbed the scaffold with a demure mask. “Good lords and gentle ladies, I come before you to die.” As she began her speech, the dowager queen’s gaze locked on Ambrose. “I am guilty of the crimes I have been charged with, but I swear it was out of true belief that my son’s birthright was stolen from him.”
There crowd jeered at her so loudly that she had to wait until it had died down to continue speaking.
“But that is not the worst wrong I have committed,” Jane professed, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I neglected two motherless children, pushing them away instead of taking them into my heart like a good stepmother ought. I know that it is too late for forgiveness, but I ask for it anyway.”
Beside him, Joanna grasped Ambrose’s hand, instinctively knowing he needed her strength to keep him steady.
“I know you owe me nothing, but as a mother, I cannot leave this world without prevailing on your mercy for my son, your brother,” the dowager queen implored as she knelt down. “I beseech you, Your Majesty, spare Edward. I call upon the love you once had for him. Spare him for he is your flesh and blood. He is your brother. Blame me for his actions for it was my mistakes that caused him to go down this path.”
She laid her head on the block. “God save the king!” With those final words, the axe fell, and Jane Seymore was dead.
In the end, although he would not mourn her, Ambrose could not help but feel a little pity.
Notes:
I know this will be an unpopular opinion, but Jane has always been a tragic figure in this fic. While she did a lot of things wrong, she was never intentionally malicious.
Edward knows his uncle is using him, but he also knows that he is his best chance of getting a crown hence why he listens.
On a less serious note, Guildford was just trying to save face, the invitation really was a peace offering. Unfortunately, Thomas wants an actual apology which is kinda understandable.
Chapter 39: Once I Called You Brother
Summary:
Tensions continue to boil as England and Scotland prepare for war.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
November 11, 1562
Scotland
“He killed my mother.” The words were cold and detached.
King Edward sat on his ebony throne, wearing a custom made jeweled encrusted crown, a mere knock off of St. Edwards’ crown. He was dressed in a purple and gold ensemble, fitting of his royal status. And yet instead of a glorious ruler, he was a mere pawn in other people’s games, powerless to protect those he loved from his enemies.
He stared down at the envoy who had brought this message, his expression unreadable. He had known the minute he had learned his mother had been arrested for high treason, what the outcome would be. No judge would dare declare the king’s enemy innocent even though she was an anointed queen.
And my mother! Edward proclaimed as he clenched his fists, closing his eyes to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to break down like a baby in front of so many people. He murdered her, just to punish me.
He had hoped and prayed that for once Ambrose might show some basic decency and decide that his former stepmother’s fate would be lifetime imprisonment or exile. But no, just as he always did, Ambrose acted with cruelty and vileness, seeking to hit his brother where it hurt.
His poor mother, the dowager queen of England, had been forced to humiliate herself, confessing to “treason” in hopes of convincing his despicable brother to spare Edward. Even in death Jane Seymore only thought of her son. Ambrose had murdered her when her only crime had been loving her child, hating that his inheritance had been stolen from him.
I will never forgive him for this, Edward vowed inwardly before addressing the envoy, “What are my brother’s demands?” He suspected that Ambrose had sent him a command to surrender, perhaps full of insults and promises of more relatives being murdered on false charges.
“He has none.” William Howard, Baron of Effingham, was a tall, white-haired man in his sixties. He had a grim countenance, framed by his pointed beard. He wore a dark blue and red doublet with a high white collar. He had acted as the English ambassador to Scotland for years. Now thanks to his predecessor's failure to find out about the Scottish plot, he had once again been appointed to the position. He coldly beheld Edward, not even bothering to disguise his disgust. “You have declared war and he will answer it with the might of England.”
The king laughed mirthlessly, wondering if Ambrose expected him to be afraid or intimidated. “The might of England? Several nobles have voiced their support for me, racing to my side with their soldiers.”
The baron seemed unconcerned. “Traitors and miscreants,” he scoffed. “They have been attained, their lands and holdings have been stripped from them and given to more loyal men. As I stand here, my liege, the true ruler of England, is making sure to curtail any rising of the North.”
“How dare you speak to my husband so derisively!” Mary snarled from Edward’s side, sitting on a throne of her own. She bristled in anger, her eyes flashing dangerously. “He is a king, and you should address him with respect.”
Edward reached over and patted her hand, swallowing his own rage, speaking in a sickly-sweet voice, “Now, now, dear, let us not blame the ambassador. I am sure it is his master’s fault for not training him properly.”
This caused several titers among the throng of courtiers watching this scene.
William Howard’s expression didn’t crack, he merely turned on his heel and left the audience chamber, not even waiting for a dismissal. His insult could not have been any clearer if he had chosen to spit in the direction of the monarchs.
Once he left, Edward ordered the room to be cleared, leaving only himself, his wife, her half-brother, and his uncle to remain behind. Away from the scrutiny of his new subjects, the king allowed himself to let out the rage he was feeling.
“He killed my mother!” he roared at the former Earl of Hertford. “I told you he would, and you didn’t listen to me!”
“As I have already explained, we had no time,” his uncle countered. “We had to flee at once. We could not make a detour.” His words were toneless as if he were speaking of a stranger, instead of his sister.
“You told me a lot of things,” Edward remembered. “You said that neither Spain nor the Holy Roman Empire would dare go against the papal bull, proclaiming me king. You said that France would gladly support me. Yet King Philip is sailing to England’s aid. And where is France!”
“Husband, I fear France is dealing with their own problems,” Mary spoke up, her words gentle. “My uncle is trying to convince the regent of King Charles to support us, but they are dealing with their own war and cannot afford to send aid.”
Ned spun around, his face red with fury. “Your grandfather attacked England on the request of King Louis even though it meant breaking the Treaty of Perpetual Peace. He got excommunicated for his troubles. And you are saying that they cannot spare a single soldier to return the favor?” He suspected that the real reason for the lack of aid was that the regent of King Charles, the dowager queen of France, was holding a grudge over the broken betrothal between him and her daughter.
To Mary’s credit, she did not back down from her position, nor she get upset at him lecturing her. “I have told my uncle that the bastard usurper has plans on supporting the Huguenots. I know Queen Catherine; she will not allow her son to be threatened.”
Her husband beheld her for a moment, before nodding his head in understanding. Although he had his doubts, he recognized that Mary had grown up in the French court and would know better than he about the politics.
“Edward, I knew it was a gamble the minute I started plotting,” his uncle uttered. “I cannot bring your mother back, but I will fight until you are on the throne. Spain might be on our side, but the English and Irish Catholics are. They will fight for us, I swear to you.”
“As will Scotland,” the Earl of Moray put in, conviction ringing in his voice.
King Edward allowed a smile to cross his face, inundated with hope. You hated me so much, you wanted a war, brother, and you shall get one. You took everything from me, and now I will never stop until I have destroyed everything you ever held dear.
February 28, 1563
England
Four years ago, King Maximilian and his entourage had arrived in England. Ambrose had been surprised how much he got along the fellow monarch, having come to believe that all the Hapsburgs would look down at him because of his mother. In truth, Maximilian and he had a lot in common, from their views on religion to their sometimes fraught relationship with their conservative wives.
From the minute King Philip arrived, Ambrose knew that history would not repeat. He was not sure if the Spainard disliked him for disputed legitimacy, his religion, or simply because of the horrible way he had treated Joanna on their wedding night.
Despite this he did not show a trace of his dislike, greeting Ambrose with cold politeness, although he skipped the pleasantries. He and his entourage settled into their lodgings.
After the afternoon meal, Philip, two of his advisors, and the Spanish ambassador arrived at the council chambers to begin their war meeting. On the table was a map of the world and as he spoke, the Spainard jabbed at the ports.
“My armada shall sail from Cadiz in a months’ time,” he reported, his English words heavily accented. He had a slight figure, round face, a protruding chin, and small light blue eyes. He was dressed head to toe in black with the only other colors coming from his white ruff and sleeves. “When they arrive in Tilbury, I’ll meet with them, and we shall sail on to Leith.”
Ambrose traced the path from Cadiz to Leith. “How long will that take?” he questioned, trying to do the calculations in his head. Unfortunately, he had only traveled from London to as far as John Dudley’s estates in Northumberland.
“If the winds are good, we should arrive sometime in May,” Philip answered. “Early June the latest.”
His English counterpart nodded, his face twisting in thought. “With the Spanish Armada attacking Scotland, our navy should focus on forming a blockade against France and Ireland. Meanwhile we will concentrate our land forces on marching to the Scottish border.”
“Has France answered Scotland’s call for aid?” Guildford inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“No, but it won’t be long before they do,” George speculated grimly. “There are rumors going around that Ambrose is helping the Huguenots. No doubt they were whispered by the Queen of Scots and her consort.”
“I would not be too anxious about the French,” Philip argued in a bland tone. “From what I have heard, the majority of the nobles are concerned that supporting a younger brother, regardless of the shaky legitimacy of the elder, sets a bad precedent. And as England is well aware, the French value their line of succession very much.”
Ambrose’s lips twitched upwards, wondering if the Spanish king had worded that sentence deliberately as a veiled insult. He was obviously one of the people who viewed the English king as a heretical bastard and was merely helping him because of the slight to his family’s name. It was enough for him to risk excommunication, going against the pope’s official decree. However, it seemed that not even the pompous Spanish monarch was above getting his subtle jabs in.
“While I concede with Your Majesty’s point, I still think it best to err on the side of cation,” proclaimed Ambrose. After all, he had been blindsided far too many times in his life to fully trust anyone. He had also been discussing with his uncle the possibility of being betrayed by King Philip and what to do in that case.
As for France, he would put out feelers out to see if they wanted an alliance. He did have two unattached daughters who could marry Catherine de Medici’s sons---if not the king than one of her younger two.
And when it came to Ireland, the Duke of Ormonde had his orders to assure the rebellious lords that England would allow them to keep their religious freedom, and even throw a free more bonuses to keep them happy. Little freedom that his brother certainly would not give them. He also made sure that Edward’s remarks about Catholics were well known throughout the country.
As for the English traitors, well, he had been conflicted. Thomas had begged and pleaded for him not to take out his anger on their country’s Catholics. Joanna had also subtly expressed her belief that those who followed her faith would be more likely to side with Edward if Ambrose acted too harshly. Those who were of the Protestant faith, obviously disagreed, believing that it would be naïve to think that Catholics wouldn’t support Edward despite his disparaging remarks over the true faith.
In Ambrose’s opinion, both sides had a point. He knew that there were fanatic Catholics and well-meaning Catholics (his stepmother for example) who believed Edward was the true king and he was not just a bastard but heretic. However, there were some Catholics who were more moderate and pragmatic and as long as God did not express His displeasure or if they weren’t displeased, they would follow their king despite how they felt about his religion or his legitimacy.
I will watch them closely, he declared silently. But as long as they are loyal, they shall remain unmolested.
Ambrose was roused from his thoughts by a knocking on the door. “Come.” His steward entered, seeming a bit flustered. “A messenger begs for an audience. He says he has urgent news from Scotland.”
The king had a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach as he nodded for the man to ride in. Either his brother was dead, had found a new ally, or was soon to be a father. It broke his heart that the former was actually the least upsetting option.
The messenger’s appearance was scruffy and dirty, indicating he had ridden to London as fast as he could. The fact that he didn’t even bother to make himself presentable did not bode well for the news he was about to impart.
“What is it?” Ambrose demanded before he had even bowed, not wanting to waste time on pointless courtesies.
“The Queen of Scots is with child,” the man announced.
All eyes flew to the red-haired monarch, expecting him to loose his temper or fly into a rage like his father would. After all, it was bad enough that his brother was mounting a war against him, but if he were to have a niece or nephew, then that meant as innocent as the child was, there would soon be another pretender to his throne. Instead of raging, Ambrose was quiet, hating what his brother had been and what was going to happen because of his actions.
March 3, 1563
Scotland
Queen Mary of Scots lounged on a velvet red sofa, her head propped up with a pillow as she read The Life and Times of Catalina de Aragon: the Spanish Pomegranate. Or at least she tired to, her thoughts plagued her.
Her husband had beamed at her when she told him she was pregnant. But his joy had not reached his eyes. Oh, he was pleased at becoming a father, she was certain of that. However, she was not the one he wanted to be carrying his child.
“Jane Dudley,” she whispered her rival’s name as if it were a curse. Much like Anne Boleyn had been to her late mother-in-law, the Marquess of Dorset was a constant cloud hanging over her head, stealing her husband’s affections without even being present.
She had heard whispers of Lady Jane Dudley nee Grey, of how Edward had hoped to marry her, only for his plans to be thwarted either by the king or the lady herself. Instead, she married Lord Guildford Dudley, a love match, or a deliberate political move by the Boleyn faction, depending on who you asked.
It could not be clearer that Edward still loved her. On their wedding night, he dreamt of the Lady Jane, calling for her so loudly Mary was certain that the entire castle could hear him.
Since they were wed, Edward was proving to be nothing more than a cad. He had gone to mass only a handful of times and she was aware that he sent many letters to that Jane woman, sulking weeks on end when she never replied.
“He is obsessed with her,” the queen muttered. “He does not even have the decency to pretend otherwise.”
“Do not fret, Your Majesty,” Mary Beaton soothed, having heard her mistress’ comment. She was a plump woman with fair hair that contrasted her black dress with a high collar. “Once you have birthed a son, he will forget all about that English tart.”
“I can’t see why he would waste his time over that strumpet,” Mary Seaton sniffed haughtily. She was thin as a rail, dark haired with a pale complexion. She was in the midst of sorting through the linen and took the opportunity to give the sheet a rigorous shake as if it were the king. “Everyone knows she spread her legs for his brother.”
Mary grimaced as she recalled that particular rumor that had been floating around the French court. Some people were convinced this was the beginning of the end for the royal marriage of England. That King Ambrose, much like his father would seek to rid himself of his wife who only offered him a single daughter. She would have loved to have seen those people’s faces when they learned that instead of riding himself of a wife and disinheriting his daughters, Ambrose named Princess Joan as his heir.
He was so desperate to keep his brother away from the throne, he was willing to leave it to his daughter, the queen noted as she absentmindedly turned a page in her book. He let his greed and hatred blind him. He will die for it.
Not realizing that her mistress’ thoughts had strayed, Lady Seaton enthused, “Once you have had your son, the king shall forget the English whore. You two make a handsome couple,”
“Much to Darnley’s displeasure,” Beaton giggled. “I heard he wept once he heard that he was too late to sweep you off your feet.”
Despite herself, Mary grinned, remembering the dashing young son of the Earl of Lennox. They had danced a galliard at her wedding. “If only I had met him first,” she lamented overdramatically.
The three of them tittered before Seaton and Beaton returned to their tasks, leaving Mary to rest her book onto her still flat stomach, imaging what he life would be like in a few years. Would she and Edward be ruling all of Britain, happily in love as she had long fantasized, or would she be forever wishing for what could have been, unhappily married to man who cared little for her?
Edward was unaware of his wife’s unhappiness, instead focusing on glowering at the letter in his hands.
To the simple-minded swine, greetings.
My wife is too kind and courteous to tell you to leave us alone. I however am not. Unless you don’t want that pretty blond head of yours to be smashed like a melon, I would suggest you stop bothering us.
It is bad enough that you betrayed your brother, your flesh and blood, you have put suspicion on every person related to you and interacted with you. Were it not for me, my brothers would be languishing in a tower cell with the rest of your cousins. Do you not realize that by sending Jane letters you have put her in danger? Were she not someone Ambrose saw as a sister, I have no doubt rumors would be flying that she is your spy or something of that nature.
How can I expect someone as shortsighted and delusional as you to understand the complexity of the situation you put us in? If it weren’t for my father’s friendship with the Duke of Kent and my own friendship with King Ambrose, myself and Jane would be among those who got their heads cut off.
But let me digress, for in the end, that is not my main point. Stop hounding my wife with your messages. She has read none of them and the next time you send a letter, the messenger will be ordered to return the letter to you, unopened.
Sincerely, Lord Guildford Dudley, Marquess of Dorset, Earl of Leicester, husband of Jane Dudley nee Grey. Subject of King Ambrose of England, the one true ruler.
Edward ground his teeth as he tore up the missive into little bits and threw the shreds into the fireplace. Fury coursed through his veins like lighting. He had wondered Jane had never written him back. Now it was clear, her despicable husband had been the cause. Either destroying his letters so she would never see them or whispering poison about the former in her ears.
He will be the first to die, Edward snarled to himself. He would kill every one of his brother’s friends and council members. He would send a message to the hypocrite in Spain by beheading his bitch of a sister. As for Ambrose….
Edward paused, suddenly overcome with doubt. Could he really kill his brother? His uncle told him he would have to make hard choices. To keep his crown safe, he needed to neutralize his enemies. He didn’t say it out right, but it was clear by his tone, Ambrose needed to die.
He killed my mother, he took everything from me, he always treated me with disrespect, Edward reminded himself. But he is my brother.
The king swallowed thickly, resting his arm on the mantlepiece as he wondered how it could have come to this. How their rivalry had gotten so bad that they both were willing to destroy each other.
The worst part was knowing that no matter the outcome, he would never be happy again. If he won, he would be married to a Catholic shrew unable to have the woman he truly desired. His beloved sister would never speak to him again, hating him for what he had done. It would take years for him to gain back any semblance of trust.
“I have come to far to stop now,” Edward declared, focusing his on the hatred for his brother, hoping it would give him strength.
This would not end until one of them died and he would not let be that heretical callous bastard who had murdered his mother.
England
Hever was lovely in the spring. The meadow had plenty of beautiful wildflowers sprouting up. The children ran through the grass, chasing each other as the adults sat on the patio, sipping wine as they enjoyed the cool breeze.
“My wife says I am too old for battle,” George groused as he leaned back in his chair. “That I have no business going to war at my age. As if I was an invalid. I am only forty.”
The two women on either side of him, burst into laughter. “George, you are sixty.”
“Still fifty-nine for another year,” snapped Kent, pouting. “Besides, I can wield a sword better than any of the younglings. “
“George, you have done enough,” Anne told him, reaching out to pat his arm. “You have done so much for my children, protecting them, keeping me alive to them, loving them when I couldn’t. I can never thank you enough.”
“You need to rest eventually, sweet brother,” Mary argued.
George’s playfulness evaporated like morning dew in the summer heat. “I can’t rest yet. I have to see this through. Edward Seymore got so far because I got cocky. I must make amends. I must protect Ambrose.”
“One day, you shall have to let him go,” Anne opined. “He is a grown man now, capable of fighting his own battles.”
“I will the next time,” he promised. “Until then, I shall protect your legacy, Anne.”
Anne shook her head at him before grabbing Mary’s hand. They both rose from their seats. “Don’t take too long, little brother. We miss you.”
“We are waiting for you,” Mary put in as they disappeared into the sunlight.
“George, wake up!” Jane gruffly demanded, wondering why she had not chosen to sleep in her own bed. Through the darkness, she watched as her husband blinked blearily, returning to the waking world. “You were talking so loudly in your sleep, I feared you were having a nightmare.”
Her husband yawned, his eyes adjusting to dark room. “No. Not a nightmare. I was talking to Anne and Mary. They agree with you that I am too old.”
“Good to see they still have sense,” Jane commented with a smirk, fluffing her pillow before lying back down. “I always did like them the best.”
It took a moment for George’s hazy mind to realize what his wife had said. “And just what do mean by that?”
“Just go to sleep, George,” Jane said softly. “Tomorrow is another day for you to work yourself to death.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were concerned about me,” Kent chuckled, turning over so he was facing her back.
Jane shifted in the bed, moving over towards him. “I don’t know what you mean. You are pushing sixty and you are running off to war, acting like you are in the prime of your life. If you wish to die, I certainly won’t stop you.”
George smiled as he wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll be careful.”
“You better be,” her wife uttered. “Otherwise, all the wine sellers will weep at their loss of coin.”
The Duke of Kent let out a belly laugh at that, kissing his wife’s head before they both drifted off to sleep, enjoying the peace for the time that it lasted.
Notes:
Okay, guys, my original plan was for Joanna to have a son, now I kinda want Joan to succeed. I would like to hear your thoughts. Which would you prefer?
Chapter 40: To the Victor go the Spoils
Summary:
The war of two brothers ends with bloodshed and far reaching consequences. The fallout is painful for the remaining siblings.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 13, 1563
“This is all my fault,” Princess Joan murmured. She was tall for her age, having grown quickly over the years, blossoming from a sprout to a pretty flower, dressed gown of black and white silk with golden embroidery.
The atmosphere in Hatfield had been rife with tension. The servants tried to pretend that all was well, but it was clear by their strained smiles, anxious manners, and the hushed whispers which tended to trail off whenever she was near, that something was amiss.
At first Joan had demanded to know what was going on. She was her loving father’s eldest heir which meant her word was almost law. She was quickly debased of that notion with her governess reminding her that pride was a sin and that neither her father nor her mother would stand for any tantrum throwing.
Undeterred the princess had gone with another tactic. Like a spy on a mission of espionage she snuck around the castle listening to the snatches of conversation that she could. Sometimes she would coax a few answers from her maids by asking them seemingly innocuous questions.
It worked perhaps too well for now Joan knew the truth. Her papa, the man who had placed her on his knee and promised her own kingdom, was off fighting a war. A war against his half-brother, Prince Edward, the former Duke of York. And it was all her fault.
She remembered the day when her papa had come to see her, taking her in his arms and sitting her on his lap.
“My sweet girl, soon you will be off to Ludlow,” he informed her. “You’ll get your very own little court to run. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Papa, very much,” she replied, cocking her head curiously as something puzzled her. “But is Ludlow not for the Prince of Wales?” She knew from her mama and her governess that her father needed a son, one who would be called the Prince of Wales to signify that he was the future king of England.
“Yes it is, my clever little girl,” Ambrose agreed, his blue eyes sparkled with mischievous delight and a grin seemed to slit his face in half. “But if your mama doesn’t have a son, you will be my heir instead. Consequently, you must be ready to rule after me.”
Joan had been aglow with happiness, kissing her father’s cheeks in appreciation. She knew from her lessons that there had only been one reigning queen in England’s history. The reign of the ill-fated Matilda or Maud was well over four centuries ago.
But Empress Maud had been a woman grown at that time, already wedded and bedded twice, never expected to be anything more than a wife and mother. But in Joan’s case, she was still a girl, young enough to be learn how to be a good ruler. She would be molded into a wise ruler just as her father had before her.
“I will be the finest queen England has ever seen,” she proclaimed, straightening, and raising her chin high. Her sharp gaze was full of fierce determination. For some reason this seemed to cause her father to become misty-eyed.
“You will do your aunts proud,” he enthused, before tickling her, causing her to melt into giggles.
That memory now rang bittersweet. Her joy in knowing how much her dearest papa loved and honored her was now tainted by the knowledge that just as there was for Empress Maud, the disputed queen regnant of England, a war was being fought for her inheritance. Countless lives would be lost all because of her.
“If I were a boy, Uncle Edward would never have betrayed Father,” Joan lamented as she stared up at the figurine of the Virgin Mary, begging him to intercede on her parents’ behalf, give them the boy they needed.
I don’t need to be queen. Therefore, if England require a son, then I will gladly step aside, she swore. There was a part of her that was angry at her estranged uncle for daring to betray his flesh and blood. She was not so naïve to think he would stop if she had been a boy, but surely, he would not have even dared to think of treason had her father had a son.
“You’re wrong.” Seemly appearing out of nowhere, her half-brother was at her side, startling her. Now a boy on the cusp of manhood, John was a head taller than his sister. He was dressed a dark blue ensemble.
“Wrong about what?” The mere presence of her older brother soothed Joan’s troubled mind almost instantly. They were less than two years apart and it had made them as close as twins. Even when Joan grew old enough to understand what bastard meant, and why people always seemed to be weary around him as if they feared he was a wolf pretending to be a sheep.
I don’t care what people think, she proclaimed. John is my brother. He is the Elizabeth to my Ambrose. If I am queen, he will be my fiercest defender. I know this.
“About the Duke of York,” answered John, his gaze darting around the nursery, making sure no one was nearby, listening in. “I heard my uncles talking when they were visiting my mother. They said that the Duke of York always resented our father. He believed that our father constantly slighted him. You being heir over him was merely the last straw.”
“But if I wasn’t a girl---” Joan began, biting her lip in fear she might burst into tears. Her mother always professed
“Then he would have found another excuse,” he interjected, placing his hand on her arm. “None of this is your fault. It lays solely on the shoulders on the Duke of York. My Uncle Guildford says he has always been a bad man. Uncle Gilly is an excellent judge of character.”
Joan raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Lord Norfolk would disagree.” Kitty Culpeper, daughter of Sir Thomas Culpeper and Kitty Howard was one of her closest companions. Ever since her mother’s reconciliation with the Howard family, she had been quick to inform Joan on the latest gossip.
John blushed. “Well, he isn’t perfect.”
The princess opened her mouth to retort only for it to snap closed when she heard the herald shouting for everyone to make way for the queen of England.
At once the nursery was a flurry of activity. The maids who had been milking about in the corner suddenly snapped to attention, smoothing out their skirts and hurrying around to make sure the children were presentable. One woman even did a half diving save to grab a toy block sitting out on the floor just before doors were flung open.
The queen swept in like a graceful swan, decked in black silk dotted with glistening pearls. She oozed with a stoic elegance that Joan envied. She seemed to cause the entire room to fall in silent awe, even her own daughters were caught under her spell.
John, as he usually did, took a step back, keeping his head bowed, not daring to look up. He always acted shy around the queen, unwilling to appear too familiar with her or her daughters.
“Where are Isabel and Anne?” Joanna questioned Mistress Grey, Joan’s governess. She was a slight woman with an almond shaped face. She was a distant cousin of both of the Dorsets.
“They are napping, my lady,” Mistress Grey answered with a curtsy. “I can bring them here if you like.”
“Yes, do so,” commanded Joanna, her expression controlled. If she was at all concerned about her husband and her brother currently making their way to Scotland, to push back an invading army, her angular features betrayed nothing. “And I want their things to be packed along with Joan’s possessions.”
“Right away, Your Majesty.”
“I wish to speak to my daughter alone,” Joanna professed as she moved over to a window seat, patting the spot next to her.
John gave Joan’s hand a squeeze before letting himself be ushered out with the ladies of the nursery, leaving the princess to sit by her mother’s side.
“Will Isabel and Anne be coming to Ludlow with me?” Joan questioned, suspecting this to be the case.
“The council and I decided it would be best if you three were to share a household,” Joanna replied simply.
She did not add that this was in case they needed to sprint the children out of England. However, Joan was old enough to come to that conclusion. Her anxiety must have been palpable, her mother placed a finger under chin and lifted her so their eyes would meet.
“Who are you?” Joanna asked.
Joan’s visage scrunched up in confusion. “I’m your daughter.”
Her mother’s eyes crinkled with adoration and her lips twitched upwards for a moment. “True. But not what I was looking for. Who are you?”
The princess searched her mother’s face for a clue, but as usual the queen was impassive. She chewed on her lip for a moment before answering, “I am Princess Joan Tudor, daughter of King Ambrose of England, and his wife, Queen Joanna.”
“Correct,” Joanna praised. “You are also the granddaughter of King Henry the Eighth, and Emperor Charles. Great-Granddaughter of King Fernando of Aragon, Queen Isabel of Castile and King Henry the Seventh. Can you tell me what all of them have in common?”
Joan mulled it over, trying to figure out what her mother wanted to hear. After several minutes, she decided to go with the obvious response, “They were all monarchs in their own right.”
“That is very true,” the queen agreed. “They also fought for what they wanted. They were fierce, never backing down from a fight. For whatever their faults were, they never stopped fighting for what was theirs. To be a queen, you need the heart of a warrior, steadfast and unyielding.”
Joan understood what her mother was telling her. “Do you think I can?”
“My opinion matters not,” Joanna informed sternly. “What you feel is more important? Do you think you have what it takes to carry on the legacy of your predecessors, ruling England with justness and intelligence, ready to defend it when it is threatened?”
“I do.” Joan’s voice was more confident now, rallied by her mother’s speech. She was the descendant of adept monarchs, she would not let them down.
The queen was not a woman who gave hugs, but she tenderly touched her daughter’s face, stroking her cheek. “You shall make us proud. Now, I am trusting you to look after your sisters while you are at Ludlow. Take care of them.”
“I will, Mother.” She then bit her lip again, knowing what she was about to say would not welcome. “May I make a request if it pleases you?”
Joanna raised an eyebrow. “You may make one but that does not mean I shall grant it.”
Joan groaned inwardly, having half hoped that her mother would agree without even knowing what the request was. She should have known better. Regardless, she had to try. “I would like John to come with us.” Her mother’s countenance did not even crack, only scrutinizing her daughter as if she were trying to figure something out.
“He’s my half-brother,” Joan pressed on when her mother did not flat out say no. “I think him staying with us will keep us distracted, I mean Isabel and Anne. I know you don’t like him---”
“I don’t dislike him,” interjected Joanna, putting a hand up to silence her daughter. “Regardless, if you believe that he will keep your sisters occupied then he will accompany you to Ludlow.”
“Thank you, Mama,” Joan proclaimed. She was so happy she forgot herself for a moment and threw her arms around her mother’s waist, hugging her tightly.
Before she could pull away and apologize for her unseemly behavior, her mother embraced her, kissing the top of her head. “You be a good girl, Joan. I know you shall make us proud.”
Joan struggled not to burst into happy tears at those words, instead snuggling into her mother’s dress, closing her eyes as the warm scent washed over her like a cool breeze.
May 21, 1563
The march through Northumberland was done in silence for it was still the early morning hours and the men had barely finished breaking their fast before they were forced to break camp to continue their journey. Collums of grim-faced men as they headed towards enemy territory. The only sounds were the hoofbeats on the road.
The farmers in the field and some travelers on the road would stop to shout blessings to the king’s army. It had been the same since they had began their march and would continue until they had reached their destination.
By whatever twist of fate, today, Guildford found himself riding beside the Duke of Norfolk. The nearly created Duke of Newcastle kept sneaking looks at his former friend, wondering whether he should speak up or not. He had already tried to extend the olive branch several times but was rebuffed. When he complained to Ambrose and Jane, separately, they had matter of factly told him that Thomas would forgive him once he actually apologized.
“Is there something the matter?” Norfolk hissed, just loud enough to be heard over the thundering hooves. He was staring straight ahead but it was clear his words were directed towards Guildford.
“Nothing.” He coughed, taking his hand off the reign to scratch his neck. “Just thinking.”
Thomas’s glare was as pointed as a spear. “We are marching off to war. This might be our last conversation. If you have something to say to me, just say it.”
Guildford’s temper spiked. “I’m sorry if I am not fast enough for you.”
“Oh, so you can say it,” Thomas mocked. “I thought you were incapable of apologizing.”
“Well, I am,” Guildford snapped, half hoping this would satisfy the duke. Unfortunately, Thomas clearly was not planning on making this easy for him.
“You’re what?” questioned Norfolk with a quirked eyebrow.
“Sorry,” Newcastle whispered.
“I didn’t quite catch that.” Thomas’s manner was now very smug. “Would you mind repeating that?”
Guildford glowered, and he had half a mind to tell the duke to forget it. But deep down he knew he’d never forgive himself if one of them died without them burying the hatchet. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you. You did not deserve it. Are you happy now!”
The Howard man flashed a toothy grin. “I would say so. It took you long enough, but I suppose it shall do.”
Guildford just shifted in his saddle returning his gaze to the road. “I don’t know how your wife puts up with you.”
Thomas threw back his head and laughed. “I was thinking the same thing about you. Lady Jane must be a miracle worker that she managed to tame you.”
Newcastle touched the raggedy old handkerchief, still dirty with dots of blood, he had tucked in his armor. A piece of his wife he would always carry with him.
“You’ll have to ask her,” he replied, good naturedly, smiling at the thought of his beloved Jane.
I shall return to you, my darling, he vowed silently. The Prince of Prats tried and failed to keep us apart. He won’t succeed this time.
They were soon invigorated by the thoughts of their loved ones waiting for them at him, uplifting their spirits for the battle to come.
May 30, 1563
The Spanish were burning Edinburgh and the English were marching on Ancrum. Edward was no expert, but it seemed like they were trapped between a rock and a hard place.
It doesn’t matter, the king professed silently, gripping the pommel of his sword. Once my brother dies, his allies will lay down their arms for they will not want to be ruled by half-Spanish brat and her whore of a mother.
The plan was simple: send a small force to lure the English forces down to Palace Hill, where the Scottish army would be waiting to ambush them. The terrain of the hill would be too uneven for them to be able to turn and regroup on the top. The pikemen would send the English cavalry in disarray.
They would break the English army and destroy the scattered troops. He prayed that he would be able to be able to face his brother, killing him before he could even attempt to rally his army for his lost cause.
“Where the hell are they?” Edward demanded, staring up at the hilltop with an impatient scowl. He was not the only one. Many men were growing restless as the minutes ticked by and there was not a sign of one English soldier.
His uncle reached over and grabbed his shoulder, sensing he was about to dart forward. “They might have sensed it was a trap and are hoping we will charge at them, loosing our advantage.”
“So we wait, standing around like idiots until my brother decides to take a chance!” Edward sneered, fury overwhelming him. His revenge was so close he could taste it. How dare Ambrose stall his victory.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Pole uttered, patting his agitated horse. “How could they have known it was a trap? Someone must have informed them.”
The Earl of Hertford shot him an annoyed glower. “Would you like to check our troops for the traitor? Eventually they will come. Even if they think it is a trap, they will come. And we shall not loose the advantage.”
Edward ground his teeth but heeded his uncle’s words. They stood they at the far bank of the hill, listening for the sound of the enemy, but there was nothing. The sun was beginning to set, and the king was growing tired of this. He was about to order his men forward when he head shouting, the sound of hoofbeats pounding the ground.
“Look!” Someone exclaimed. “They are flanking us!”
Instead of crossing over the hill, it seemed that Ambrose had choosing to reroute his army, finding a pathway that would take them to side of the army hiding in the far side of the hill. It could not be more obvious that they had known exactly where the Scottish army was hiding.
Pole was right. There was a traitor, but who? Edward pondered before turning his horse and spurning it forward, racing straight for his brother, determined to kill him or die trying.
To his surprise, Ambrose bellowed for his army to halt before jumping of his mount, bellowing, “Come on, Ned, just you and me!” He drew his sword in anticipation.
“Your Majesty, don’t!” the Earl of Hertford shouted, but his nephew ignored him.
“I shall avenge my mother, you whoreson,” Edward roared, bearing his teeth as he too leapt from his horse, blinded by rage.
Once again, his brother chose to use dirty tricks to get what he wanted, proving he was a black hearted rogue. Well, his vileness ended today. He drew his saber and charged at his hated rival.
Ambrose blocked it, shoving Ned backwards with a sneer. “Our father warned me that you would eventually betray me. He knew what sort of man you’d become.”
Edward snarled as he thrust his sword towards his brother’s neck, only for Ambrose to dodge. “Lies! Father loved me. He was just blind because your bitch of a mother bewitched him.”
“My mother was ten times the woman that conniving shrew that birthed you,” Ambrose snarled as he continued to deflect his brother’s blows.
Edward scoffed, “And you murdered them both.”
In an instance, Ambrose went from mocking disdain to fury incarnate, his entire face reddening. He let out a guttural growl before changing from defense to offense, swing his sword with such aggression that Edward found himself scrambling to block.
Because of this, he did not watch where he was going and tripped over a rock, falling flat on his back. He tried to lift his sword only for Ambrose’s boot to slam down on his fingers.
“Will you yield, brother!” Ambrose demanded as he held his blade to Edward’s neck. To the former prince of England’s surprise. There was no hatred, only anger and…regret.
There was a part of him that wanted to yield. A part of him wanted to beg for forgiveness. He had just wanted to win for once. To not feel like he was second best at everything.
I loved him once, he remembered. But then the reminder of all that Ambrose had taken from him struck him like a hot knife. I loved him, but all he ever did was hurt me, betray me at every turn.
“I will never yield to the son of a whore!” Edward declared, wanting to be heard by all so they would know he would not die a coward. “I am the true King of England not you.”
Kill me, brother, kill me and show the world your true colors, he jeered mentally.
“Then you leave me no choice,” Ambrose uttered as he raised his sword over his head and drove it down in his brother’s neck.
As his life blood drained out Edward so did his hatred, his mind feeling clearer than it had in years. His brother removed his visor, and Edward could see the devastation and guilt on his countenance. He lifted his hand up, grazing Ambrose’s cheek as his vision grew black.
I’m sorry, Amby, I’m sorry I drove us to this.
Like the rest of the troops George was transfixed by the duel between the two brothers, that nothing else seemed to matter. Then Ambrose killed the would-be usurper, and it was like the spell had been broken.
At once the two armies charged at each other----with Ambrose right in their path.
“Just had to get off his bloody horse,” George muttered as he spurred his destrier forward, praying he got to his nephew before the idiot got trampled.
He noticed that one of the Scottish soldiers was wearing the badge of the Seymours---two wings. He knew in his heart that had to be Hertford. The earl was advancing towards Ambrose who was now on his knees, staring down at his brother’s body.
The Duke of Kent rode as fast as he could, unwilling to let Seymore harm Ambrose. When he finally reached his nephew so had Hertford. But the earl was clearly too focused on avenging his nephew that he didn’t even see George’s sword until it cut through his armor like butter, striking him through his chest.
With a gurgle the Earl of Hertford fell off his horse. George barely had time to savor his rival’s death as he was too busy trying to get his nephew to climb up beside him. Both the mounts of the king and the usurper had galloped away, leaving Ambrose with no choice but to join his uncle or risk being trampled by the ongoing fight in the narrow pass.
The English’s infantry was charging down the hill, adding to the already hectic battlefield as the Scottish and English army crashed into each other. They were so close together that the artillery was slaying as many of their comrades as they were the enemies.
Ambrose seemed to snap out of his state of shock and instead was dragging Edward’s body to his uncle’s empty horse.
“What are you doing?” George barked as he frantically tried to shield his nephew from enemy fire and aggression.
Ambrose said something, but his words were drowned out by gunfire. With surprising speed and strength, he managed to haul his brother’s limp body onto the steed, before grabbing the reins and handing them to George.
“Take Edward’s body back to camp. He will be buried in England,” Ambrose commanded.
“You can’t be serious.” George stared at his nephew as he had grown a second head. It was bad enough that he had diverted their plan by choosing to demand a duel with his brother. But now he wanted the Duke of Kent to flee mid battle just to make sure his brother’s corpse did not become pummeled to a pulp.
“Don’t argue with me, Uncle,” ordered Ambrose, before directing his next words to cavalry men who seemed to realize what he was doing and were waiting to see if he needed help. “You two make sure the Duke of York is brought safely back to camp and his body is ready to be transported back to England.”
“And what about you?” George demanded, watching as the fighting grew more frenzied. One could hardly tell who friend or foe was.
“I started this, Uncle, now I must finish it!” Ambrose responded grimly before he ran into the fray, brandishing his sword.
Thankfully, Norfolk and Newcastle were on his heels, unwilling to let their friend be without protection.
George let out an annoyed huff before turning to the two men, ordering them to ride on either side of the dead prince to ensure that if he fell off, they would notice. Then they took off, back down the path, leaving the comrades to continue the fight without them.
“I hope Ambrose lives because I am going to strangle him,” George muttered under his breath, daring to look over his shoulder to get one last glimpse of the battle, praying he would have that chance.
Scotland
Unaware of her husband’s death, Mary lay in her bed, screaming in pain as a contraction ripped through her. She was giving birth almost a month early.
“It will be alright, Your Majesty,” the midwife assured her as one of the ladies-in-waiting moped the sweat off of her brow. However, when she glanced down between the queen’s legs, her visage paled, and she made the cross sign. “Oh, merciful heavens. Someone fetch a physician.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Mary cried, fear overwhelming her. She tried to sit up but was halted by Lady Livingston pushed her back down.
“The babe is coming out feet first,” she explained. “We might have to perform a caesarean section.”
Mary swallowed a lump in her throat, understanding the danger she and the baby were in. “Do what you can for the baby!” she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady despite the immense pain she was in. “My life is inconsequential compared to his.”
She ignored the woman’s assurance that she would try to save both. As far as she was concerned having a healthy son was the only way to save her marriage. The only way to secure their hold on Scotland and England. At least her death would be worth something.
The pain was unbearable even with the dose of opium the surgeon gave her, she found herself slowly slipping into unconsciousness.
“Your Majesty, stay with us!” one of her Marys called, but the queen was too weak to see who was speaking too her.
“Jesus, the umbilical cord is around his neck!” one of the surgeons proclaimed, staring at something Mary could not see.
“Save my son!” she repeated, too tired to comprehend the physician’s words or what he was doing. “Please save my son.” Then darkness overtook her, and the Queen of Scots knew no more.
July 3, 1563
England
Her husband had returned middle of June. It was clear that King Ambrose was a broken man, emotionally destroyed after fighting and killing his brother. He locked himself in his apartment, allowing Joanna to continue acting as his regent.
Philip had already sailed home, leaving his ambassador to settle any loose ends. Joanna worked on distributing the attained lands and castles to those who had shown themselves loyal vassals.
Her husband finally designed to leave his chambers to speak with her, undoubtedly because he was aware that their daughters would soon be returning to Whitehall.
Ambrose was dressed in a black ensemble, there were bags under his eyes and there was a lag in his gait as if a ton of rocks was weighing him down.
Joanna greeted him graciously, dismissing her ladies as she led him over to a sofa, seating them both.
“Forgive me for not speaking to you for a fortnight,” Ambrose apologized before she could say anything. “I feared I might start weeping if I spoke to anyone. Not very kingly I am afraid.”
“Since when have you cared about acting kingly?” Joanna questioned.
Ambrose let out a weak chuckle at that before he let out a heavy sigh. “Still, I have been most rude, leaving you to do my work. I promise I shall make it up to you.”
“That is not necessary, husband. I was doing my duty as your wife,” she assured him.
Ambrose gave her a gentle smile before taking her hand in his. “Tell what news do we have from our ambassadors?”
Joanna what he was really asking but decided not to inform him what he already knew. Instead, she began to recall the news from their envoys, barring the reports that stated the pope’s decision to condemn Ambrose as a wicked kinslayer, obviously trying to save face.
Even her brother, who had to deal with finding his heir standing over the cradle of his second son with a pillow poised to smother the babe, agreed that Ambrose was many things, but kinslayer was not one of them.
“France, Spain, Scotland, and Sweden seek the hands of Isabel and Anne,” Joanna informed him. “The Earl of Arran seems to think a betrothal is almost assured.”
Ambrose snorted. “Of course, he does. After his help, he expects use to help him with his claim.”
The Earl of Arran, James Hamilton, had been Queen Mary’s heir. However, the Earl of Lennox had kept Queen Mary and her child’s death under wraps before he had declared himself king. Now there was a civil war in Scotland, something Ambrose’s advisors had wanted him to take advantage of, declaring himself King of Scotland by conquest.
“Have we heard anything from Denmark?” Ambrose sobered, his eyes averted.
“Just King Fredrick’s assurance of a continued alliance,” Joanna answered softly, squeezing his hand. “I am sure Elizabeth will write to you when she is ready.”
“She hates me,” Ambrose deduced.
“No,” Joanna denied. She was certain that Elizabeth could never hate her brother, no matter what happened. “She is sad, but she could never detest you.”
“I murdered our brother, of course she hates me,” argued Ambrose.
“Did your great-grandfather murder his brother?” Joanna questioned.
“That’s different,” protested her husband. “The former Duke of Clarence was excuted for treason.”
“Do you think it would have mattered if you had done the same?” Joanna put forth. “The only difference is you carried out Edward’s sentence yourself.”
Ambrose closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath as he mulled over her words. “Let’s not focus on that now. We have a ceremony to plan,” he announced with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Ceremony?” Joanna repeated.
“That’s right. Our daughter is to be officially declared Princess of Wales,” enthused Ambrose, his smile becoming more genuine at the mention of their daughter.
He began to talk excitedly about the ceremony, clearly trying not to think about Edward and Elizabeth, pushing those matters away, pretending as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Joanna knew deep down her husband was suffering. She prayed that the sight of their daughters would help him heal, but she feared the wound that was caused by the traitorous Duke of York would never truly be healed.
Denmark
“How long are you going to ignore his letters?” Fredrick asked. They were sitting together in the shade of a great oak tree, watching their children playing on the lawn. Elizabeth was lying with his head on his shoulder, her dress of red satin was covering his legs had it been a bit colder, he would have called her his blanket.
“I am not ignoring them as you well know because you read them,” the queen said tonelessly. She had no issues with her husband reading her letters, leaving them out opened on the table where she knew he’d see them when they visited. It was easier then having to tell him what happened.
“Bess, everyone heard the Duke of York refuse to yield when he fought the king,” Fredrick reminded her. “If King Ambrose hadn’t killed him----”
“I am not angry that it happened,” Elizabeth interjected, her hands clenched. “I am sad and devastated that it happened. I just don’t feel up to writing to Ambrose. This is not a conversation I want to have over letters.” She was only half-lying. There was a part of her that felt Ambrose could have found a better way. Taken Edward prisoner, not challenged him to a duel in the first place. Done anything that didn’t involve their brother’s death. However, even if she didn’t have his letters, she knew her brother well enough to know that he was blaming himself more than she ever could.
“Why don’t I arrange a state visit to England,” Fredrick suggested, massaging his wife’s shoulders, seeing how tense she was. “Then you can talk to him and deal with this.”
Elizabeth sighed, seeing the sense in his husband’s words and yet, she still could not bring herself to smile. “That is true,” she agreed.
The couple were interrupted by Prince Harald running up to them with Prince Christian, Princess Mary, and Princess Anne on his heels.
“Mama, it was accident,” Harald quickly informed them.
Christian glared at his older brother. “No, it wasn’t. You pushed me on purpose.”
“I did not.”
“You did too.”
Elizabeth sat up, her expression stern which caused both boys to fall silent as Princess Anne and Princess Mary immediately snuggled up to their father, watching her brothers be lectured by their mother with a smug face.
“Enough. You are brothers,” Elizabeth admonished. “You must care for each other, love each other always.” As she spoke, her voice began to crack, and Fredrick knew that his wife was not speaking to her sons. “You must not let your rivalry affect your relationship. You must cherish each other, never forget that you love one another. Promise me you won’t.”
Unaware of the true reason their mother was getting upset, both Harald and Christian looked shamefaced. “We are sorry, Mama, we didn’t mean to fight.”
“And it was an accident,” insisted Harald. “But I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Christian agreed as he playfully bumped Harald’s shoulder. And just like that the fight was forgotten and the two boys were off playing again.
“Don’t worry, Mama. If they act stupid again, we’ll take care of them,” Anne promised firmly.
Elizabeth smiled at her daughters, pleased to hear them say that. She returned herself to Fredrick’s embrace, moving her youngest daughter so she was now in her arms and not being squashed.
“They are lucky to have sisters like you,” she professed.
“All shall be well,” Fredrick assured firmly, speaking more to his wife than his daughters.
“I hope so,” Elizabeth murmured, a far away look in her dark orbs.
January 20, 1574
England
It was a cold wintry day when the Princess of Wales went into labor. Although she was a woman of twenty now, she was very much still her father’s little girl, and it was clear by a glance that Ambrose was anxious.
“Don’t pace. Joan will be fine,” Joanna promised as she made some last minutes touches to her grandchild’s christening gown.
Ambrose ignored her, wringing his hands. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
“I have had nine pregnancies,” Joanna recalled. “They took longer than this.” Of course, some of them ended badly. In fact, the last miscarriage almost three years ago had rendered her barren. Thankfully, she had six healthy daughters to make up for that devastating diagnosis.
The king grunted. He glanced over at Philip and John who were locked in a chess game. “Who's winning?” He wanted very desperately to get his mind off of his daughter. He tried not to wince as he heard a pained shout.
“I have no idea,” John Fitzroy admitted as he scratched his beard.
“Quite honestly, I think we are just going through the motions,” agreed the Duke of Somerset. The red-haired man was not as in love with his half-cousin as his parents had been with each other, but he cared and admired her very much. Add that to his already growing fear for his unborn child and it made him just anxious as his kingly uncle and John.
“I think we all need to take a breath,” Joanna advised. Although she glanced at the doors to the birthing chambers nervously. “We have been getting half-hour updates and everything has been progressing well.”
The men grumbled their ascent but continued to be anxious until hours later when a woman burst into the rooms, tears of joy in her eyes. “The princess has birthed a boy!”
Ambrose’s eyes widened in delight as Philip and John let out a whoop. Without even waiting to ask permission, Philip entered the birthing chambers to visit his wife and son.
“And what of Joan? Is she healthy?” Joanna interrogated, rising from her seat.
“Considering the glare she leveled at the midwife when she didn’t bring the baby over straight away, I’d say she’s feeling as fit as fiddle,” the lady voiced with a good-natured chuckle.
“That’s my girl,” Ambrose praised. “What’s the lad’s name?” He had decided that his daughter would be the one to name her son or daughter.
“George,” revealed the woman.
“The Duke of Kent will be pleased,” Joanna noted, thinking the duke would probably be impossible to deal with now that he had a future king as his namesake.
Ambrose was barely listening, too delighted by the turn of events.
My mother’s legacy shall live on through her descendants, he professed with much happiness. It was all worth it in the end.
Notes:
I feel like Ambrose killing Edward like that would be a bit controversial, but I think it fit his characters, unlike my other Princes of Wales, Ambrose is prone to making impulsive decisions when he is angry that often lead to tragedy.
I decided to leave the ending a bit ambiguous as far as Ambrose conquering Scotland. However, I wanted to end it with Princess Joan giving birth to a son, just to give a taste of England's future and as a bookend to the first chapter.
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