A very different 1540: Anne of Cleves takes charge

[Kynan]

Queen Anne had always been the type of woman to hold herself at a distance. Her mother had taught her that stoicism and silence were the makings of a good wife, and duty was before dignity. Sweetness, softness, and even beauty would not keep your husband half as contented as would the absence of give. But after a week of her “honeymoon”, she was aware her pliancy had not had the intended effect. As the ambassador had so inelegantly put it, marriage was mostly about creating heirs. The process was messy and uncomfortable, but necessary. Except…so far, it hadn’t been.

The King was perfectly gallant in his behaviour towards her. He asked her polite questions about her day, considering they spent most of it apart. She’d try and answer without sounding too awkwardly provincial, considering her most frequent activities included sewing for the poor and taking lessons on her new realm. Then they’d share a short kiss, and sleep beneath blankets she considered far too light for the freezing winter.

No sex.

The girl she had been a few months ago would have gone red at the sound of that word – or at least an equivalent in a language she’d known. But after her careful discussions on the ship to England, she was at least aware of the mechanics. Of what a man should do, and what she should expect. None of what had been said matched the chaste winter nights she’d been experiencing.

Her marriage wasn’t real until the act had been done. Consummation was pivotal to maintaining not just her status, but the alliance she represented. So tonight, unlike other nights, she had prepared herself to force the matter.

She had learned the King liked oranges before leaving her brother’s court, so she’d requested some mini pies made from orange preserves to be in her rooms for when he arrived. A decanter of his favourite wine beside them. Sweet perfumes all over the sheets and her night gown. All designed to make him agreeable. Anne sat by the fire and waited.

“What a lovely vision!” he said, startling her. Unlike herself, the King had not dressed for the act of seduction. Having undressed in the room adjoining, he had not even fixed his hair or beard before arriving to meet her. Instead, the smell of his ulcer wafted through the air as he grabbed a pie and sat across from her by the fire.

“Thank you…your…majesty. All fo…for you”

She hated how her English was so stilted. He smiled politely and bit into his treat, looking past her at the new tapestries she’d had put up. No more terrifying scenes of war on the walls. Anne had swapped them over for knights and ladies, flowers in the forest, and one of Adam and Eve that she hoped might inflame passions.

“Did you have the walls changed?” he asked.

“Yes. I did not…not like the others…other ones. Too…dark,” she waved over to the walls, “so these are better.”

Another polite smile. More enthusiastic chewing. A glance at the bed, as if he was not going to talk anymore.

Too much.

“Maybe it would be better,” she stood up, “if I switched to French.”

That startled him. She was less awkward in this language.

Walking over to the King, she took the pastry from his hand and placed it back on the table. Pulling the cap from her head and shaking out her heavy head of hair, Anne moved to sit on the bed.

“Your French is very good.” he said, clearly confused by the sudden switch.

“Come,” she patted beside her “and sit.”

He did, strangely obedient. Once settled, she continued,

“I wonder if it would be best to ask what we both want from this marriage?”

“I just want you to be happy.”

She shrugged, and put her hand on his arm.

“I want you to be happy to. I need you to be happy.”

It was clumsy. A juvenile attempt at seduction from a woman who knew basically nothing about the whole ordeal. But in that moment, aware that this was not just a Princess but a warm, breathing body beside him, the King finally followed through on his marriage vows. When Anne lay there, she felt strangely fulfilled. It hadn’t been particularly pleasant, or unpleasant, but she felt a triumph in her stomach. Nobody could say she wasn’t his wife anymore.

 

[Kynan]

It had been weeks since the King had wedding the Cleves girl, and Thomas Cromwell was sure of two things. King Henry was not exactly enamoured with his bride, and Thomas needed to find a way to get into his good graces. It wasn’t even clear if the marriage had been consummated based on reports from those he had surveyed.

It wasn’t like the King had been forthcoming with information about the situation.

To top it off, Lord Howard had begun to flood the court with the girls of his family. Some married, others pointedly not. Of particular concern to Thomas was the King’s widowed daughter-in-law, who had begun to “visit” her father while on business with the King. He had to just hope the underlying incestuousness of that dynamic would prevent the game being played.

They were all quite pretty, he would give the Howards that. The Carey girl – a niece of Anne Boleyn – seemed especially favoured at times to him. But that might have been pity and kindness on behalf of his daughter. The young girl had grown attached to the older one apparently, and Henry could be generous in the right scenario.

“Busy, Cromwell?”

His attention perked, the lawyer stood up immediately and greeted the King. Henry rarely visited him this early in the morning, and he had been working through the treaties and agreements signed prior to the King’s wedding to find a way out of the increasingly likelihood that they might have to war with the Hapsburgs.

“No, my lord, just some busy work. How may I help you?”

Henry briefly looked down at the mess of papers across the desk, and Thomas worried that his eyes might be drawn to the document he had just set aside with explicit mention of “the necessity of martial support” so obviously written towards the top. But instead, it wasn’t the documents that caught his eye – it was a sketch. One of dozens the artist Holbein had sent from Cleves, and one that he had never shown the King.

The two sisters sat next to each other, Amelia looking at a book in her hands, and Anne looking at the artist and laughing. It was a rough sketch, and one Thomas only now realised was much more accurate to the subjects that the official portrait of the new Queen. There was something alive about her smile.

“I never saw this one.”

Henry picked up the sketch and looked at it, turning the page to see notes written on the back, describing an interaction where the Lady Amelia had asked about the King’s children. There were dozens of sketches sent from Holbein’s brief stay at the court. Henry had only really been enamoured with one.

“Didn’t you? I only just rediscovered it amongst my papers.”

“Was I shown it?”

He had already said he hadn’t seen it. This was a trap. But Thomas would not lie to his King so easily.

“I don’t believe so. We had more formal portraits of the Queen and her sister,” he pulled out one of the Queen, similar to the one he had fallen in love with, “which meant the last of the sketches weren’t really necessary.”

“And you decided what was necessary?”

Tight. Tense. Thomas shook his head.

“No, not just I.”

Henry sighed and dropped the paper on the table, then brushed the face of his bride with his thumb. The corresponding smudge have the laughter depicted the appearance of a scream.

“I would not have married this woman.”

It was enough. Regret. Something wistful in the air. Henry licked his thumb, and then wiped the charcoal on his thumb against Thomas’ shirt, staining the expensive, red fabric of his sleeve. A deliberate snub on an investment of the finer things. The air suddenly felt very heavy. With little else to do in response, he dropped the more flattering portrait atop the smeared one.

"Have you...?" was all Thomas could get out before the King left in a hurry. No answer. No security.

 

[Kynan]

Mary Howard knew exactly what her father was doing in all of this. If the Queen were to be set aside, and everyone thought they knew she would be, then he wanted an in. That in? Herself, apparently.

She wasn’t a vain woman – she knew that, while pretty, she had never been too similar to the women King Henry flaunted himself with. They were girls like Anne Bassett and Elizabeth Browne. Flighty and bright and with too much energy for their own good. But the steady, studious woman she saw in her reflection was not made to inspire his lust.

And obviously, the whole ‘father of her husband’ thing didn’t inspire anything in her.

But her father persisted, and continually forced them together in hopes of a spark on at least one side. Which is why she wore her dress loose in the waist, in her worst colours, with an old fashioned gable hood and a perfume she new turned stomachs. All little things to make herself just that bit less desirable.

However, she was interested enough in the game to play too. Just not with own person. Instead, she brought along two companions to distract from herself. The first, Mary Thursby, was a young and distant cousin who was just thrilled to be along for the ride, picked mostly for her pretty blondeness. But it was Kitty (Katherine) Howard she had the most hope for. The King’s last two mistresses had been stark contrasts – the youthful gaiety of Anne Basset, and the steady friendship of the Countess of Worcester. Maybe the pendulum was about to swing back from matron to maid.

Of course, her father was there with the King when she arrived. And obviously the Duke of Suffolk was there with them, immediately leering at the youngest in their party, the pretty Mistress Thursby. But while she kissed the cheeks of all three men with prompt politeness, there was something underneath. When the King touched Kitty’s arm, they both seemed to stop. Watching intensely, she saw as he pulled her from her curtsey, shrugging away the formalities of their introductions.

“Oh – how silly of me. My lords, might I introduce my cousins, the Mistresses Thursby and Howard. They’ve come to join me at court – Mary as my maid, and Katherine,” she paused to let the King linger on her, “as a member of Queen Anne’s household.”

The two dropped into curtsies. Little Mary wobbled a little, and the elder made a note to teach her how to drop down elegantly. But Kitty not only dropped low, but managed to effortlessly hold the King’s attention. Had she not known better, she’d assume the girl had been coached for this.

But no – that was Kitty. So natural. The perfect courtier.

“Mary, I didn’t know you were bringing friends.” muttered the Duke of Norfolk.

Her father was clearly angry, but she let it sweep over her. This was a win. Something was happening that she had started. As he glared at her, she sat beside him and gave a knowing glance at Kitty, who sat beside the King and was now recounting her trip to court and making him laugh at descriptions of a sheep that had somehow climbed a tree. It was an innocent flirtation. But as the realisation hit her father, she knew he understood what was afoot. It may not have been her, but they had a player in the game.

 

[Kynan]

“Now you be good, my sw…sweet Prince.”

The Queen gave her stepson another hug, and nodded to the strangely robust entourage to take the child away. Waving back as his chubby little arm flailed enthusiastically over the woman’s shoulder, Anne painted a grin on her face. He could be quite cute at times.

But by god did he scream with heavy lungs.

As the room was finally quiet, an exhausted Queen Anne looked over to the quiet Lady Elizabeth and tutted over the unfairness of the world. That little red-haired girl, with her earnest eyes and pinched mouth, was treated like a leaper by the men and women of the court. They focused all their attention on the straw-haired boy who had spent the better part of an hour crawling around her rooms while she tried to pretend that small children didn’t bother her.

It wasn’t that she hated them, but even Sibylle’s children annoyed her. Life in Düsseldorf had been defined by sharing the world with her brother and sister. But the King would want her to be a friend to his children, and she laboured towards that goal with a certain consistency. An hour in the mornings with both Prince Edward and his sister Elizabeth, followed by a lunch with the eldest daughter. Today she’d insisted her sister would join them, and Anne was interested to see if the child’s intelligence would hold over a conversation. She was always so quiet.

The snow had fallen thick today, and the roaring fire fought against the cold that crawled up and down the walls. Anne mindlessly pulled her cloak more around her, and missed as the equally chilled Elizabeth mimicked her behaviour. Her eyes had been drawn to the weather outside, where a sharp wind kept rattling the shutters so tightly locked. But that would have to wait.

It was close to her engagement, and the food would arrive soon enough. She wandered over to the maid and quietly whispered for her to leave. “Please f…fetch the Lady Mary and remind her of our…engagement.” There was no room for refusal, even if lunch had no set time today. She wanted the room empty.

Faking a need for punctuality had been a decision made on the fly, mostly as one of many excuses to constantly send people away from her. The guards stood outside, her ladies were out and about with errands. There was no privacy as Queen. She longed for space.

Anne had almost cancelled the luncheon over a spot of sickness in the morning. Every morning, really. Shortly before breakfast, she’d start to feel incredibly nauseous. She might even vomit in the privacy of her own rooms. But the Queen would be damned before she’d do the same in front of the gossips of the court. Her father, before his death, had warned her hold strong in the face of strangers, and to never trust the doctors. He was sure his were killing him, and then he died.

She was starting to suspect something might be wrong with her.

Or terribly right. After all, Sibylle had lay in bed until noon for months after falling pregnant with her first children. It had been nearly two months since she and the king had been together. He’d not been so inspired again. Thinking of that night filled her with a deep since of wrongness, and she suddenly had to run to throw up in the bucket conveniently left beside her bed. This had to be done before Mary arrived. It wouldn’t do to spark rumours so soon.

Elizabeth sat across the room, forgotten. Watching. Aware. She made a mental note to tell Kat the Queen had been ill.

 

[Kynan]

The Queen was pregnant.

Mary might have been a maid herself, but the King’s eldest daughter knew the signs, and was shocked the rest of the court hadn’t noticed them as well. Particularly the beginning signs of swelling over her body. A less observant person might have missed them – even if they noticed the lingering smell of vomit when they had embraced early. Maybe Anne had gotten lucky – it was barely 2 months since the wedding. Nobody expected anything quite so soon. Particularly not with her father privately complaining to so many people about her various deficiencies.

But a son would fix all of that. He hadn’t been so fond of Jane in the weeks prior to her own pregnancy being announced. Maybe that was his way. Children born out of resentment. It would explain how callous he could be.

It wouldn’t do to think of that.

Instead, Mary sat at the table beside little Elizabeth at a table filled with courtiers she did and didn’t know, and nodded along as the Queen described the embroidery plans she had. There was little else to do at court in the winter. Particularly for a foreigner who rode poorly. It had been the same when Philip had been here. That man with kind eyes and the funny laugh.

Philip…

“And, of course, Lady Mary, I would want you to join me.”

Apparently, the conversation had turned.

Snapping back to attention, Mary turned back to her host. “Join you, your Majesty?”

Queen Anne looked confused, and shook her head.

“I apolo…apologise – I should not be practicing my English on you. I meant to say…would you join me in prepa..aring entertainments for the King? They say you dance well.”

They did not say that. Mary had not danced at court in years…except with Philip. And that was only once. But as a rule, she had not performed for her father in that way since her mother had been sent away all those years ago. She wondered if this was some sort of ploy, or a genuine attempt to reach out.

It didn’t matter. “Of course, I would be honoured. Would you like to join us, Elizabeth?”

The little girl nodded, and the Queen smiled at her. Her sister rarely spoke at court – fearing saying the wrong things. But Mary knew all those eyes took in. There was a keenness to her that sometimes worried her. Too much intelligence and not enough fun. She made a mental note to set up an activity for the two of them soon – maybe they would go pick out a puppy for her to keep from the litter of Lord Brandon’s dogs. Elizabeth was too serious – a pet would give her comfort.

As if reading her mind, the little girl carefully put her utensils down and looked up at her sister. “I have finished. Can we go to the gardens?”

Mary looked out to the window – the snow had settled and the sun was out – and then back to the Queen. Anne seemed displeased, and Mary didn’t want to upset her. But Elizabeth rarely asked to do anything. She set herself to say no, but was interrupted when one of the Queen’s maids spoke up. The pretty one with the long nose.

“I can take the Lady Elizabeth out for exercise, if you would like…my lady.”

Mary watched as this girl swivelled her head between the Queen and herself, and wondered how she was related to the Lady Richmond. All the Howards seemed the same to her – long nose, big eyes, and cold hearts. But if she was a Howard, she’d be family to Elizabeth at least.

“Mistress Howard, you may do so. Thank you.”

The Queen waved them away, and Mary was shocked to see her sister actually smile as she took the hand of the (surprisingly short) young lady and left the room. It was over in a matter of moments.

“That’s Kitty Howard,” whispered the Lady Douglas to her right, as the table lifted into adult conversation without the presence of the little girl, “she visits Elizabeth almost every day.”

Every day? That seemed odd. But then her cousin Eleanor leaned over as far as her pregnant belly would allow. “Elizabeth calls her Kat. It’s very sweet. I don’t like it.”

The three shared a knowing look, and Frances coughed loud enough to remind them that they were not in a safe place to talk so openly. The Queen was engrossed in her own conversations, but who knew what was being reported to her after the fact. Mary turned away from them and back to the Queen.

“So, your Majesty, what were you thinking of for the entertainments?”

 

[Kynan]

Kitty Howard was a lot of things to a lot of people. A smiling flower of youth to the men who frequently followed her around like sad dogs, desperate for a pet behind the ear. Her brother called her the most precocious politician at court, while also pretending she was his inferior in any way. Dear Lady Agnes had often described her to strangers as “the pretty girl with too much energy”. But internally, Kitty considered herself less considerably less frivolous than anyone else thought.

She knew before the rest of the world that King Henry was interested in her. The decision had been made before her brother and uncle demanded it to not sleep with him. Her instincts to hold a potential match in Culpeper at a distance had been correct. So long as she stayed strong, she could be Queen by the end of the year.

At least, she had been on that track before the Queen had (likely) fallen pregnant.

The court hadn’t even been sure the marriage had been consummated, and the King had only just begun pursued her with promises of sweet things, and the lingering implication of something…more. But that more had lost its lustre. Right now, she was no better than Mistress Basset, who had kept his bed warm while waiting for a foreign bride.

Now, sitting in the room of the quiet German woman, who ordered music to be played while she sewed at a pair of gloves, Kitty felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Women didn’t last long in the King’s heart. She needed an exit plan.

Thomas Stanley had been giving her the eye, particularly since his wife was dying in the country. That might have been a strong escape plan, except his son – a boy of barely twelve, was equally an enamoured with her. The Radcliffe heir had sent her a book of poetry to borrow, but she despised his darting eyes and pinched mouth. There was the Hasting’s boy – no prospects, but the King evidentially liked him. If he liked both of them, maybe they’d have a future. Everyone loved her right now. The iron was hot and ready to strike.

Thoughts of her options kept her distracted while wiled away the hours. Tonight, there’d be another party. The King would pull her aside for some heavy petting and whispers of love. She hated those moments. His breath always stank.

The little Lord John Grey then stumbled into the room, and she watched with interest as he clumsily stooped into something resembling a bow. A basket of fruit under one arm. Presents for the Queen, she suspected.

“Rise, boy.”

Short answers were the norm from the Queen.

With little fanfare, he walked through the gaggle of bored women and placed the basket on the table besides Queen Anne. Brimming with slightly bruised fruit and sweet treats, she smiled and picked up the top one to smell. Kitty couldn’t imagine it was half as nice as the pears King Henry had sent to her room the night before. But the Queen seemed pleased.

“Thank you.”

Little Lord John bowed low, and then pulled from his belt, a rose.

“The apples are a gift from His Majesty,” he gestured towards the fruit, before raising the flower, “and this, is a gift for one of your ladies.”

Kitty prayed it wasn’t for her, only to be unsurprised that he was at her feet. The surprise was that the note was not addressed from the King. It was from his advisor, Cromwell. She could tell by the handwriting, if not from the sign off.

‘Mistress Howard,

For your kindness. Your heart is noted.

TC’

Kitty guessed this was meant from the King, but something about this wasn’t his style. King Henry had never sent her flowers. He had little use for roses. But something had to be said to the crowd. So, with her face blankly, she waited until Lord Grey exited the room, and took her stage at the centre of attention.

“I’m sure you’re all interested in who is sending me such a pretty flower, and so am I.”

It was all a game in this moment. The Queen looked concerned. But knowing it wasn’t dangerous for her made it fun. Kitty twirled with excitement.

“Well…it is a venerable man of the court. Someone who we all know for his intelligence and cunning. A man so beloved that I think our dear Queen will be most interested.”

Another giggle.

“Yes, this is a love letter from none other than Lord Cromwell!”

The room was a flurry, and the girls in the room all began to giggle hard as they rushed to hear more. But it was the quick rise of a hand that stopped them. Because this did not amuse the Queen.

“You will not read your letter…letter aloud, Mistress Howard. It would be rude.”

Beckoning her forward, the Queen pulled herself up to a standing position and drew the girl close to her, so she could whisper. Kitty feared the repercussions of her little stunt. It was the type of thing she used to do when Dereham wrote her those awful love notes. The girls in her dorm went wild for even the glimpse of something so salacious.

But instead of a rebuke, there was lightness in the murmurs, “We will go somewhere private. Bring the note.”

Pulling back, her eyes twinkled, and Kitty realised something. There was more to the German woman than just duty and quiet. Dipping into a curtsey, she followed her to the doorway, she the Queen slowly turned back to the mostly confused crowd of women.

“We will go for our exercise,” she pointed to the pile of sewing she had left beside her chair, “so you will…all finish the sewing before going about your…affairs.”

Affairs. She wasn’t sure if the Queen had meant it to cut through these women’s hearts. But when she noticed Mistress Browne squirming, she hoped so.

 

[Kynan]

Elizabeth sat under a tree in the gardens with Kat – clutching her little dog in her arms. Everyone called her Kat by the pet name Kitty, but they’d agreed that since Elizabeth was the young one, Kitty would be Kat to only her. It was nice to have someone who listened to her. They told each other everything – and they were cousins!

Today was warmer than most days of late had been, and the two girls – for Kat was truly still a girl herself – had spent the last hour running through the snow and sliding down hills. It was an impromptu activity, made the better by her new puppy, wriggling in her lap. Bundled up in heavy furs, they’d managed to someone start a sweat, and Elizabeth knew they’d be dragged inside and she’d be forced to drink something too hot and not sweet enough. But for now, they were basking in a glorious day.

At least for a moment, for Mary was stomping through the snow, towards them.

“Elizabeth, you must come quickly!”

Nothing was ever urgent to her sister, so the little girl pushed herself up immediately. In her many, may (7) years of life, Mary had only rushed her once, and that had been to see Edward after he was born. But outside of that, she moved at a pace akin to a snail. Steady. Constant. Running was not part of her day-to-day activities.

Kat herself was clearly shocked to see the King’s daughter rushing at such a pace. Grabbing their things, she dropped and immediately began tying Elizabeth’s heavy cloak around her neck, anticipating a run. The dog, having been tumbled to the floor, jumped in the way incessantly.

“What has happened, Mary?” she squealed, mind racing with the possibilities. Maybe their father was sick. Or the Queen. Or, worst of all, little Edward. But Mary wasn’t angry, or scared. Granted, her face was usually set into a stern, flat mask. But Elizabeth could read her easily. This was something exciting. Joy, even.

Kat grabbed her hand, and looked to Mary, “where do we need to go, my Lady?”

For a second, Mary stopped and seemed to consider her answer. She didn’t like Kat very much. Elizabeth thought she was jealous – Mary was much less pretty than her friend. But with a shrug, Mary turned and single shouted back, “to your mistress’ chambers. Hurry!”

Elizabeth wondered if maybe the Queen had hurt herself.

By the time they’d made it back inside, Mary was out of breath and Elizabeth was sweating beneath the heavy fabrics. But they’d made it to the doors – puppy under one of Kat’s arms, the other hand holding Elizabeth’s. She wondered if her stepmother’s illness had gotten worse. Maybe they were here to see her die. But then Mary wouldn’t be excited. Would she?

Kat untied the cloak and began to straighten her up, passing the pup off to a passing servant to be washed and sent to Elizabeth’s chambers. Mary herself had basically run into their cousin Maggie, who fiddled with her hair and dress with less skill and more fussiness. She’d never liked the Scottish Queen or her daughter. While she barely remember her Aunt Margaret, she did receive one letter from her that told her to be a good girl “in spite of your blood”, which she did not appreciate and had burned at the first opportunity. Maggie, by contrast, was less mean and more stupid and arrogant. Kat had told her she’d loved her brother, but Charlie had been warned of by her father. Elizabeth though Charlie Howard was handsome, but very short compared to Maggie. But the two were separated, and Elizabeth knew Maggie and Mary often dined together. They were very old to be unmarried women. She hoped she’d never be that old and alone.

Kat finished up with her and stood back as Mary grabbed her hand and waved the other women away.

“Thank you, but this is just for the family.”

They curtsied – Maggie was a distinct reluctant, and Elizabeth walked in to see her father sitting at the bedside of the Queen with little Edward. The Queen, who’s hair was loose and face quite pink, was beneath the covers. It then hit her. Queen Anne was dying. Like how the Lady Jane had laid dying after Edward was born, they’d been brought in to say goodbye. The doctors knew this time that she was not going to make it. Overwhelmed and upset, she ran to her and began crying. Big waves of heavy weeps flooded out of her body.

That startled the room, and it took many minutes to calm her down. The Queen wasn’t dying. She was pregnant and on bedrest. In the glow of the fire, Henry VIII holding his son, told his youngest daughter the good news. The Queen smiled serenely. Mary practically glowed in the presence of a family picture she hadn’t ever seen before.

And behind the doors, Kitty wept grateful tears, and walked to her rooms, where Lord Cromwell had sent another dozen roses. These ones with other note.

‘Mistress Howard,

Your service will be rewarded.

TC’

Not even Katherine realised what service he meant.

 

[Kynan]

Henry was about to be a father again. He wouldn’t count the number of times he’d been through this, but he was quite sure it was in the double digits.

It never got easier.

At least with Edward, he’d wanted it. With all of his children, he’d wanted them. But as much as he was happy with the outcome, the bride was not…perfectly suited to her role. Maybe for the ceremonial work she did well. But to be King Henry’s Queen meant to be pleasant and beloved of King Henry.

Already a pregnant Anne was testing his patience. Her already dimished looks were further jeopardized by the growing fatness around her stomach, and he found the gabled hood she had begun to favour did not hide her steady, cow-like gaze. Eyes that had filled with repulsion upon their first meeting.

But every time he went to see her, he could catch a glimpse of his Pretty Kitty. All giggles and big smiled. When he kissed the Queen on the cheek, he pictured her rosy perfectness in its place. It should be her in his bed.

But she was proving resistant.

Clearly, she needed some convincing. He was a charming man – he could wait. Mistress Browne seemed eager enough to keep him company. But he wanted the Howard girl. If she couldn’t be his bride, she could be his lover.

---

Cromwell was nervous.

Yes, the Queen’s pregnancy showed that his matchmaking had been more successful than many had assumed. The Howard ambitions had withered on the vine of Kitty Howard. But something about this all felt so uneasy. The King’s declaration of his Earldom had only made him more wary, not less.

Which was why the shocking arrival of that one Mistress Howard had shocked him so.

Lord Cromwell, as he was known now, had never had the chance to actually speak to the merry girl who had stolen the King’s heart. With big brown eyes and an infectious laugh, he had seen her charms, but never towards his person. None of this was on display when she entered his chambers with the Lady Rochford.

Jane Boleyn had clearly been dragged here without much interest, and he couldn’t help but be bemused by her lurching presence. The Boleyns had never had much interest in their awkward daughter-in-law, even if she had followed them around like a wounded puppy. Having lost her other idols, he guessed she had latched onto this pretty cousin.

Kitty Howard, meanwhile, had taken care to dress as maturely as possible. Her usual French Hood had been replaced with a simple, blue gable (borrowed from her cousin, the Duchess), and her dress was a sensible grey and black. Had he not known her usual boisterous nature, he’s have taken her for one of the scholarly students his daughter wrote to him about.

Kitty, meanwhile, was sizing him up. Her family didn’t like Cromwell. An upstart with a brain was the worst kind of upstart. His son had married the Queen’s sister, and he himself was now a nobleman. It was all too much for them all. But Kitty had known poverty. Her father’s widow still wrote asking for loans she couldn’t provide. That poor woman had been one of many sucked in by Edmund Howard’s charm and foolishness.

Not her.

“Lord Howard,” she bobbed a curtsey, “I hope you are well.”

He smiled at her, and nodded towards Jane – her leering shadow. Gesturing for them to sit, she did not head towards the fireplace, but the stool across his desk. This was business.

“Mistress Howard…how many I help you?”

Spit it out.

“I…” she took a deep breath, “I would like thank you for the flowers.”

That wasn’t what she had meant to say.

“I’m afraid you are thanking the wrong man. Those were sent on…our mutual friend’s behalf. Not mine.”

Jane took in a sharp breath behind her, but Kitty shrugged it off. Let her be scandalised. It was the only thing that brought any colour to that woman’s life anyway.

“I think we both know who selected the roses, my lord. Our friend likes gold more than he likes roses.”

She raised a hand to her chest, defiantly showing him a pair of gold rings set with pearls. Two on one hand. Just one of the gifts the King had started raining on her since Queen Anne’s announcement – which had turned her from potential bride to future conquest.

Lord Cromwell just nodded. So, she dropped her hand and continued.

“I always preferred flowers. Fruits. Gifts that smell nice and make a place feel comfortable. Gold is only really something for the coffers – if I had one.”

She laughed, and Cromwell’s eyes involuntarily went to a grant the King had sent him to look over in which this girl before him would be granted three manor houses – one near London, and two with large tracts of land in the North. Coffers was something she should have soon enough to fill.

“Yes…well, I accept your thanks, if there is any to take.”

“Will you marry me?”

Too quick.

Eyes wide, they both let the question hang between them. It was heavy in the air. Jane, forever the swan, turned her back and began contemplating the books stacked on a table.

“Pardon me, Mistress-“

“Please just call me Kitty.”

“No. Mistress Howard-“

“He’s going to take me. I don’t want him to take me.”

Her business like persona crumbled, and despite her best intentions, Kitty was crying. Not the pretty weeping she often used to make the King calm down his heavy petting, nor the graceful teary eyes that had prevented punishments back in the household of the Duchess Agnes, but real tears. Scared crying. The type of thing that she hadn’t done since Master Dereham had first kissed her without warning. But this felt so much worse. She was trapped.

Cromwell hadn’t seen her as a woman, but collapsing before him, he actually saw the girl. Getting up from his chair, he rounded the desk and took her into a comforting embrace.”

“Don’t cry, little one.”

Little one. He hadn’t used that since his daughters had died. His own bastard girl had always just been “my Jane”. But he felt so responsible. Kitty Howard might be one of the Howards, but the Duke wasn’t asking his daughter to lay with the King. Or at least, she wasn’t in here crying to him.

“I don’t want him touching me. Please!”

She was in hysterics, and he didn’t know what to do. Lady Rochford had basically given up pretending to be distracted, and looked on in horror as her pretty leader basically heaved with pain. He got down to her level, and lifted her chin.

“Mistress Howard, you need to calm down.”

“You said my service would be rewarded. Instead, he just comes into the Queen’s rooms and pinches me like I’m some common maid!”

She grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Mistress-“

“Help me.”

Looking into her eyes, he recognised something. Maybe it was grit. Maybe it was humanity. But something within her tugged at him.

“Mistress Howard, I will do what I can to help you. Now please, I need you to stop crying.”

I’ve got him.

Taking a shaky breath, Kitty stood up. Wordless grabbing the old man’s heavy hand and kissing it, she nodded in silent agreement. Weary of upsetting her again, Cromwell watched in fascination and horror as she walked out, eyes still red from crying. He hoped no gossip would come from this. But this was exactly what Kitty wanted.

Jane followed quickly behind her, practically prancing at a job well done.

“Do you think he’ll marry you?”

Alone and excited, Kitty turned on her heels and beemed up at the gangly woman.

“Janie, I’ll be a countess by winter and a Duchess by Christmas!”

As they walked through the palace, she made a mental note to remind the Queen that the Lady Elizabeth would need a new cape before she left for Hever in a few weeks time. Queen Anne liked to order little gifts for her new children. It irked the King’s eldest daughter, but Kitty wasn’t interested in fostering friendship between the two of them. The Lady Mary Tudor had a habit of looking through Kitty instead of at her, and she would prefer that woman would remove herself from court.

But all in good time. For now, she needed to get back to her post.

 

[Kynan]

Sitting amongst a room of sewing women, you would have not thought much of the Lady Grey. Frances, the daughter of a Princess and a Duke (even one as reckless as her father) was one of the highest born women in this room. In many ways, she considered herself the Queen’s equal. But in her billowing blue dress – an Italian style to accommodate her enlarged stomach – she did not feel especially royal. Particularly not when her cousin Maggie was dressed in such beautiful silks and spinning around the room with the Lady Elizabeth in her arms.

Of course, there were reasons for her foolishness. After killing another Howard flirtation for her Scottish cousin, the King was once again considering an Italian marriage for his favourite niece. Frances had been left with the dull Lord Grey, but the one Lady Margaret Douglas was apparently suitable for a foreign alliance.

In Italy, which made the sting less severe, but a marriage of importance!

Granted, Frances knew the game was less for the eyes of man Lord Sanseverino had sent from Southern Italy. Maggie was too precious a commodity to marry to some third tier princeling from Southern Italy. But Elizabeth in her arms…she was a prize for a Prince.

The regular contenders for English brides didn’t want her. France had nobody to offer that hadn’t already taken off the table. But the Lady Grey kept her ear to the ground. A certain French Princess, who’s own religion was whispered to be less than Papal, was looking for a bride to match her son. If Maggie didn’t make it to Italy, maybe little Elizabeth might.

It would make things easier for her and her girl. Baby Jane was already spritely, and she had a sinking feeling the baby in her belly wasn’t a son to replace her precious boy. As her mind wandered, her hands automatically rubbed against her. The girl who kicked too hard against her skin. She’s name her Anne, after the Queen. With her own baby on the way, it seemed a safer bet than the original choice of Catherine.

Kitty Howard was clearly itching to join the duo on the dance floor. Her over-embroidered slippers, heavy on roses and pears, tapped impatiently on the ground beneath her feet. The only person who wouldn’t be able to see her fidgeting was the queen, directly above her, starring placidly at the display. Frances watched as her hands made quick, neat stitches down a shirt pattern, barely taking a moment to glance down. She had basically given up on her own shirt – a tangled mess under her swollen hands. But Queen Anne sewed without thinking. It was a marvellous, if overly domestic, skill.

When the music finally stopped, she happily dropped her sewing on the ground and clapped politely. It must have been showing on her face, because out of nowhere, the Lady Mary slotted herself in the same corner and picked up the sewing.

“How are your hands?” she whispered, beginning to unpick the mess.

“Swollen, and red, and unwilling to co-operate. Yours?”

“Nimble and long.”

“You tease!”

The two quickly stifled snorts while Maggie began rounding up the maids to twirl around the floor. Frances nudged her cousin to stand.

“Frances, no.”

“I hear the Queen has asked that German man back for the birth…”

“Yes, and?”

“You need practice dancing. You move like an old woman now.”

Faced with a stern glare, she picked up the hand of the King’s Daughter, and rubbed along the knuckles.

“Get married and let your fingers swell up like mine, dearest Mary.”

In many ways, nobody should have dared speak so brazenly to the King’s eldest daughter. But the truth was, there were very few people who knew this woman with red hair and a temper like Frances did. Maybe Eleanor, but she was back in the country to give birth. Certainly not Maggie, who she thought was very foolish. That Mary was more often in their cousin’s presence didn’t really cross her mind. It felt obvious to her that their relationship was special. Which was why Mary simply squeezed her hand back, placed the sewing on her lap, and joined the merry circle, where little Elizabeth spun with delight while a gaggle of women held hands around her.

---

Henry was especially joyous tonight. The day had felt crisp, rather than cold. His son had apparently gone sledding, and his Elizabeth had impressed the Italians. They also made comments about young Maggie, but there was nothing for that girl in Italy. Knowing her and her hot Scottish blood, she’d only make a fool of herself. He just wanted her off the bloody Howard boy. The second Howard boy!

He understood the allure of the Howards all too well. His current obsession had stayed behind with his Queen for company. It was too sweet that the woman he loved was so kind to the one he had married. Even if that meant a meal without her lovely company. And the meal was delicious. Pheasant and beef and potatoes stewed in some sort of apple glaze. Sweets would come later, built into visions of forests, knights, and maidens in towers. He had ordered a special one of a witch be made for Elizabeth, in honour of her potential betrothal. It had been made with blackberry drops for eyes. It would be like she was eating her own mother.

It was then that Cromwell finally arrived to the court, and his mind focused on something more important than food.

The man who scrambled to his seat was heated, and all around messy. Henry expected this of many men, but not this one. With his hat askew and his double crumpled, he looked like he had woken up very suddenly and rushed to dinner. His son arrived moments later, storming across the hall to sit as far as he could from his father, the nearly minted Earl of Essex. Curious, Henry sent a page to fetch him. He chucked to himself as the man put down the first bite of the night and scurried up to the King’s side.

“Cromwell, old man, what has happened to you?”

It was loud enough to make a scene for the few close by, but intimate enough to prevent the crowd from looking at them with interest. Plenty jovial. But Henry always kept a threat handy. Sloppiness from his best man was a bad look.

“I apologise, your Majesty. I took some time this afternoon to sort family business, and the evening just…ran away from me.”

“Family business, eh? Nothing too serious, I hope! How is the Lady Elizabeth doing with her newest babe?”

“Quite well, I should say. She should return to court and the service of the Queen before Spring.”

“Good, good…so what family business made you look like you’ve come back from war?

Henry gestured a wristless hand across Cromwell’s general direction, and the man pulled his cloak a little tighter to hide the pulled belt and messy sleeves.

“Just a minor disagreement.”

“You’re fighting your son in my court, Cromwell?”

With that, he burst into laughter, and turned to Brandon. His oldest companion, who had not been listening at all due to an interest in a maid across the hall, turned and bellowed his usual merriment. His little wife, the prim Lady Catherine, gave her usual tight smile, before returning to the carrots she’d piled onto her plate. Henry hated carrots. He wondered why she liked them.

“Lord Brandon, have you ever heard Lord Cromwell to fight?”

“I couldn’t imagine him raising his fists to a fly!”

The two laughed again, and Thomas Cromwell couldn’t help but snap back.

“I was fighting in wars through my youth, as a soldier. I wager I’ve seen more battles in my lifetime than our fair Duke here...your Majesty.”

It was Brandon’s turn to growl, but Henry turned from him completely and ignored the slight on his friend’s honour. His fun had been had, and the truth was the truth. Cromwell wasn’t the athlete that he and his friend had been, but a fighter’s spirit comes in many forms. The Duke of Suffolk, thoroughly annoyed at being humiliated by the upstart, went back to leering at the girl across the room, only to see her in the arms of some little lordling half his age. His wife continued at her meal of carrots – now with the addition of a pheasant she hadn’t touched.

“You’re perfectly right, Cromwell. I would be proud to see you on the battlefield.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

“So, what have you fought over?”

Cromwell went back to nerves, and Henry realised his Lord Great Chamberlain was actually uncomfortable. Which was strange. Messy was an oddity, but everything seemed to always work out for him. Even the Queen had been a gamble that paid of.

“You see…I am considering remarriage.”

“And your son is jealous? Happens to the best of children!”

His eyes flicked over to his Mary, currently scolding Elizabeth in a whisper for something he assumed was unladylike – although the girl was just sitting there quietly at the moment. His eldest was always playing the mother to her. Henry wondered if she would ever marry.

She deserves a King. No less.

“Yes – no – it’s complicated. The question isn’t if I’ll marry, but who asked for the marriage.”

“Oh? What impudent girl of the court has thrown herself at you?”

“I would rather say in private, your Majesty.”

This clearly wasn’t happening. Getting Henry to rise from his seat during a feast was impossible. Not just because he thought it unbecoming of a King, but because he was getting to an age where it was hard to stand up from the throne, so he liked to do it with less of an audience. This was positively scandalous. Cromwell never let himself act like this.

“We shall set up a meeting tomorrow, then. Return to your seat, Cromwell.”

The King returned to his food – but his eyes kept returning to the Cromwells across the room. Something was going on.

---

Frances was amongst those asked to remain after the Queen asked the rest to enjoy the gardens. The illnesses of pregnancy kept her from the grand feast the King had prepared, and Frances was one of three who joined her at a more intimate meal. She might have been grateful for the respite from the noise of a large dinner, if she hadn’t realised their meal was primarily fish and porridge. It seems the Queen had decided on foods from her childhood.

“Lady Frances…”

The Queen spoke between a spoonful of lentils and cod. The smell was atrocious.

“Yes, your Majesty?”

Kitty Howard, the other attendee, kept her face down but her eyes locked on the two of them.

“I…I would like to be the godmother to your child.”

Well…obviously.

Frances plastered on a smile, and the Queen returned it. But that was clearly not the end.

“I thank you for the honour, your Majesty. I plan to name it Anne, if it is a girl, after yourself.”

Kitty tried not to roll her eyes. Frances stopped herself from kicking her.

“But I have..a favour to ask…of…you.”

“Yes?”

Kitty watched them intensely. Nobody ate the disgusting porridge.

“Mistress Howard will be married s…soon. I would like you to…v…witness the marriage. To vouch for…th..the match.”

“I am quite happy to attend the wedding,” she turned to Kitty, “but why would you need someone to vouch for the marriage?”

“We will need your support.”

Frances Grey, who was so often overlooked, suddenly realised the Queen and her pet were both staring at her. Shaky breaths and nervous hands, she settled her cutlery on the table.

“Does she has the King’s permission?”

“She will.”

--

After the dinner, Anne settled on her chamberpot. It was the only time she ever felt somewhat alone, and recent tensions had made it an integral part of her day. Kitty Howard was a nice girl, although not nearly as sneaky as she assumed she was. The Queen realised they had a common interest in survival - the same one that had led to her current, swelling position. But it was more than that. She needed to protect herself not just from the King's interest in her, but her own ambitions. The marriage to Cromwell would solve it all.

Her stance was simple. The role of the Queen with a household of maids was to marry them off respectably. It was also, in the court of King Henry, to marry them off quickly enough that the King didn't promise them anything. She knew what she was up against here. Should the child be a girl, then she was at risk. Her faith was that God would save her, but she was certain God didn't mind some help in that regard.

Besides, the niece of a Duke marrying an Earl was a fine and natural match.

The others were easier to deal with. Henry clearly didn't care much for the Bassett girl outside of warming his bed, so she'd just allowed that to continue for now. The Queen considered her a fine choice to send away with the Lady Mary when she finally got that young woman off to Bavaria. She had even less competition from the ancient Browne woman. That was clearly an affair of boredom.

But the pretty girls - that was her issue. She had no illusions of faithfulness from her husband. His piety clearly wouldn't extend that far and she was uncaring of that. But two Englishwomen had made it to the throne as his bride. Anne would not allow a third.

So she made sure she was clean and returned to her bed, where Henry hopefully might return in the next few hours, and sleep by her side. She'd requested it, claiming to helped prevent illness during her pregnancy. But it was less obvious than that. If he came to get used to her scent, her feel, her presence - he might be used to her. Anne didn't love him, but she didn't want repulsion. She waited with Kitty asleep nearby. He never came.

Not even for her.

 

[Kynan]

Anne was at the point of pregnancy where she was basically wadding when she walked. While she hadn’t reached the swollen discomfort of the Lady Grey – who had been avoiding her since dinner – she wasn’t exactly moving with grace and dignity. Considering her condition, she normally wouldn’t have bothered with this long trek across the palace. But word had reached her that the King and Cromwell had finally met, and she wanted to know what had happened.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t stop and sit, your Majesty?”

That voice came from little Lady Stanley, who’s health had recovered enough to resume her duties. Her tiny stature and pinched face annoyed the Queen, but Anne had to be gracious. Her attendant for this mission should probably have continued to rest. Instead, they were storming across this long hallway.

By the time they made it to Cromwell’s rooms, it was clear something had gone on. His son, a thin-lipped, darting eyed young man, was fuming outside of the door. A shattered clay cup scattered across the floors in front of him. He barely had time to register that the Queen had come up to him before she pushed up the doors and stormed in.

“Fuck off, Gregory!”

And there it was. The King, knife in hand, was glaring into the fireplace. His chief advisor, the Earl of Essex, stood with another mug of some kind at the ready. Both shot to attention at the sight of the heavily pregnant Anne, who swept across the room and to her husband’s side. She noted, as she passed, that Cromwell had a ripped sleeve. She hoped Henry hadn’t reacted that badly.

“My lord husband, what is going on?”

Right on cue, the puffing Lady Stanley pushed the door closed ran to the corner.

“Anne, I- I’m fine,” the King protested, pushing her away gentle and moving to stand, “the Earl and I were just having a conversation.”

“A conversation? This looks like…like war!”

The two men looked at each other, and Henry sheepishly put his knife away while Lord Cromwell adjusted a seat so the Queen could fall into it more easily.

“I apologise for the mess, your Majesty.” he said, helping her sit, and motioning for the red faced woman in the corner to use the stool beside her.

“You should not have come here.”

Henry had sat back down on the chair across from her and glared at Cromwell. Anne ignored the tension in the room. She had come on a mission. Her assumption that Henry wouldn’t want to give up his plaything in Kitty had been correct. But she didn’t expect the obvious violence that had taken place. She looked concerned at Cromwell’s ripped sleeve, which he awkwardly pulled behind his back.

“Send that to my rooms, I’ll make sure it’s mended.”

“That traitor deserves no such help.”

She turned to her husband, who’s face was red with heat.

“What has Lord Cromwell done to deserve your anger?”

The two turned to each other, and Anne realised something. They both thought she didn’t know. These two men assumed that she was still as limited and useless as her first days. But this was all to her advantage. When neither answered, she took control,

“Well, if you d…don’t answer me, I shall continue my purpose. Lord Cromwell, the Mistress Howard has told me you…intend to wed. Is this true?”

Henry snorted, but Anne focused on her target.

“That…that has been discussed.”

“It isn’t happening!”

“Why not?” she pulled her most puzzled expression at Henry, “when he has been sending her flowers and fruit for months?”

She turned to Lady Stanley, who silently nodded, while keeping her eyes at the feet of the men. Anne knew she’d picked correctly. Having Kitty here would have inflamed Henry’s passions. Having any of his nieces or cousins may have given him an unwilling ally. An unmarried beauty would have provided a wrong type of distraction. But Lady Stanley was plain, simpering, and quiet. There was no opportunity to miss her mark.

“He was doing that…on behalf…I mean he was only sending her…”

She didn’t drop her gaze, and she recognised that embarrassment on his face. The King knew that if he admitted the gifts were from him – that he had never stopped wooing the teenage girl in her employ – he was the villain. She was his young, pregnant bride. His eyes dropped quickly to her stomach, and she played it up by placing a hand on the highest point.

“Am I..incorrect in who was sending…her those things?”

Keep the accent heavy – they’ll never suspect a thing!

Cromwell stepped in.

“I did send her those gifts, your Majesty. They were on behalf of her services.”

“Even v…with the love notes?”

She went to rise, except an opportune kick by the impatient babe in her belly took her right back down. Henry’s eyes widened in fear, and she had to wave of his move towards her.

“Are you-“

“Our duke is too strong, my love. He kicks at your Queen.”

“I shall send him to the Tower.”

It may have been the first time since they found out she was pregnant that he had shown her any affection. That smile filled her full of sunshine. But not to be deterred from her mission, Anne decided enough was enough. Pulling out the waterworks, she turned to the Lady Stanley and began to cry. Right on cue, Stanley began to comfort her, and looked around the room in shock.

“There, there, your Majesty.”

“Anne, what is wrong?”

“Can I offer the Queen anything? An apple?”

Cromwell grabbed a (somewhat bruised) apple from his desk and began to hastily cut a slice from the cleaner side. But Anne turned on the King.

“Why can’t he marry Mistress Howard? I want her to stay at court! I am worried she will fall in love with a petty knight and leave while I am in confinement. She is my friend!”

Henry was up now, and waved away Stanley, who stood beside a bewildered Cromwell, watching in disbelief as the German woman leaned into that giant man’s shoulder, wailing insanely. She had to wonder if Cromwell noticed how few tears she actually shed. It didn’t matter, but she was curious.

“He can – he will! The Earl will marry Mistress Howard before the month is through.”

“I will.”

“You will.”

Heaving still, Anne wiped her eyes to try and salvage her face, and smiled at Henry, who gave her a tense one in return. Pulling his hand to her stomach, she waited until another kick came. Even through the thick fabric of her gown, he felt it. Eyes lighting up, he once again looked at her with something almost resembling love.

“Do you feel him?”

“I feel our boy.”

“Our Henry.”

It was the King who walked her back to her rooms, and she felt grateful. Almost as grateful as Frances Brandon when she realised she wasn’t going to be pulled into a shrouded wedding. The Queen had considered it, but this was much easier. Only Kitty Howard seemed unhappy, watching with wary eyes as King Henry enthralled the room with the story of how his boy had kicked the Queen.

 

[Kynan]

Mary sat in her rooms with only a maid for company, unbearably excited but unwilling to show it. Preparations were being made for the Queen’s guests and wellwishers to arrive and see the birth of her child. Son. Her father was obsessed with the idea a boy was on the way. But the party would bring certain excitements.

The grandest of guests was the Elector of Saxony, his wife and eldest son. While the Electoress Consort was the Queen’s sister, Mary guessed that her father wanted to size up another husband for Elizabeth. The Duke of Nevers would represent France – particularly as a cousin to the Queen – leaving his wife with their newborn son to recover at home. The Hapsburgs, to her disappointment, had only sent their thoughts and prayers.

But there was one man she was excited for.

Now, Mary was perfectly content to remain unwed. Yes, she was hugely jealous of Frances and Eleanor’s babies, and had recently had to send her cousin a gift for the birth of little Margaret Clifford. Motherhood might not be on the table for her. She had accepted that her role would be an ornament of her father’s court, and hopefully, something greater in her brother’s. But maybe, she could be something more.

Duke Philip would be returning, and if the Queen had managed to secure Kitty Howard her odd obsession with the Earl of Essex, surely this should be easy enough. He was suitable enough for a royal bastard, as her father declared her. And since she was not one, she was grander a bride than he could ever have hoped.

Granted, it wasn’t blood that drew her to him, it was kindness. He was just so…sweet. Joyful. Calm. When they had met last year, he had brought extra firewood and bed warmers as gifts, when a cold snap had made Spring chillier than expected. She remembered the poem he had written her – now hidden amongst her books as a precious secret. It had been clumsy and cloying, but sincere.

And today, he was return to England.

Usually, she would have busied herself with ensuring her sister was equally as prepared, but Elizabeth’s caretakers were plenty aware of what was needed. Instead, she funnelled her attentions to her dress. The simple blacks and reds of her usual dress were unacceptable. She wanted to stand out, and the court would all be in their finery.

White would be inappropriate – it would read as French mourning – and she had no spring yellow after her father had tainted the colour for her on her mother’s death. But blue washed her out – Maggie had warned her that the colour was unbecoming. Green was too common. She did, however, have something made in pink. It was a little old fashioned and heavy, but paired with the French hood rather than her usual gable, she might look quite pretty.

She resisted the urge to pull out the little pot of red paste Lady Salisbury had gifted her years prior. Her poor friend languished in the Tower, despite many’s best efforts. Mary hoped that the birth of a son would bring her father into a more forgiving mood soon enough to have her home.

Is it selfish to think of love when she’s so thoughtlessly treated?

It often distracted her. On days where she should be focusing on the day, her mind wandered to that tower in London. Lady Salisbury had been her constant companion. She remembered her embrace when news came that the King had “married” the Boleyn woman. The tears they had shed together when her mother had died. The last letter she had written her, begging for help, that Mary had burned to protect them both.

It was in this returned state of sobriety that Mary had switched from the pink to a stately but unflattering red, and back to the gable. It felt like a suit of armour. She looked her part, and not a smidge more invested.

The palace was aflutter with preparations, and she took this time to visit Frances, steadfast in her refusal to admit that her lying in should have started at least week ago, and not after the Queen went in for hers this week. Instead, she spent most of her days sitting in rooms where she could pretend to be busy. Today, it was to guide the preparations for the Saxon suite. Last minute touch ups to make it a stunning experience.

“Frances – don’t get up!”

One of the little annoyances of having a heavily pregnant cousin who was a stickler for proper order was her constant need to rise and curtsey when she entered the room. Thankfully, what was in her belly made her move slowly, and Mary was basically by her side before she could even get herself up.

“Oh bugger!” she muttered while flopped back onto the chair. Mary stifled a laugh.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

“I’m not here for my health.”

The two of them fell into giggles for a moment, and Mary remembered just how restless she had been waiting for news of her labour with little Jane – while Mary dealt with what she had to with Queen Jane’s unfortunate situation. That damn Lord Grey was so slow to provide news that she’d felt insane waiting. And now another Queen’s pregnancy meant Mary couldn’t dedicate herself to her cousin yet again.

“You should be resting.”

“And you should dress nicer. You look like a matron in that hood.”

Frances tutted as she turned Mary’s head in her hands and tucked back a few stray hairs that has escaped her.

“I look fine.”

“You could look beautiful. I don’t know why you’re dressed so dowdily.”

“It isn’t my day.”

“It could be!”

“Lady Salisbury-“

“Is a traitor and awaiting her execution. Let’s not speak of her on such a joyous day.”

Frances, still playing with Mary’s hood to put her to full advantage, slid her eyes over to the maids and servants. It was a warning. Do not speak too freely in these rooms.

Or ever.

 

[Kynan]

Elizabeth didn’t like the Saxon boys who had joined the court. While the Elector and his wife were nice enough, their sons were pompous and rude. For one thing, they refused to be given nicknames. When Elizabeth had asked John Wilhelm if she could call him Will or Johnwill, he had dismissed her with a snooty “do not refer to me at all” before running off to play at war games with his brother. But if the younger boy was annoying (and apparently a surprise arrival), John Frederick was significantly worse.

Flaxen haired with a heavy mouth, Elizabeth had initially thought him quite handsome. It was nice to know that one of the boys her father considered for her was actually in her presence. But within hours of meeting, he had soured the mood.

It wasn’t just that he was snobbish. Elizabeth knew her…situation, if you wanted to call it that, was complicated. But she was his new cousin, and she had expected some level of decency, and maybe even affection. Instead, he took one look at her, one at Mary, and then didn’t look at them again. Not a glance. Didn’t respond when she asked him questions. Ate beside her silently, staring out at a court that clearly wanted some indication of warmth between them.

He'd been even worse to Mary, although Elizabeth didn’t quite understand how. The Bavarian Duke had arrived later than the rest of the party, having stayed behind to secure a gift for her sister. Elizabeth had seen the gleam of rubies and pearls only briefly, but knew it was a costly set of jewels. But shortly after they’d been handed to her, the little princeling had come to pull him away, and whispered something that had made her sister angry. Nobody was quite sure what – Mary had made it clear it wasn’t to be repeated – but it was something harsh enough that she had completely shut down.

That had been two days ago.

Maggie Douglas had been tasked with entertaining her while Mary shut herself in her rooms and the Queen finished preparations for her lying in. Elizabeth didn’t find her very fun. While Mary loved their cousins dearly, the younger Tudor girl found Maggie a little scary. It was nice to be in her orbit when times were good, but after whatever had happened with Charlie Howard, Elizabeth remembered the screaming. The dramatics came easily to her.

Which was why the arrival of the Electress was such a welcome surprise.

She wasn’t a tall woman like the Queen was. In many ways, Elizabeth had expected the two to look similar. But while Anne had a round, happy face, Lady Sibylle looked like a fox. Her eyes in particular stood out – long, grey and always moving. Elizabeth prided herself on the ability to hold someone’s attention, but this was a woman who made her work for it. Even as she curtsied for her guest, the woman’s gaze had already strayed to Maggie’s frayed skirt hems, the pile of books by the fire that Elizabeth had spent her night pouring through for good poetry, and back to Elizabeth, who never stopped watching her. Then she smiled and pretending like she hadn’t just scoured the room.

“Ma chère fille, levez-vous, nous sommes tous une famille ici.”

Elizabeth’s French was good enough to know she was putting it on, but it was nice that somebody cared enough to do that. It helped that she was sure her accent was better than this adult woman’s. So, smiling, she said a simple “merci” and took the lady’s hand. Maggie had warned her this morning that she wasn’t to complain to anyone else about the Saxon boys, and she held her tongue when asked if she liked them.

“Comment aimez-vous mes garçons ?”

“Ils ont l'air courageux.”

“Courageux?”

She nodded. Brave was the nicest word she could come up with, after John Wilhelm had bested a boy three years his senior in a practice fight yesterday while Elizabeth had been watching. He, at least, acknowledged her presence with a glance.

Maggie, meanwhile, scurried behind them, furious her accent would mark her as a formerly terrible student, and thus she had to stay quiet.

 

[Kynan]

Kitty could only stall the wedding for so much longer. The Queen was desperately close to popping, and she just needed to be sure that pathway was closed before she settled into her role as Countess. Granted, she hadn’t had many opportunities to steal away and stoke the King’s fires. Instead, Queen Anne spent basically her entire days coming up with reasons to either keep her busy, or send her off to Lord Essex’s apartments.

Gregory Cromwell was particularly annoying about all of this. Despite everything, she didn’t want her new family to hate her. All going well, she’d be his stepmother soon. But he despised everything she was. And judging by the curt letter she’d just received from his wife, he wasn’t the only one.

Her wedding was due to happen within the next few days, so the Queen could have her as part of the lying in entourage. The Electress seemed especially keen to attend, and Kitty wondered just how much of this was to be sure their alliance wasn’t replaced in the event that everything went wrong. She’d brought new, flattering portraits of the Lady Amelia, who they were apparently helping negotiate in marriage to the Count of Enghien, who’d joined the Duke of Nevers as a Protestant-friendly French representative.

Of course, Kitty guessed their real hope was that if the King lost one Cleves Queen, he’d replace her with another. Not helped by the fact that the Elector had managed to extend his party further with his unmarried sister, Margaret of Saxony. Thankfully, the heavy German girl managed to be both boring and ugly, leaving Kitty no real foes.

Except the pretty blonde girl in their ranks.

Philippine Welser was too young for her King. People whispered she'd been sent to spy for the Hapsburgs. Kitty knew he wouldn’t look at her as more than a child and maybe a treat. But that didn’t mean he would see her that way forever. Already tall for her age, Kitty saw her and remembered how young she’d been when the men of the world decided she was a woman. Henry might not have a penchant for girls, but Kitty didn’t know when he’d consider one a woman. After all, she was barely 16 herself. Charles Brandon had already begun to eye the banker’s niece with interest.

But for now, she’d come as part of the German parade, and the Queen was already talking about adding her to the maids of the court. That came with certain protections. Kitty had already basked in the glory of being an ascendent Queen’s pet. But she had to prevent her from staying, or at least ruin her for the King. That’s when she decided to turn to Charlie.

He spent his days playing at swords and his nights dancing for the King. Her unscrupulous brother was the one who let her know what smells he liked, what songs he sang, what treats he loved. He’d also recently seduced a Princess of his own, although Lady Douglas had been a dead end for them. But with his handsome brown eyes and penchant for poetry, she just knew he’d be a sheltered German girl’s dream.

“Brother!” she practically screamed, jumping into his arms. His friends at court all knew she was his favourite sibling, despite the presence of their brother George, and the scheduled arrival of their sister Mary before the Christmas festivities began in a few months. Charlie and Kitty had a special bond. The fact that the bond was based on mutual ambition was besides the point.

“Kitty – how lovely you look in your new dress.”

She knew that was a dig. The dress was a cast off from the Queen – ordered before her baby was official and likely never to fit again. The colour was flattering enough, but she hated the style. Too German, too heavy, too conservative. But she only had so much to wear. Nevertheless, she twirled for Charlie and his band of courtier friends, including an incredibly shy little Henry Brandon, who had taken to following the men around like a puppy. Seeing an opportunity to make a friend in a child, she dropped down and pulled out a candied lemon treat, offering it to the young boy, who graced her with a chubby grin. He’d tell his father about the treat, and he might tell the King.

“I was wondering if you might take me for a walk around the gardens.”

Her brother raised his eyebrows, but Kitty was determined to keep this light. Turning away from the men, she leaned over the wall many leaned on to watch the Saxon boys hit at each other with sticks. Somebody was guiding them to better form, but she recognised where enthusiasm overtook natural talent. It broke her heart a little to see the Lady Elizabeth watching from a distance, but the Queen had decided she was too busy to play with the King’s daughter. She waved at the girl, realised she wasn’t going to be seen, and then turned back to the men eyeing her.

Even little Lord Brandon watched her, wide-eyed and now sticky with candy.

“So, Charlie, are you free to take me for a walk?”

“I am if he’s not, my lady!” squeaked one of the young boys. She didn’t recognise him, but guessed he was one of the Grey boys – John or Thomas. Nobody cared much for the grey-eyed Greys. Still, it was never nice (or practical) to burn a bridge. She smiled and giggled, before shooting Charlie a look. He’d spent the interaction trying to stifle laughter at an act he was acutely aware of.

“I’m sorry, my good man, but I wouldn’t be much of a brother to send my sister off with the likes of you.”

The boy blushed, and Kitty wondered what he had done to earn the rowdy laughter and elbowing that followed. Suddenly, she was very aware, again, that this was a secluded spot where a dozen men were watching her. Refusing to be shaken, she took her brother’s arm and waved behind her to the men they left behind.

It didn’t take long to get her to the garden.

“So, I have a favour to ask you.”

“You always do.”

“I do not! And I give as good as I take. Remember that manor just outside of York you now have. You didn’t get that for your fine work sleeping with the scullery maids.”

“You underestimate the King’s love of a good story, dear Kitty.”

She smacked him for that.

“I’m being serious, Charlie. I need you to seduce someone.”

He sighed, smiled, and picked her a flower that still blossomed from the bushes. As he stuck it behind her ear, she noticed his sneaking glance, and mouthed the word “who” to him. Throwing himself into laughter, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, before answering.

“The Lady Mary has left her cave.”

Straightening up, she kept their gait natural and easy, managing to only get a quick look at the gloomy woman in grey who seemed to be pacing the grass with no real purpose. From a distance, the German party were enjoying the sunshine. She noted that the tall blonde man was watching the King’s daughter, and she was unable to stop looking back at him.

Turning back to Charlie, she turned to him and smiled brightly.

“Start paying court to the German banker girl. She’s already getting too much attention. She’s rich, so if you can marry her, all the better. But I need you to go.”

“Go? That’s a lot of instruction for you to send me away so quickly.”

“Lady Mary hates you on behalf of Lady Douglas. If we walk over together, she’ll leave. But she has no problem with me. Please go and let me see what I can make happen here.”

He snorted, kissed her cheek, and ran back up to his friends, who had relocated close by, like a flock of seagulls chasing a meal.

Kitty, meanwhile, played it safe. Just walking up to Mary would be suspicious. But a maid of the court with a handful of flowers, wandering around looking for more, that was doable. Before Mary could notice, she reached back into the bushes and picked about half a dozen flowers very quickly, filling her arms with whites, yellows and reds. Then, she turned and began lightly skipping.

Mary barely noticed the figure walking towards her, Kitty made a point to ignore her at first, picking flowers around the area. Then she played the actress, turning around the bend and coming face to face with the pinched lip woman. Pulling out her best shocked face, she let a couple of flowers drop as she ‘scrambled’ to drop to a curtsey. While she watched stone faced, the woman before her did quickly motion her up.

“Lady Mary, I hope you’re well.” she said brightly.

She didn’t look well. Up close, the angry face was sunken and grey. Clearly whatever had set her off had been bad enough to cause some damage. Kitty had seen her tense up when the Germans had arrived, and yesterday’s French entourage had seen her be utterly unconvincing at playing happy. She pretended not to notice, and scooped up the flowers at her feet.

“I am well enough, Mistress Howard.”

“Would you like a flower?”

She offered her a particularly pretty yellow one – it matched the one in her hair. Mary waved it off.

“No, thank you. I’m just out here for some exercise.”

Kitty nodded wisely, and then smiled wide.

“Would you mind if I joined you? I often worry I don’t get enough fresh air. The Queen has not been outside in weeks – not that I mind! There’s a prince on the way.”

Mary shrugged, and Kitty knew this was the right move. Too simple to say no to, too nice to snap at. This was a woman raised with some level of manners. Friendly company was easy to accept.

“What brings you out to the gardens?”

“Flowers. The Queen keeps such lovely bouquets, I wanted one for my own bedside.”

Mary snorted, and Kitty made a point of bending down and picking another.

Live the lie.

“I hear your lover keeps you heavily in flowers.”

For a split second, she wanted to smack her for that dig. But she controlled it, and instead smiled brightly.

“Not lovers yet, my lady. I’m yet to be wed to Lord Essex.”

The two smiled politely at each other, and Kitty suddenly realised she was losing the battle. Changing tactics, she sighed towards the Germans.

“What was that?”

“What was what, ma’am?”

“That heavy sigh. The heave. What was that?”

“Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I did that. I apologise. That was an accident.”

Her eyes trailed over to the Bavarian Duke, and Kitty knew she was on the money. Closer to him, she realised the man was closer to forty than he was to youth, and that solid frame was going to fat around the gut. But Mary looked at him like a tragic heroine of folk tales.

“He’s quite handsome,” she gave a shy smile, “and quite nice. I heard he’d promised to send the Lady Elizabeth some books in Greek from his personal library.”

Mary just nodded, but Kitty knew she had a soft spot for her sister. This was an opening.

“He’s quite generous. Even before the promise, he’d given her a book of histories about the Crusades. And when he came in to see the Queen last night – before the banquet – he gave us all such beautiful gifts. Something small but beautiful for everyone. I got a lovely set of rings. What did he bring you, my lady?”

Mary unknowingly fingered the pendant at her neck, before abruptly stopping.

“What do you want, Mistress Howard?”

Apparently, Kitty wasn’t as subtle as she assumed.

“I was just asking a question, ma’am. I apologise if I overstepped. I just wanted to cheer you up.”

It was a half-truth. But Kitty knew it wasn’t enough.

“Why would you think you had the right to come and bother me with your nonsense?”

She let her eyes tear up.

“I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to be impudent.”

She let herself leak out enough tears to seem real, before wiping them away – keeping the flowers in her arms. The Lady Mary clearly switched back from angry to uncomfortable and guilty. But she stood her ground.

“I think it would be best for you to go back to your mistress, Mistress Howard. I apologise for snapping at you, but this was inappropriate. I will not say anything, and I expect the same of you.”

Kitty nodded and walked away, while Mary sighed and sat herself under a tree, unseen by the German crowd. That hadn’t been quite a disaster, but it had been risky. But at least the girl with a handful of flowers knew her brother was on the case. Later that night, Miss Welser was seen in the Queen’s rooms with her own flower. Yellow, like the one in her own hair.

 

[Kynan]

Anne had not had a great time of confinement.

That was an understatement. Not only was her body swollen and her back aching, but nothing she had planned had come to fruition as she had hoped. Mistress Howard remained a maid, declaring herself too nervous to marry until after the baby was born. The Lady Mary had barely received her sister and nephews before disappearing into her rooms. Maggie Douglas kept complaining about not being allowed into Anne’s inner circle. And worst of all…Sibylle was “helping”.

She loved her sister, but the eldest daughter of Cleves had a tendency to completely demolish a room. In this case, it meant ignoring her requests for a quiet and tranquil confinement. Instead, a woman had been brought in with a set of pipes, and Sibylle had the women dancing for her entertainment. The fact that Anne hated the pipes, and the dancing was bad did not help.

Nor was her insistence on pairing her son with Anne’s daughter. Elizabeth clearly did not like her Saxon nephews and considering a recent spat where John Frederick had almost lost one of the Dudley boys an eye, she couldn’t blame her. Worst of all, they played rough with the Prince, and if anything happened to that boy…England would have her head.

Granted, her mind had not been on that for a while. Almost a day to her mind. Instead, it was on the pain.

“Push!” screamed the midwife.

---

Elizabeth knew the hush meant the Queen was in labour. They’d barely said goodbye to her before it was announced. Early. Not scarily early, but early enough that people were worried. In all the whispers and darting eyes, she guessed things weren’t going well.

“Maggie,” she tugged at the tall woman’s loose sleeve, “is the Queen okay?”

“Yes.”

Her cousin pushed her away, watching anxiously out the door and down the hallway, where a series of eyes looked for an announcement. Elizabeth peered past her and counted about a dozen men and women doing the same thing. Frustrated and bored, she returned to the carpet, where Edward was playing with a rag horse. Picking up a paper doll, she waddled it over and started pretending to ride his toy. Upset that his own game had been tampered with, her brother started crying, and Elizabeth was shunned to the couch, with a book and a stern look from the half dozen adults in the room.

“Now, missy, you need to focus on your studies and not playtime.”

She was then once again ignored, while the burly Scotswoman began bouncing Edward while pacing the room. Elizabeth looked at the book she’d been given. It was in Greek.

She didn’t speak Greek.

---

Kitty knew what she had to do. It had been twenty hours since the Queen had started her labour, and still no child. Chances were this was the end of her. Taking a deep breath, she walked through the secret door Henry had shown her months ago, and entered the King’s bedroom, where he sat alone and worried.

Staring out his window, she knew he had demanded privacy unless the Queen’s condition had improved. He had lost one bride to childbed, he could very well lose another. There was no time to lose, and so she steadied herself, let her eyes well up, and ran to his side before he noticed her enter.

“Henry, you must be so worried!”

She never called him Henry if she could help it, but she knew the King loved it when she used his name. The men in his circle called him “Harry”, but “Henry” made him feel young again. And in this moment, so intimate, so precious, he would feel the walls between them were breaking down. She stared into his eyes as he processed that she was there, dressed in a simple grey dress, hair loose, alone in a room together for the first time. She let herself heave, and touched his chest, hoping to stir him into action..

Kitty didn’t get a chance to pull any further dramatics before he pulled her into a kiss and started pawing at her skirt. In the end, they were finished in less than 5 minutes. His breath was hot, and sour, and lingered. But for the speed, he was tender.

Playing the rosy cheeked virgin, she trembled and flustered her way out of the room. He kissed her hand. Their eyes met, and his had a twinkle in them. It was like two lovers.

It was two lovers.

She waited behind the door hidden by a tapestry as a messenger came into the room and whispered to the King to announce the birth of a Prince and cursed her impatience. There would be no quick rush to the alter. If she was pregnant, she would have to marry Cromwell immediately.

---

Anne had a surprisingly long time to hold her son before the King arrived. He was tiny and red and had a tuft of hair so blond it was almost white – Sibylle had laughed and asked if they’d snuck in one of her babies. But the dozen witnesses to her days of pain could attest this was her baby. Her precious son.

Henry arrived looking dishevelled and smelling odd. Like roses over a lingering fish smell. It was odd, but she ignored it. When she presented the King’s son to him, he smiled and kissed the hand closest to his head. Looked the boy in the eyes and mouthed “thank you” to his Duke of York.

“May I present to you,” he said, holding the infant in his arms, “Prince Henry William Tudor, my son and your Duke of York!”

It was the King who accepted the congratulations. Henry who basked in the glory. But it was Anne who had won. Her gamble had paid off. Nobody could touch her. Despite all their whispers and comments, she had triumphed. Her labour was long because her boy was strong. His cries filled the room and she heard a lion’s roar.

Exhausted, she went to sleep on that sound, and dreamed of a dozen more sons and daughters, all with golden hair and happy smiled.

 

[Kynan]

Mary had been one of the last to see her latest brother upon his birth. Little Henry William had been born while she had taken to her knees in a private chapel to pray for the Queen, who she had been sure was close to death. But here he was, the Duke of York her father had so desperately wanted. Tiny and precious, but as strong as a horse. She looked into his round, blue eyes and saw herself, her sister, her aunt, her cousins. The Tudor gaze. He'd held strong through the endless parading and parties. Her brother would be a lion, not a sheep.

Elizabeth had declared the infant too noisy, and Mary had giggled when she'd run off complaining at how obsessed the court was "with just a baby". Once the baptism was done, she’d be back to Hatfield with Edward and now little Henry, and Mary would return to her own household. Her father had made it clear that his family time was over, and they’d only be back for Christmas. The Germans would leave, the world would settle down, and she’d remain as she always was.

Except…he had not stop attending to her.

Duke Philip paid homage to her almost every day. Sometimes it was small gifts, sometimes it was love letters. Once he’d sent her a box filled with candied cherries – she had eaten one a day every day since. But what he didn’t gift her was his presence.

Her father had called her to attendance, and she’d dutifully followed a page to the chambers where he sat with his gaggle of young, boisterous men. They all quick their tittering when she arrived, but she did notice who was not there. No Lord Brandon, no Lord Howard, no Lord Cromwell. It was a half empty room in many ways, and the closest thing she’d have had to a private conversation with the King in years.

“Your Majesty.”

She dropped to a curtsey and went as low as possible. From the corner of her eye, she could feel Charlie Howard leering at her.

“Mary, rise – come sit with me!”

Fatherhood always put a glow into the King’s face, but Mary sense something a little less triumphant than just the joy of having two living sons. His body was loose, but his eyes were squinted and worried. The pale arches of his eyebrows were moving incessantly, and she instantly wondered if he was going to tell her some awful news. Something to feel guilty over.

Is he still going to get rid of the Queen?

But still, she stood up carefully, smoothed her skirt, and sat on the stool beside him, pretending they weren’t in a room of adolescents pretending to busy themselves with card games and gossip. The King suddenly snapped to attention at the same Master Howard she had been acutely aware of, and snapped his fingers at him. Immediately abandoning his friends, he sauntered over to them both, and Mary wondered what about this swaggering boy had so intoxicated Maggie mere months ago.

“Charlie, I want you to go to the kitchen, have them pull together a basket of whatever the freshest fruit we have is, and bring it to the Queen. Once that’s done, get them to prepare the horses and take the Saxon boys out for a ride. I won’t have them call my hospitality lethargic.”

The tall, dark eyed boy nodded and bowed, but even Mary could see he was annoyed. He sauntered off, and her father gave her a knowing side glance. She wondered how long the boy would have lasted had her father not been infatuated with his sister. Certainly that introduction had saved him last year, but Kitty Howard could only last so long after her wedding – set before the week ended. Maybe then all the Howards would start to fizzle away.

But clearly she wasn’t here for company, and when her father leaned into her ear, she held every part of her still. No need to show anyone how much she missed being near him. It would only embarrass them both for her to react to the affection.

“The Saxons have requested to take Elizabeth back with them to prepare her for marriage to John William, and I am considering it.”

Mary’s eyes wanted to go wide, but she bit her cheek for stability and simply nodded while starring at a cracked tile. Elizabeth…sent off to some dreary offshoot of the Electorate with these boys who hated her. It was almost too much to hear. But her father would never just update her on something like this without reason. With immense pressure building in her head, she slowly nodded to show she’d heard.

“But Mary…I could not lose both of you in one sweep.”

This is what made her head involuntarily turn to him.

“Lose us?”

The inside of her cheek was now bleeding, but she couldn’t focus on the pain. Her father was sending them both away? She’d join Elizabeth in Saxony?

“Lord Philip had requested your hand in marriage again, but I will not send you away without your permission, my girl.”

He lifted a hand to her chin, and Mary gripped it with her own hand.

Philip asked for me?

“Father…”

“I would not send you off to be unhappy. So, I ask you Mary, what would bring you happiness?”

Her head was spinning. Philip. Handsome Philip. With kind eyes and big hands. Her father was offering her a chance to marry him. A man without God as she knew him in his heart. A prince without his title. Gentle and funny Philip. Suddenly, a future with her own babies, her own husband, her own home seemed real. But also, so far away. He’d left the last time saying he’d be back for her, but they hadn’t seen each other. He’d also said nothing when the blond boy had called her a Popish bastard.

It was too much to hear. One choice more than she was willing to make. She looked up into her father’s eyes, much like her own, and spoke the words she knew he wanted to hear.

“My happiness, father, is your happiness.”

He nodded, and she began to wonder what exactly that meant for her.

 

[Kynan]

Philippine Welser found the attentions of Charles Howard quite terrifying.

It wasn’t that she found him awful. Of the men who circulated through the Queen’s chambers day in and day out, he was amongst the most charming, and the handsomest. But that was the problem. Everyone seemed to desire him, but he seemed wholly focused on her. Which was why she was not attending the wedding of Katherine Howard and the Earl of Essex on his arm, dwarfed under his height.

The ceremony was not expensive, and Mistress Howard had had to borrow a gown from Frances Brandon, still recovering from the birth of another daughter – this one named Anne. Still, Philippine thought she looked quite pretty, but a little like a lamb to slaughter. They were so close in age, and yet she felt so much younger than the 16-year-old in heavy damask.

King Henry was attending by himself, Queen Anne still unable to attend events like this. But her presence was still felt, with the Saxons amongst the crowd, and the pearls on the bride’s neck as a gift from her mistress. Not to be outdone, the King had given Katherine a barony on her own right – thus stood the Baroness Howard.

And the bride’s brother kept touching her arm.

It felt like everyone kept looking back at her, an interloper amongst the royalty and seasoned courtiers. Her hair was held back under a headdress her uncle had ordered in Brussels, and her dress was made to sit loose on her, to hide how tiny she was. Her mother had gifted her a pot of rouge to use for special occasions, but she liked to keep her face bare. It felt ridiculous to pretend to be grown up amongst the English women.

“I now present, Lord and Lady Cromwell!”

The King seemed absolutely giddy as the old man and his young bride walked turned to the party, and Philippine was able to watch as his lips touched her cheeks. It should have been a friendly gesture, but the room seemed…tense. Particularly Lord Cromwell, who didn’t let go of her waist, despite her pull away. She wondered if he would be a jealous husband. Her father was not one, but she knew some men hid their wives away. Maybe Lady Cromwell would be shut off in the country?

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

That was Charles Howard. He looked down at her with a smile that seemed sincere, and back to his sister. She noticed they shared the same long nose, and suddenly they seemed more human to her. But all she did was nod and smile, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead before leaving to hug his sister.

Before she could settle back down, a young man, maybe her age, pulled her aside.

“Watch out for Charlie Howard.”

Round faced and long nosed, she guessed them to be related. But it was his eyes that terrified her. Large and dark, he stared at her with intensity she didn’t know what to do with.

“Do not trust him. Take care around Charlie Howard.”

She took a step back, and he suddenly burst into laughter as she turned to see her partner across the room, staring at them. She smiled brightly, unclear what was going on, and before she knew it, she had been pulled away with the ladies, who were congratulating the new Countess of Essex on her brilliant match.

--

Mary Stafford had never expected to return to court. Her sister’s execution years prior had put a damper on any sort of hope she had for the place, as did her growing family. But here she was, at the wedding of her cousin, dragged along by her giddy husband, with their daughter on her hip and her belly round and full.

They’d been amongst those to greet the Queen, and now they were here for her rival. Kitty Howard, somehow, had remembered them from her brief sojourn in the household of the Lady Norfolk. Now they sat amongst foreign royalty and played attentions to the bride and groom at this informal celebration.

The worst moment had been reuniting with the King. They’d been so beautiful when they’d been lovers. She’d been in the bloom of youth, and he’d been the truest of knights. Now her dark hair hung limp and greying, while his strength had turned to fat. But still, he embraced her warmly, and complimented her pretty daughter. She didn’t have the head to mention they’d lost a son in the interim.

And like always, her Will took it in stride and smiled. He was never cross, never cruel, never mean. Her husband was the type of man who kissed her hand and asked her to dance, even as the years stole that first burst of affection. When she’d warned him the King had been her lover (not mentioned he was not the only royal to share her bed) he’d just asked if he’d been gentle with her.

And now she sat amongst the ladies and girls that her host had invited and spoke somewhat freely to the bride.

“Kitty, my dear, you look lovely.”

“Thank you, Mary,” she patted the pregnant woman’s swollen hand and looked past her, to where the King had begun laughing with the confused Elector, “so do you.”

It was then that little Anne, her Annie, stumbled over and sat between them, leaning into her mother sleepily.

“Oh, Annie, not now!” she said, moving to arrange her elsewhere. But Kitty squealed and pulled the girl into a hug herself.

“She’s lovely! Mary, you must let me keep her!”

Her daughter snuggled into the arms of the new Countess, and the other women began ooing and ahhing over the scene.

“Well, my Lady,” causing Kitty to giggle to herself at the absurdity of her new titles, “I just might.”

Kitty looked to her, confused.

“It’s just that, Annie is growing so quickly, and I fear I can’t give her the opportunities my other children have had.”

Catherine Knollys, herself visibly pregnant, looked on with weary eyes. Mary missed her eldest daughter. But it had been for the best when she’d left her children in England for Calais. Now it was time to do the same for Annie.

“I couldn’t take her from you.”

“Kitty…we don’t have much money, and we don’t have many friends. It would be an honour for you to take my child as your ward. Once my father’s will has been sorted, she’ll have a dowry sorted, and it would just be to your training. If anybody exemplifies how high a woman can rise with the right training, it’s you.”

She’d brought the rosy-cheeked Lady Cromwell to tears, and Kitty just nodded. Mary wondered what the wistfulness in her eyes was, but thought little of it. Annie had a place in the Countess’ house, and when the time came, she’d make sure the babe in her belly did as well. Kitty pulled the girl close to her, and Mary rubbed her stomach patiently.

Lady Knollys watched on, and help her stomach with both hands, as if to hide her child from them both.

 

[Kynan]

Kitty lay in her marriage bed, feeling extremely empty. Her nightgown was unruffled, her hair splayed out around her, and her husband lay on a cot, completely unbothered by the young beauty he had just wed. In every scenario she’d imagined in becoming Lady Cromwell, a cold kiss goodnight and a snoring man across the room wasn’t her imagining.

It wasn’t that she wanted him to ravish her. Her…husband was as old as her father, with a sagging face and red nose. His hands were swollen and calloused. When he’d leaned in close during their wedding, his breath had been sour and wet. But as the night went on, she began to question exactly why he’d avoided her.

In the end, it ate her up inside too much. She crawled out of the grand bed he’d acquired, crept up to is cot, and nudged the old man awake.

“Lord Crom…Lord Husband. Please awake.”

It was frightening to hear him groan and almost roar as he stirred awake, and suddenly she felt quite afraid. What if he beat her? Her father never had to his wives (although her current mother could easily have earned it), but she knew some men weren’t so kind. As he tossed himself up, she took a step back.

“Kitty, what do you want?”

She couldn’t answer, which clearly annoyed him.

“Well – spit it out!”

Legitimate tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked through them as his face softened and his shoulders slumped. Patting the cot, he motioned for her to sit with him, and pulled her into an embrace that reminded her of how her brother John would hold her when storms had awoken them back when her father had kept them all together. Relaxing into her husband, she stared over at the bed.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I have been having heavy thoughts.”

“Oh, dear. Maybe I can help you lighten them.”

“You might…”

“Why don’t you let me know what burdens you so?”

“Why didn’t you not go to bed with me?”

He coughed in surprise, and she nestled her head on his chest.

“Well…Kitty…”

“Do you not like me?”

She felt his breath get belaboured. It made her wonder if maybe he had just been nervous to take a new bride, having been alone for so long. Her sympathies welled with imaginings of a lonely man. Maybe he hadn’t even thought of marriage since his dear wife had died. It might be that his heart needed to melt over time. She pictured him, lying on this cot, dreaming of a woman he would never see again. Her, breaking through his shell, making him come alive again. It was poetry.

“The King said not to.”

Well…there it is.

Her lover had stopped her husband. Her King had commanded his subject. Henry had lain with her twice since the Duke of York had been born, and had apparently claimed her for himself. Vows be damned, she was his. An unwanted feeling of dread pooled in her stomach, and she straighted up, as her husband’s arm around her dropped.

“Oh…ok.”

She turned to give him a perfunctory kiss on the forehead, then began to walk to her bed. It was like all the affection in her had shrivelled up. Turning back, he stopped his return to bed.

“Yes?”

Kitty straightened her back and squared her shoulders defiantly.

“We have taken the wardship of Anne Stafford. She will be joining the household within the coming few days.”

He shrugged and turned back to his pillow, while she lay back down, feeling no better than she’d started.

--

Mary Fitzroy had been given the unenviable duty of attending the Queen during this restless period. Feeling like an old matron at 21, the severe young woman had no time for Queen Anne’s restless, tapping feet, nor her insistence on embroidering such intricate designed on a blanket for the Prince. The King might play at her father, but this woman of an age with her certainly didn’t impress her as a mother.

She often wondered what kind of mother she might have been to Lord Richmond’s child. The King had certainly prevented that from happening. But that was likely for the best. Mary did not fare well with difficult people, which seemed to be a rule for children.

Her father had started pestering her to remarry recently, and had even suggested her as a bride for Thomas Seymour – a groom she had rejected for being too low and too brash. She’d married a King’s son, and nothing but that again would interest her. As a widow, she had the right to choose. Or, in this case, not choose. Men of the court were better admired that wedded, in her opinion.

But in moments like this, she wished a man would sweep her away.

“I cannot wait until they finally…church me.” Queen Anne sighed in the direction of a window – shut against the snow that had begun to fall.

“Three more days, your Majesty.”

That’s basically all Mary could do to comfort her. Count down the days. The two women didn’t have that much in common, and so their conversations were basically always running in parallel. Once she had brought a book in to read from, but the Queen had balked at the discussions of alchemy, and had tried to switch them to poetry. Mary had simply turned to psalms instead.

“Has the King announced anything in regards to the Lady Mary?”

“No, your Majesty.”

“And the Lady Elizabeth?”

“No, your Majesty.”

“And my dear Mistress Howard?”

“Now the Lady Cromwell, your Majesty.”

Dry. Boring. Dependable. Mary kept her eyes on her hands and refused to give her mistress any titillating titbits. That wasn’t her way. She wasn’t about to tell her that the introduction of the King and Kitty had been her idea. Nor that the wedding was a sham, and the King was considering making her position as mistress official already. It wouldn’t do.

Who would it help?

Instead, she let her stew. Nobody could say a word about Mary Fitzroy. She was just embroidering.

 

[Kynan]

Mary Lassells was incredibly put out to have been moved from the Queen’s ladies post-birth to the employ of the Duchess of Suffolk. Maybe it hadn’t been a smart move to call the King’s current mistress a “two-faced slut” in an argument on her first week at court, but Lady Cromwell was both an old enemy and very much worth of the title. Lassells remembered the gossip in the Duchess’ household. It was not a shock to find her making a cuckhold out of the King’s advisor.

What had been shocking was the Queen’s response. Recently churched and glowing with excitement, she had been most put out that her maids were fighting. So mad that she had thrown the troublesome Mary out of her household and threatened to have her married to a pig farmer up North if she didn’t stop carrying stories.

Lassells knew she had come highly praised by friends and family, which was probably why she wasn’t already home. Which, in her opinion, might have been better. Instead, here she was, at a far table from the royal family, sandwiched between the Duchess’ stepdaughter, the Baroness Monteagle, and one Jane Wyatt, whose husband had been making eyes at Mary since her arrival. Considering the obvious swell of pregnancy in the young woman’s stomach and her pointed glances, she guessed Jane was not oblivious to the situation. Across the table, the woman’s mother-in-law ignored the clear tension and gossiped about her absent husband with niece, a pretty girl who Mary thought extremely annoying.

But it was the royal family was her main interest. Up above them all, she watched the Queen bask in the glow of success, the little Duke of York propped up beside her on purple cushions. The King dangled his fingers above the infant and Mary squinted trying to tell if a chubby arm lifted up of if that was a trick of the light.

The Ladies Mary and Elizabeth were down further, with both sour looks on their faces. She had hoped her namesake would be as glorious as letters from court had made her sound. Mary remembered her mother calling the King’s eldest daughter an “angel”, before her death in childbirth. But instead of a beautiful, rosy Princess, Lassells saw a sullen, carrot-headed woman who looked much older from a distance. Her sister didn’t fair any better.

Then again, these were two sisters about to be separated.

“Mistress Lassells!” spoke Elizabeth Brooke (the senior), and Mary was forced out of her gawking.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh please – call me Elizabeth! I just wanted to know if your brother has any news of Lord and Lady Cromwell’s marriage.”

“Yes,” spoke the younger Brooke woman, with a measure of contempt she longed to wipe off her face, “how are the happy couple?”

Mary sighed, saw nobody shared her disdain for gossip, and decided to give in.

“Lady Cromwell is a disgrace to her husband, and I am want to leave a court that would harbour a woman of such…light behaviour.”

Eye lit up around her, and the prickly and horribly Irish Honora Butler shouted from down the table,

“Speak up, girl!”

---

Elizabeth was most put out. Though both she and Mary were bound to marry for English favour, she hadn’t expected to leave first. It was horrible unfair, and when she had been warned the announcement would come tonight, she had bitten a cousin, Lady Boleyn, during the skirmish.

That hadn’t been entirely because of the news she was marrying to Saxony and would leave after Christmas. Lady Boleyn was very mean, and Elizabeth found her constant comments about her mother distasteful. Particularly when she’d cheerfully recount her time in the tower. But since she was rarely there, it was easy to pretend spiteful old lady didn’t exist when she wasn’t being visited by her favourite (great-)uncle, Sir James. It had just been unfortunate for the old woman that her presence had been so badly timed.

But here she and Mary were, sitting side by side, not talking.

“Elizabeth, I will come visit you.”

“When?”

Mary’s eyes slid over to Duke Philip, leaned over in conversation with a Portuguese traveller. A Catholic. Her father had asked him to stay a further six months, and she knew Mary hoped that might lead to something more. Elizabeth didn’t particularly care, and poked at her sister below the table. The older Tudor girl stifled a giggle and looked back.

“When everything is settled, silly girl! Now stop your pouting and smile – the King is watching.”

Elizabeth wondered what occur if the King did notice them talking seriously. Most other people were. And as she soon became aware, arguments were not uncommon amongst the people of the court.

Case and point, at this moment, two fights occurred.

On one side of the hall, one of the Austrians stood up and began berating Charlie Howard, who was clearly fuming and trying to move them outside. Her Kat – the new Lady Cromwell – cried hysterically as about five men and women were dragged out of the room. Amongst the noise, she could only hear one remark rise above the noise. A bellowing man with a silly hat and messy bear repeating “she is ruined” in French.

But more interesting to her Lady Suffolk slapping one of the boring women down amongst the lower tables. She’d risen very purposefully during the argument and barrelled through the crowd with amazing speed. Considering her tiny stature, Elizabeth couldn’t imagine it had hurt. But about seven more women then fled the room, and everything fell quiet again. Mary, to her right, had focused her attentions on a particularly tough piece of lamb on her plate, but Elizabeth turned to see her father looking extremely annoyed. They had taken little Henry William away. The mood had been firmly ruined for the big announcement.

---

Katherine Willoughby, now Lady Suffolk, had been brought up with two things in mind: her faith and her dignity. Slapping one of her maids had never been a considered part of that. But Mary Lassells – so highly praised – was proving to be an impossible fit in any part of the court. To hear that the ladies she had in her household were not just gossiping, but braying like fishwives, was humiliating.

“Mary Lassells, this is the last time you will ever do this again – do you understand me?”

At the sullen, pinched mouth nod she received in response, Katherine broke character yet again to slap her.

“I repeat: do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand you, my lady.”

She turned to the other women, most with heads to the floor. Only her “daughter” kept eye contact, and Katherine wished it had all been easier than this. But it wasn’t her fault Lord Suffolk had married a girl younger than his own children. Her job wasn’t to make anyone happy but her husband and the King. Which, considering this mess, she was failing to do.

Waving away the other women, she looked long and hard at the diminuative Mary Lassells. Her hood was gabled – likely a castoff from her mother or a cousin. Her round face looked odd on her thin neck, but there was some prettiness to her features. If she could just be…calm, maybe she could have a career. Maybe even a decent husband. But Katherine just needed to know that she was willing to act like a lady.

“If you understand me, you’ll join me now in apologising to Lady Cromwell.”

“But I did not lie- “

“I don’t care, what you were doing disgraces her, it disgraces the court, and it disgraces me. You need to apologise to her immediately. Before any of this becomes too much a scandal.”

“I would rather die than apologise to Kitty Howard.”

Katherine sighed. There was just too much seething resentment here. Pure jealousy and rage basically poured out of the girl in front of her. Considering it all a lost cause, she shrugged her shoulders.

“Then you’ll die outside of my employ. I’ll let your brother know you are being dismissed from court as of tomorrow, and to prepare your things for travel.”

She turned away as the girl began to weep quietly and went to find Lady Cromwell.

---

Kitty was fuming. While her poor brother Henry tried to calm down the two foreign men screaming French at her brother, she and Charlie had found an empty room in which he could explain himself. But what he had to tell her was absolutely unforgivable.

“You crawled into her bed?” she screamed.

“I mean, just for a few moments. A minute at most. I was fully clothed.”

She hit him on the arm. Repeatedly

“When I said seduce her, I didn’t mean like this. Distract her. Woo her. Focus all of her attentions on you and away from the King.”

“Nothing happened!”

She stormed away from him and over to the fireplace. Kitty wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Her gown was quite fine, and embroidered with flowers and satyrs. Her husband had made a face when she’d put it on, which had quite ruined the excitement. But when Charlie looked at her, did he see the Countess before him? His sister was quite a powerful woman now. Well-credentialed and highly favoured. But she knew, behind her possibly tacky dress and jewels, she was still his sister. Still a girl.

“I know what happens when men crawl in girl’s sheets, Charlie.”

He shrugged at her, which made her grab something hard on the fireplace to throw at him. As it left her hands, she realised it was a playbox of some kind, and it barely seemed to reach him, let alone fly across the room like the arrow she’d envisioned. It was in this moment that Lady Suffolk, red faced and visibly disturbed, walked into the room.

“Lady Cromwell, I must apologise to you at once.”

“Apologise?”

Charlie gave her a sideways glance and stepped to the side, sliding the box beneath a chair. Despite herself, Kitty was grateful. No need for a woman so close to the King to know she and her brother had had an argument.

“Yes, I am so sorry. One of my ladies has been speaking ill of you and I have put a stop to it.”

She grabbed Kitty’s hands, and she became distracted. But not enough to prevent her from understanding. After a brief moment of looking at her hands in Lady Suffolk’s own, she raised her eyes and recognised what had been said.

“Was it Mary Lassells?”

Katherine Willoughby nodded, and Kitty suddenly felt like crying. It was all too much. Her blood had come today, confirming she wasn’t going to give the King a bastard, which had been somewhat of a relief. But had she been pregnant with his child, then maybe she’d be able to prevent his anger to Charlie. Or at least save herself from the poisoned tongue of her former roommate.

“Lady Cromwell, it is quite alright. I have dismissed Mary from my household.”

“What did she say?”

Lady Suffolk gulped, and Kitty shot Charlie a look to leave the room. She had a plan. When the woman didn’t answer, Kitty led her down to the stools by the fire.

“It’s quite okay. I’ve heard the worst she has to say about me. I just want to know what I’m up against.”

“She claimed you were…a woman of loose morals.”

Kitty knew that wasn’t just it. There would have been names. Allegations of fornication. Yes, she might be King Henry’s mistress, but she’d come to him as an unblemished flower. A slight lie would need to be told.

“Thank you for letting me know that, Katherine. I’ve only ever…known one man,” she let the implication hang for a second, “but sometimes rumours spread even when you just do your best to follow God. You understand, don’t you?”

Now, Kitty knew Lady Suffolk wasn’t stupid. The court knew she and the King had slept together. But she knew that tactfully admitting she hadn’t slept with Cromwell would switch interest. It wasn’t “Kitty Howard wasn’t a virgin when she arrived”, it was “Lord Cromwell is a cuckhold”, which suited her fine. Better for everyone to believe poorly of him and not of her.

They parted ways…not quite friends, but friendly. But Kitty was less worried about them as she was the mess her brother had made.

Returning to the hall, she saw as the King watched her with curious eyes, and saw Lady Suffolk had returned to her seat. Playing it composed, she smiled up at him, and was relieved to see a smile back. Not smiling, however, was the Queen.

 

[Kynan]

Thomas Cromwell had practically dragged the Lady Elizabeth out of her bed himself to have her join the Saxon party on their way out of England and onto their ships. The little red-haired child had screamed that she had “but too much pain in my gut”, despite having been caught sneaking candied lemons from a bowl mere hours before. Her face had gone red with anger, but eventually, she’d been dressed and carried to her carriage. Not even the King had shown her much sympathy, merely kissing his hand and placing it on her forehead. She’d mostly calmed down by that point, but the Queen had started to cry with her when she’d begged,

“Please, father, don’t send me away.”

But, for the good of his alliance, Cromwell had negotiated this (quite frankly extraordinary) match, and the tender heart of a child would not stop it. Whether that heart belonged to the unwilling bride, or his increasingly presumptuous wife, was up for debate.

Kitty had begged on the girl’s behalf for respite, before switching focus and begging on her brother’s behalf. Apparently, that business with the Austrian girl in the Queen’s household had come to a head, and the little, brown-eyed monster named Charlie Howard had been given two options: marry Philippine Welser, or leave the court. Up until this morning, he had been leaving with the Saxons. But then, the King himself had intervened, and his brother had wed a girl of 13 in the wee hours of the night. The Duke of York’s younger song had taken his place in Elizabeth’s entourage.

Not a single soul was happy with this outcome. Least of all Philippine. But, as his Countess had quietly affirmed to herself as they left the shaking bride and miserable groom to sit awkwardly on the bed spared for the special occasion,

“At least her reputation is clean.”

She had apparently no fears about her heart or soul.

Following that…exciting evening, Kitty had stood beside him and blown his cousin kisses. Elizabeth had begged for “Kat” to come with her, but despite her distress, Kitty had stayed beside him. Head held in her hands. Never before had an English bride been so unhappily sent off. Except Philippine the night before.

Which was why his wife’s disappearance once they’d returned to London had been so easy to miss.

Cromwell spent his days at his business, and his nights at his cot. Now that apparently everyone knew him to be a cuckhold, it was only his meagre sense of pride that kept Kitty in the bed and himself away from it. But for the past week, she’d been gone. Her – their – ward, Annie Stafford, had been sent away to a manor the King had gifted them some week ago, to be raised in the quiet countryside. His life was much like it had been before, and he was grateful for the reprieve. Particularly when both the King and Queen had started to eye him down angrily during dinners. His gift of cherries to the Queen’s quarters had been fed to her pigs, according to a particularly nasty message from the disagreeable Lady Rochford.

At least with Kitty gone, he rested well.

But alas, she had returned, and stood in front of him holding a baby.

“You hid that well, ma’am.” he sighed, as she settled herself down beside the fire with the red faced infant in her arms.

“Oh don’t make jokes, Lord Husband,” she held the child up to his view, “this is our new ward: Edmund.”

“So, Mary Boleyn finally popped out another Stafford bastard.”

She glared at him, and he just rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to like anyone for her sake. Least of all Anne Boleyn’s sister, who had never been particularly pleasant towards him. His sympathy for her had been spent when his wife had taken on the little girl. But an infant was altogether too much.

“We can take on the wardship of the boy when he’s older. Better equipped for training. Able to walk.”

“I can’t send him back.”

“I can.”

“No, I’m serious, we can’t.”

It was then that he noticed the details of Kitty he’d missed upon her arrival. The puffy eyes and red nose. A slump to her shoulders. The rattiness of little Edmund’s wrapping.

“What happened?”

Her lips pinched, she nodded to the maid at the door, who collected the child and took him into a room beside theirs. The door swinging revealed a humble cradle had been dragged in. She must had brought the set up with her.

“Mary died before I even made it back, Thomas.”

Thomas? She’s never called me Thomas.

“Kitty…”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Mary was an older mother. It was always risky to try again after her last babe died so young. But when I’d written to her, she seemed so hopeful. I promised her we’d always be there to help. And then, while we were away from the city…silence. She died in the week we were away.”

He didn’t want to be sympathetic. This woman was making a cuckhold of him. But involuntarily, he sat in the chair beside her and absentmindedly rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb.

“How was her husband?”

Her eyebrows scrunched, and she snorted. He guessed William Stafford had not proved as gallant as the stories had told.

“I hope she never saw him how I saw him. Half her clothes were packed and ready to sell before I even got there. He tried to convince me to buy a set of rings the King had given her years ago. Then he made me pay to take Edmund away.”

“You paid for the child?”

“For his wardship. Nearly £500 for the rights to his second son – and the promise of £5 a month towards the care of his eldest boy in Calais. I did that without a second thought. Mary had told me poor Edward was never well. Maybe that money will go towards doctors.”

That was a significant amount of money. Cromwell shuddered to think what people would say if they found out. But clearly, money had not been the driving force behind his wife’s actions.

“What killed her?”

“Childbirth,” Kitty looked up at him, “she fell asleep during labour and never woke up. They cut him out of her.”

Kitty rubbed her stomach fretfully, and Cromwell didn’t bother asking. His wife and the King had been sleeping together for months now. A pregnancy was basically impossible to avoid. But still, he pressed her a little.

“Like you said, Mary Boleyn was quite old to have a-“

She interrupted his thought with a kiss, and Cromwell went completely limp. As she uselessly pawed at his doublet and breeches, he waited until she came up for air, and realising how ridiculous the scene was, broke down into hysterical laughter. He pulled her into a bitter embrace, and the two eventually laid together in the same bed for the first time. Still well apart, but closer in spirit.

 

[Kynan]

Henry lay next to his favourite girl in the world and felt content. It wasn’t just that Kitty Howard was a beautiful ornament to the court. There were dozens of beauties amongst the maids of his court. But Kitty made him feel…big. Strong. Like a virile and healthy man. Laying next to her, his usually aching fingers somewhat tangled in her thick, dark hair – he was alive again. In a way he hadn’t since the days of Bessie Blount.

Bessie Blount was dead.

For all their romps delighted him – and what man wouldn’t enjoy that – it was her curiosity that most intrigued him. His former lovers had all been either ditzes or academics. But Kitty wanted to know about what he knew.

It had begun months ago, when she had arrived a little early, and caught him reading a book of Greek poetry. At first, he’d been ready to throw it aside and focus his attentions on her, but she’d insisted he read her where he was up to. It was a Latin translation of poems regarding the fall of Troy, and she’d been enraptured. Even Mary, in her youth, had made jokes about being as beautiful as Helen, but Kitty…Kitty had mourned for Cassandra. It had been a longer visit that evening.

That’s how it had begun. The rendezvous was always rare, but he never again just threw her on the bed. It was exciting to show her a piece of literature or history from his collection. She’d been especially delighted by a letter of poems he’d found in their records between Catherine of France and Owen Tudor. His grandmother had gifted him that piece of family history. It was old and fragile, but his great-grandmother had written the sweetest lines in it;

Let princes be plenty and crowns grow heavy
It is my merry Welshman I give my heart
His hands hold it sweet and tender careful
I belong to one most gallant and manly
My King is gone, but love persists

She’d wept at that poem when he’d read it and insisted on the codename “Welshman” for their little notes ever since. He called her Kindness. It seemed almost daily he was finding and burning little scrawls about her love. Charlie Howard was often the messenger boy – all that annoying git was good for.

Today had been a rare occasion. With Christmas finished and his daughters dispersed (Elizabeth to Saxony, Mary to one of her manors up North), the Queen had decided to spend a few weeks in Hatfield with the Princes, while Henry and his court moved away from London. Kitty had played ill and stayed with her husband and the Lady Rochford, who Henry disliked but decided he would find a new husband if she kept being so useful. They’d been able to lay all day in his favourite bed, while his wife’s friend sat in an adjoining room, apparently reading psalms.

Kitty rolled towards him and rubbed her face in his shoulder. They’d been alone for almost two hours at this point. It was rather like being on a honeymoon. He bent down and kissed her smooth forehead, and she giggled at his beard hair tickling her. In his youth, Katherine had admonished him for not keeping himself shaved. Wretched Anne had once made a joke that it his second chin – right before a massive fight. Jane seemed oblivious to his looks in general. The Queen too seemed less than aware that he could shave it all off. But Kitty – she liked it. It made him feel warm inside.

--

Kitty hated the King’s scratchy beard. It made her face all red when he deigned to kiss her, and caught crumbs when he ate, which sometimes tumbled out when he was orating so spectacularly about poetry and nonsense. But the talking was better than the kissing.

She felt very lucky to find a way to kill the time. To make him talk to her like an adult. King Henry was a man of many options, and her cousin Mary had warned her, in such a way, that boring women didn’t make it very far. Anne Bassett had never read a book in her life, and the King basically used her as a placeholder between more interesting women.

She’d studied the past and concluded that her best bet was to have the King himself teach her. Too smart and she risked reminding him of her cousin, the late Lady Boleyn. Too dumb and he’d send her away. But the eager student seemed to stroke his ego better than anything else. It helped that she enjoyed much of it. The poems were often beautiful, and the history was fascinating. Her instincts to ask more had to be stifled when he was visibly bored or distracted, but it prolonged the visits and kept him engaged.

As he kissed her forehead, she decided to make a stab at something that had clearly been bothering her husband for a while now. The Palatinate man had stuck around at court, moping and pining over the Lady Mary. Thomas apparently had promised him that the King would acquiesce to a marriage before the New Year. Well, in early January, that hadn’t happened, and he was now basically stuck here until the world thawed out. Everybody was incredibly put out, and she wanted to fix things.

“Henry?”

He grunted in response, but it wasn’t an unhappy one. The King often just moaned and sighed in response to her talking. It scared her a little, but he never escalated it. Even so, she hedged her bets and started tracing circles and stars along his thigh. A distraction in case this didn’t work.

“I wanted to ask if the rumours are true.”

He furrowed those translucent brows, and Kitty decided to go straight for it. Pushing herself up and keeping one leg on his to maintain contact, she kneeled in front of him, her skirt askew.

“What rumours?”

“Well…your Majesty,” she smiled as he chucked and pinched her cheek, “I had heard the Lady Mary was to marry Lord Philip-“

“Absolutely not.”

His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened a little. She didn’t let go, but did switch tacts.

“Oh really? I had just heard-“

“You all talk too much. The whole court. It’s like living with hens.”

“Hens and cocks.”

She squeezed his thigh, and he laughed. Kitty knew he didn’t think of her as a random fling at the moment. Jokes like that broke the tension.

But not too many. Be careful.

“So, what did you hear?”

“That in your wisdom, you’d agreed to the marriage. And that’s why the Lady Mary had been so mopey these past few days. She doesn’t want to leave England. And who could blame her? I had just hoped she was happy.”

He smiled, and she knew this was the right path to victory.

“Well, my Kindness, I put it forward to Mary a while ago, and she did not indicate that marriage with the Duke was what she wanted.”

“Oh. Then I apologise. It’s just…”

She trailed off, and he poked her in response.

“Well, let it out.”

“Promise you won’t get mad. This is just a girl’s intuition.”

He nodded, and she took a deep breath. His eyes immediately shot to her chest. Kitty hated when he did that.

“I think she loves him. I mean, look at how she pines around him. They say she still has the ring he gave her in her pocket at all times. And he clearly adores her.”

“She didn’t say she wanted to marry him.”

“What did she say?”

He sighed, but not an angry one. Confused. A little tense. But his expression was enough to knew she hadn’t upset him. The King was looking inside himself for answers, and the best thing she could do was stay quiet and let him search. Staying very still, she tried to not stare at him, but he wouldn’t have cared if she did. His mind was elsewhere.

“Kitty, do you think she wants to marry him?”

“I do. It is what all women strive for.”

Now, Kitty truly did believe that. But even she knew this was not just any marriage. It was the King’s eldest daughter, with a claim to the throne, and a Catholic family behind her. Thomas was a proponent of the new religion. Kitty’s own wealth was being funnelled almost directly from Henry’s monastery funds. A new manor was being built on the sight of an old convent in Surrey for her pleasure. Mary leaving England was a safeguard in case something might happen to the Princes.

“She said she wanted only my happiness.”

Kitty nodded, and she saw him once again dive into thought. It was getting dangerous now, and she decided to abort the mission. The King was considering the match again. Her work was done. When he looked at her again, she spontaneously kissed him and within minutes, he was spent and asleep.

--

Thomas had been preparing for bed when Kitty had finally returned from her day with the King. Henry clearly had enjoyed the extended time with his wife, and Cromwell rolled his eyes when he noticed her new skirt had a giant rip in it.

So much for discretion.

Kitty sauntered over to the chair by the fire and plopped herself down, before giving him a smug look.

“I did it.”

“You did what?”

He guessed she’d told the King about her pregnancy at last and had come to gloat. Maybe he’d offered to make her a Duchess. Or promised their son Ireland to make him equal to Prince Edward. It had to be big to make her so cocky. To keep it private, he motioned away the page that had been helping him dress.

But what Kitty said actually shocked him.

“I think he’s going to allow the Palatinate match, my dearest Lord Husband.”

“What,” he spoke too loudly, “did you just say?”

“I think he’s going to allow the Lady Mary and Duke Philip to marry.”

“How? Why?”

“He loves her. She loves him. The King wants her to be happy.”

She shrugged, like it was that simple.

“Did he say the words ‘I will let them marry’ to you?”

She simply shrugged, stood up, and began undoing the knots on her sleeves. He gave an exasperated sigh and started to help her out of her kirtle. Kitty grinned, and he rolled his eyes while she revealed herself to her linens. Cromwell made a point to keep his eyes to hers. She was the King’s mistress, and only his wife. The slight swell of her belly was proof enough of that.

“Thomas,” she leaned over and prodded his nose, “I fired him up, you need to finish him off.”

Laughing, she opened the door and let her maid in, changing into her own nightdress. Cromwell was frustrated, but impressed. Had the Queen not been in the way, maybe Kitty might have taken her place. As it was, she’d apparently done what he hadn’t. Shifted the King’s opinion on a matter of major importance. Climbing into bed, she joined him quickly and practically hummed herself to sleep.

He had barely gone that way himself when he awoke to her scream of horror, and the bed with a patch of blood and bits between her legs. His wife had just miscarried the King’s child. Kitty’s eyes were wide and terrified. Her face was white.

Cromwell covered her mouth to prevent more screams, moved her next to the fire, and poured a jug of juice onto the sheets. To her amazement, he was soon calling out for the maid and claiming they’d messed up a midnight snack. For good measure, he pulled what he assumed was the body into a napkin and hid it away for later.

Even when the bed was cleaned up, Kitty didn’t want to return to the bed. She slept in the chair. He went to the cot.

The King wouldn’t know a thing.