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Chapter Text

Smile.

Sometimes when Lady Mary smiles she reminds Charles of his dead wife.

The niece may have a very different character to her aunt but the smile, he thinks, the smile is the same.

It makes him wistful for the long dead Mary and sorry for the one still living (older every year and yet still unmarried, a victim of Henry’s desperation for a son).

She looks younger when she smiles, and he remembers happier days when life was merry and cares were few.

But Lady Mary doesn’t smile much anymore.

Dance.

Lady Mary is trying to project confidence on her return to court following her signing of the oath, but he can see the strain beneath the mask of serene calm she wears.

Queen Jane is kind and the King magnanimous, but poor Lady Mary has enemies at court, as well as countless men and women who would use her to further their own ends.

He sends a particularly ferocious glare towards Thomas Seymour – he may be the Queen’s brother but Charles is brother-in-law to the King too and he doesn’t like the leering covetousness he sees in the younger Seymour’s eyes when he looks at the King’s eldest daughter.

“My lady,” he steps up beside her and is pleased to note that she appears more comfortable at seeing a familiar face, “shall we dance? I am sure your talent far surpasses mine but I will try my best.”

“I would be honoured, Your Grace,” she tells him as she places her tiny hand into his own larger one.

As they begin to spin among other courtiers, Charles notes that Lady Mary seems far more relaxed and he breathes a sigh of relief.

She has endured much and he still feels guilty that he has constantly chosen the King over his conscience and not offered her (a true princess, his dear departed wife’s niece, his best friend’s daughter) more assistance.

He vows to do what he can now, to try and atone for the sins of his past.

He will do better. This dance is a start.

Forgiveness.

Charles is dying.

Not that anyone actually says that to him (who would dare suggest that the King’s best and oldest friend might soon leave this earthly plane?), but he knows.

Edward Seymour visits in an attempt to get him on side regarding Prince Edward. There’s no point really – Charles rather doubts he will ever live to see Henry’s son as King.

It does not bother him. He’s rather heartsick for the old days, when life was simpler.

He has a far more agreeable visitor the next day in the form of the Lady Mary.

“Princess,” he says when she is shown into his bedchamber (they are left alone, which perhaps is not exactly correct but everyone knows he is far too ill to attempt an assault on the lady’s virtue, if he was so inclined, and, besides, Mary is family).

Her eyes widen at his use of the title she long ago lost, but she has the pride of both her parents and she takes his greeting as her due.

Besides, what is anyone going to say to a dying man like him? It is only the title she deserves as a daughter of two great royal lines and the result of a marriage made in good faith (irrespective of whether Catherine of Aragon’s marriage to Prince Arthur was consummated).

“I heard you were unwell, Your Grace,” she says softly, watching him with sad eyes.

“Rather unwell, as you see,” he says wryly, “but honoured that you have chosen to visit me.”

“Your Grace has always been a loyal friend to my father … and I would not forget the one who took the time to play games with me when I was at court as a child.”

He remembers those times. Henry was a doting father, but only when he had the time, and it fell often to Charles to help entertain the little princess while her parents attended to matters of state. She’d been a bright, clever little girl, always delighting him with a new tune she had learnt on her virginals.

He wonders if she still plays.

He sighs. All these memories make him melancholy.

“Are you quite well, Your Grace?” asks Mary, “should I fetch the physician?”

He shakes his head. There is not much point in medicines and remedies, not now.

“I must ask your forgiveness, Princess,” he says instead.

“Whatever for?” she looks confused and concerned.

“I should have done something,” he says, “anything to try and persuade the King against his more severe measures. I admit that I was scared, that I let my earthly loyalties take the place of the spiritual. Do you believe God will forgive me?”

He is getting maudlin in his old age, contemplating the afterlife and all it entails.

“God is a benevolent being,” she tells him seriously, “and I am sure he always forgives, when one is truly sorry.”

“What about you, Princess? Will you forgive my sins against you, and against your sister?”

Mary and Elizabeth, both pawns in a dynastic game surrounded by enemies. He knows that even if did not directly cause their suffering, he was certainly complicit in it. They deserved better.

She leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, then takes a seat next to him and squeezes his hand, “I forgive you, uncle Charles,” she murmurs, using the familiar title he has not heard from her since she was a child, “of course I do.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, “thank you, Mary.”

She stays with him until he falls into a fitful sleep, holding his hand all the while.

And his heart feels a hundred times lighter.

Strength.

At first she doesn’t seem at all like Charles’ previous wife, her aunt and namesake Princess Mary.

This younger Princess Mary (Lady, now, though it makes her mouth tighten in anger every time she hears someone say it) seems too quiet, too delicate.

Her aunt had been fierce and argumentative, loud and bright.

He supposes circumstances are different. This Mary has suffered greatly, after all.

It takes him a while to realise that she’s actually just as strong as her aunt, perhaps even more so, in her own way. He watches the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she refuses to ever call Anne Boleyn the Queen no matter how many people try and force or persuade it from her. There will be no changing Mary’s mind when it comes to her mother’s position, no matter how much Henry might wish it.

Charles cannot help but admire his new wife. Mary is far too young for him, and deserving of a royal suitor rather than a man like him, but these are the cards they have been dealt (the path he has chosen so that he might best protect her) and he will make what he can of it.

He hopes she will understand that he is an ally – after all she needs as many of those as she can get with Anne Boleyn as Queen.

She will need to be strong too, to endure what is likely to come.

It is lucky then, that she is a fighter.

She is her mother’s daughter.

And that, Charles thinks with satisfaction, is just what Anne Boleyn and her supporters are afraid of.

Kiss.

Their wedding is ordered by the King to try and help neutralise the threat his Catholic daughter poses to the new order he has built with Anne Boleyn. It is hasty and quiet so that none of Mary’s great relatives and friends can protest it.

There are no guests, only a priest and two witnesses sent by the King.

The groom is a man who feels terribly guilty for his role in this farce while hoping he is doing the right thing to protect the princess turned lady. The bride is a scared but defiant girl whose whole world had changed.

No one attempts to suggest that the bride and groom kiss once they are pronounced man and wife.

There is no lying about what kind of marriage the King means this to be.

Mary isn’t quite sure what to make of her new husband.

He is decades older than her, previously married to her aunt, and is her father’s childhood friend. Even in a world of dynastic marriages and large age differences, their marriage is a peculiar one.

She knows his reputation with women as well, and it makes her nervous.

He is gentle with her, though, and does not push. The marriage remains unconsummated and will do so, he says, until she is quite comfortable with the idea.

Very few other men, she thinks, would have acted so honourably.

But he holds her hand sometimes, almost as if it soothes his mind to do so.

He tucks her hair away from her face when they walk outside in the wind, and grips her waist firmly when he helps her off her horse.

Such things, she finds, are not unpleasant to her.

And his boyish smiles, when she bests him at chess or he wins when they race their horses or she laughs at some jape of his, make her feel warm inside.

It’s a slow thing, their ease with one another. It comes in time, however, and she appreciates him all the more for his patience.

He kisses her for the first time nearly three months to the day of their marriage.

There is no particular reason for it. She just happens to look particularly pretty that day, and wears a smile instead of the serious, solemn expression that often graces her features (he cannot blame her for that – she has much to be sorrowful about).

They walk around the garden as she chatters happily to him about her plans for the visit of his daughters (her cousins) Frances and Eleanor, enjoying the fresh air and the sunshine.

And he just leans down to kiss her softly and quickly, looking almost abashed when they break apart.

She quite likes it. It makes this odd situation feel more like the romantic dreams she’d had so many years ago about the marriage she might make.

When they begin to walk again, their hands are intertwined.

Chapter Text

Guilt.

Betrothals, Charles knows, are constantly being broken, rearranged or remade. It is the way of royalty, after all, and nothing new when alliances are constantly shifting and changing.

Ending his betrothal to Princess Mary is the most sensible thing to do. He needs an heir and he cannot afford to wait a decade for the English princess to grow to womanhood – an age difference is no barrier to dynastic marriages, but sixteen years is a large one even for them.

Isabella of Portugal is only three years younger than he is, and she will make a fine Holy Roman Empress.

Still, he cannot help but feel rather guilty when he thinks of the little cousin he is abandoning. Mary is but a child, yet she is a clever, talented and pretty one, and he is sure she would have made an admirable wife for him, if only she were older.

He is sure she will soon have suitors enough, though. Eligible princesses always do.

There is nothing for him to regret in his conduct.

And then years pass. England witnesses changes that horrify Charles, and Mary … well Mary loses far too much.

Charles interferes little. He cannot afford to, not with wars to fight and countries to rule.

He makes token protests, but it is never enough and he knows that. And when the Oath is introduced, he advises he cousin to sign it, though he knows it will break her heart.

Every decision he makes is rationalised. An emperor such as he had so many concerns that certain things will slip through the gaps. And if one of those things is the princess he once promised to marry … well, he cannot help everyone.

He lives to see Mary take the throne of England and that pleases him. When she marries his son he thinks that maybe now she might be happy.

She is not, though. There are false pregnancies and arguments and discord. It is not his fault, he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling that she deserves better.

He dies mere months before she does, and death is a release that returns him to his beloved Isabella’s arms.

And though he thinks on many things on his deathbed – his deceased wife, his empire, his son, his daughters, his faith – there is a small part of him that prays he will be forgiven for his lack of action in regards to his cousin Mary.

Because deep down, in the part of him where guilt lives, he knows he could have done more.

Indifferent.

Mary writes often to her cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor.

He writes back far less.

(but that’s alright, she tells herself, he has a whole empire to rule after all).

He is always sympathetic to her circumstances, but never able to offer much practical assistance.

(he can’t declare war on England, though, not just for her sake).

Chapuys tells her how angry the emperor is about the King’s treatment of her, and how much he wishes for her to be restored to the succession and have her status as princess returned.

(Chapuys is kind, but perhaps he exaggerates her cousin’s feelings).

He tells her to sign the Oath, to remain in the King’s good graces.

(she compromises her principles, her faith, everything her mother fought for … because now she knows that her defiance of the King will have no support, not even from the Emperor).

He writes to her and tells her that he has her best interests at heart. She believes him.

(stupid, naïve girl – hoping, trusting, because she just wants to be loved. But royalty doesn’t work that way, and kings and emperors must take care of their own concerns first).

Mary trusts her cousin, always. He might have once been her betrothed, but now he is more like a surrogate father, one she turns to for help and affection when her own father ignores her in his obsession with having a son.

The Emperor’s advice is of the greatest importance, his ambassador one of her truest friends, and he himself a link to her beloved mother.

So she makes excuses for his neglect, for his vague suggestions and late replies.

Some of those excuses are even valid and understandable.

(plenty are not).

Perhaps it makes her a fool, but she likes the illusion it offers.

It is better, after all, than the thought that the Emperor is simply indifferent.

Martyr

Mary goes to the Tower for her refusal to swear the Oath.

She cannot risk her immortal soul, she says, not even for her father.

And the Emperor, well he finds himself with a choice.

He has agents across the world and it would take only a little planning to arrange to rescue his cousin from prison.

But he has troubles of his own and is loath to antagonise the King of England. Besides, surely the man will not actually kill his own daughter?

Anne Boleyn was a Queen, of course, but she was not royal, did not have familial links to all the major European powers.

So he prevaricates, he stalls, he ponders.

Charles does everything but actually take decisive action.

He hopes that the situation will sort itself out without his interference.

There are whispers that if Mary dies then the Pope could send either Francis or Charles to conquer England, to bring it back to the true faith and overthrow its unhinged and heretical monarch.

After all, only an unnatural King would execute his own daughter in this way.

Some even say that Charles will not act to save Mary precisely for this reason, that he will sacrifice his young cousin on the altar of martyrdom to give a legitimate reason to take England for himself.

That’s not true, though. Charles would not do such a thing.

Or would he?

More delays, and the time left grows ever shorter.

Mary writes frantic letters from her prison, but she remains defiant.

I will not sign. I will never sign.

He instructs Chapuys to try and persuade her otherwise, but it is a futile endeavor.

His cousin has a spine of steel.

The axe falls the week before Mary would have turned twenty-one.

Crowds turn out to watch and weep, but none of them support the King’s supposed justice.

Mobs spring up all over the country and even the Lutherans decry the King’s actions.

The King is mad, they say, he must be stopped.

Shockwaves spread across Europe.

Charles and Francis amass their armies to avenge the royal martyr.

England’s future is uncertain, destined to be the battleground of opposing armies seeking control in the wake of chaos.

Charles never knows exactly why he didn’t act.

Or, rather, he doesn’t think on it. He spins himself a pretty little fiction about being out of time, of unavoidable delays, and he never thinks otherwise.

Except in the dark of the night, when he dreams about the spectre of the young girl he once met, smiling as she danced and played for him.

Mary is just a memory now, but she haunts him.

He thinks she always will.

Mother.

There are universes where Mary stays in England, for good or bad. There are also others where she leaves, as the wife of some foreign royal or noble, or fleeing in fear of her life.

In the latter case, she almost always seeks out her cousin Charles V.

In one world, Henry VIII dies early, in November 1543, just months after his sixth wedding.

Mary’s brother Edward takes the throne, but his councilors and tutors are reformers, pushing the country into further religious change in the hope that the new King will be a zealous Protestant by the time he comes of age.

Mary watches it with horror, and she feels a growing panic as she is alienated from all her allies, even her stepmother Catherine Parr, who marries Thomas Seymour with rather unseemly haste after Mary’s father’s death – the Seymours are no friends to the Catholic Mary, not while they have Edward’s interests (and their own) in mind.

She holds out for a while, but the Council apply increasing pressure on her to cease practicing her Catholic faith. When Edward himself threatens to have her sent to the Tower (and seems to truly mean it), Mary knows she needs to leave.

It isn’t cowardice. If Edward has no issue then Mary is his heir, and she needs to be alive to claim her crown.

Mary slips out of England just days before men are sent to arrest her, arriving at the court of Charles V on the second anniversary of her father’s death.

Her Imperial allies believe it is vital that Mary marries quickly. If she ever becomes England’s Queen, an heir will go a long way to securing loyalty.

Many candidates are suggested, including Charles V’s son Philip. But Philip is only eighteen to Mary’s twenty-nine, and recently widowed too – besides, he has only a vulnerable baby son as heir and Mary’s age does not lend itself to the possibility of further future heirs. Perhaps, someone suggests, it might be more prudent if Mary marries Charles V himself. The Emperor might be forty-five but he is still capable of siring children, and he and his first wife had good luck in that regard.

Mary accepts readily. She remembers how desirous her mother was of the match when it was proposed over two decades ago, and the Emperor has been a constant in her life, a reminder that she has support even when her own father abandons her. She tends to avoid thinking of the way her cousin’s support has often faltered when his policies have required it – naïve, perhaps, but she likes to be comforted by the idea of a powerful ally who also shares familial ties with her.

Years before, Catherine of Aragon encouraged her daughter to think of the Emperor in almost fairytale terms. And even now, after all she has endured, part of Mary’s heart is still a little in love with the man (or at least the idea of him).

Charles is more pragmatic. Still devoted to his dead first wife Isabella, he nevertheless recognises the advantages of a marriage with Mary. She is worn by stress and unhappiness, but still pretty enough and an accomplished woman. If he has a son with her then the boy might, God willing, be King of England and help return the country to the true religion. Even if King Edward has issue, a second son is always prudent when there are such vast dominions as Charles’ to be managed.

They are married in January 1546, just a month before Mary’s thirtieth birthday.

To everyone’s surprise, they are parents by the end of November in the same year.

The child is a strong boy they name Charles-Henry.

Catholics in England rejoice, while the Reformers tighten their control of England’s boy king and continue to make plans for a grand match for Edward when he is older.

Both sides pray – one that Edward will live to sire many sons, the other that he will leave no heirs but Mary and her child.

Years pass.

No further children are granted to Mary and Charles, but her one son is enough for Mary – he is more than she ever expected. She loves him as fiercely as her mother loved her, and he has the best tutors in the hope that he will one day sit on the throne of England.

(Mary is fond of her brother Edward, but she is convinced that England is her destiny).

She and her husband will never love each other, but he is good to her and she will always be grateful for the son he gave her.

The English King dies young.

And though the Reformers seek to place Lady Jane Grey on the throne, the populace will not have her, not while Henry VIII’s eldest daughter and grandson live.

The boy might never have seen England before, but his mother has ensured he knows the history, language and customs as well as she does.

So Mary returns to England with her son, and though it is he who is crowned and not her (the English have never liked the idea of Queen Regnants) she rules as regent in his stead until he reaches his majority.

And the new King adores his mother, trusts her judgement almost implicitly.

She may not be Queen in name, but Mary never feels as if she has been pushed aside.

She stays in England for the rest of her life (and in this world there is no tumour – she lives to see her grandchildren grow up) and leaves only once, to attend her husband’s funeral in 1558.

They have not seen each other since their son was crowned, but she is sad nonetheless, for he is another link to her mother now lost.

Her son is strong, though, and a popular, clever king.

She has been a princess, a bastard and an empress over her lifetime.

But Mary is most proud to be a mother.

Empress.

Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon’s New Year Prince lives.

The King has a wandering eye, but no woman ever seeks to replace the Queen who has given him a Prince of Wales (healthy, hearty, beloved) and his precious pearl Princess Mary.

Anne Boleyn knows Henry will never marry her and consents to be his mistress. He does adore her, while it lasts, and when the affair is over he arranges for her to marry Henry Percy, son of the 5th Earl of Northumberland and the man she has loved for many years. It is a grand match for her, in a world where the title of Queen is not to be wrested from well-loved Catherine.

Princess Mary is betrothed first to the Dauphin of France, then to her cousin the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, and then to no one at all.

Nobody is concerned. Pretty, talented princesses do not lack for suitors, and she is a child still.

Charles V marries another cousin, Isabella of Portugal. A more sensible match perhaps, given the much smaller age gap. He is sorry to miss the chance for an alliance with England, but he needs an heir and cannot wait for Mary to grow.

Years pass.

Mary enjoys her childhood, visits to her parents, her music and lessons, and an extensive correspondence with her brother Hal (who is far away at Ludlow learning how to rule).

Meanwhile, Charles and his wife Isabella’s marriage turns from a purely political arrangement to one of real love. Unfortunately, they are not as blessed when it comes to their children. Miscarriages, stillbirths and childhood illness mean that by 1529 they have only one living child, a daughter named Maria in honour of Isabella’s mother.

They are philosophical, for they are both still in their twenties, but tragedy strikes in the summer of 1529 when Isabella dies in childbirth (and her baby with her).

Charles mourns her death sincerely, but he knows he needs a son. He loves his daughter, but an empire like his, he believes, requires a strong male heir.

In 1530 his eyes stray back to England, and to his previous betrothed.

Princess Mary is fourteen now and of an age to soon be married. With her brother the Prince of Wales lately married to a French princess, Charles and his advisors see the sense in balancing England’s loyalty by suggesting an Imperial match for the King’s daughter.

Diplomatic enquiries are welcomed by Catherine of Aragon, who has real pleasure in the idea of her daughter and nephew’s marriage. Henry is more sceptical, but he relishes the idea of strong links with both of the great European powers through his two children – and to have Mary be an Empress is no small thing.

Mary herself knows her duty, but she is also pleased that she has at least met her cousin before, even if she was so young she scarcely remembers him. Her mother tells her more about him, happy as always to discuss her Spanish family.

Negotiations begin and, as there is enthusiasm on both sides for the alliance, they are quickly concluded. Mary is betrothed and sent to her future husband’s court six months after she turns fifteen.

It is not the love match that Charles and Isabella’s marriage became, but there is respect and good feeling between the newly-wedded couple despite the sixteen years in age between them. And though it takes a while for Mary to adjust to the new climate, her health remains robust.

(she has not, in this life, had to suffer the stresses and strains of her parents’ divorce, and of being abandoned by her father).

Mary sees England only four times more in her lifetime.

As she gets older, she finds herself with more responsibilities as Regent when Charles must travel across his vast dominions, and of course she has her children to think of.

She struggles to become pregnant, but she is luckier than her cousin Isabella in that those few pregnancies she has all come to term. And so she presents her husband with two sons and a daughter – Charles, Henry-Philip and Catalina, healthy children to be proud of.

In another universe, Mary I of England dies childless and deeply damaged by the trials of her life. History maligns her.

But in this world she is Mary, Holy Roman Empress, and she is triumphant.

Chapter Text

Pearl

The pearl of his world.

That was what Mary’s father used to call her.

Back when he was papa and not Your Majesty. When he swung her round until she laughed herself hoarse, pressed affectionate kisses to the top of her head and proudly listed her accomplishments to courtiers and ambassadors alike.

Then there came Anne Boleyn – the harlot, the whore, the witch.

The woman who separated Mary from both her parents.

She wasn’t with her mother when she died. And her father called her a bastard, the daughter he had once been so delighted with reduced to a servant in her baby sister’s household.

Not a pearl. Not a jewel. Not a princess.

When Anne Boleyn was dead she thought that perhaps things might change.

They did, but not in the way she hoped.

She tried to hold firm to her principles and to her faith, even when she was told she was an unnatural daughter, even when threatened with violence.

In the end she capitulated. She didn’t want to die, to languish in the tower until illness or execution made a martyr of her.

She never forgave herself, no matter the absolution the Pope promised.

At least she was received by her father again. She had his smiles, his affectionate looks, his support.

But underneath it all so much was different.

Trust broken, innocence lost, something missing.

He called his pearl once and reinstated her into the succession (though without ever admitting he was wrong about her mother).

It did not have the same meaning, however, not to her.

Once upon a time she truly was his pearl. When life was simpler and happier.

Now he said the words, and yet she was not sure if he truly meant them.

After all, he had his son, his precious, beloved Edward.

And Mary reflected … was there any room left in his heart for the two daughters he had discarded? She liked to think so.

… but sometimes she wondered.

Bow

When Henry goes to Hatfield to see Elizabeth, the servants make sure that Mary is kept out of his sight.

She will not acknowledge his beloved Anne as Queen after all, and he cannot allow her to think he approves of that.

Besides, he only imagines the fuss that will occur if Anne finds out he has seen his eldest daughter.

But try as he might, he cannot help but think of Mary, even as he admires little Elizabeth.

He tries to remember the last time he saw her, and then he tries to think of the last time she smiled in his presence.

You did that, his mind whispers, you took away her mother, called her a bastard, made her afraid of her own father.

He is the King, though, and he needs a son. Mary has always been a clever, talented child, but the English will not take kindly to a Queen Regnant. And she will be stubborn, like her mother, in refusing to accept Anne as Queen.

If she would only reconcile herself to her circumstances, then of course Henry would welcome her back. She would be third lady in the land behind Anne and Elizabeth. They could be a family again.

She will never bow to Anne Boleyn, though, will she?

Mary has her mother’s pride, as well as her stubbornness.

She will see, though. When his darling Anne presents England with a Prince of Wales, then everyone will see that he was right.

He presses a kiss to the sleeping Elizabeth’s forehead and then heads out into the courtyard to depart.

As the servants bring the horses around, he feels a prickle on the back of his neck.

Someone is watching him.

He turns around. There is no one in the doorway.

So he looks up, to the balcony. And there she is.

His daughter Mary.

Her expression is solemn, her eyes sad.

She is beautiful, though, and his heart aches to see her. It has been too long.

He feels a twinge of shame, but he pushes it away. He is the King of England and when it comes to a male heir for the security of his dynasty, he cannot afford to be influenced by sentiment.

Mary curtsies perfectly to him.

He executes a sweeping bow in return. He has no need to, for he is the King, and he knows that it will anger Anne, if she hears of it. But Mary deserves this courtesy from him, even if she is being a disobedient daughter when it comes to his new marriage.

Then he swings himself up onto his horse and rides away.

He does not look back.

Fear

When Mary is a young child she holds her father in awe because he is King. But she loves him too, and never worries that he will be unkind to her.

He is her papa and she is his beloved daughter, the pearl of his world.

She has no idea how cruel the world can be.

It doesn’t take her long to find out.

She learns to fear the King.

To begin with, he tries to pretend that things have not changed.

He’s still hoping to get his way then, still believing that her mother might agree to an annulment or join a convent.

But when things do not go the way he wants them to, when her mother fights back with all her strength, Mary sees a side of her father she never has before.

And it scares her.

Separated from her mother, shuffled between various manors and castles, ignored by her father.

Indifference hurts, as does being parted from her parents, but later on she realises how much worse it can be when her father turns his mind towards her.

“His Majesty’s marriage to your mother has been declared null and void. Your mother was never legally Queen of England and must now accept the title of Dowager Princess. Just as you no longer have the right to call yourself Princess and now must be known to all as Lady Mary.”

No, no, no.

She will not accept it.

Not ever.

But defiance comes with a price, and this price is terrible indeed.

“You are forbidden to communicate in any way with your mother from this day forward.”

She never sees her mother again.

She holds onto her beliefs, though they have deprived her of so much.

She will not bow to a false Queen.

“I recognise no Queen but my mother.”

She can take the swipes and slaps of the other members of Elizabeth’s household with composure, for she has the moral high ground and she knows it.

Harder to ignore are the whispers that the harlot wishes her dead. Because even though she is sure her father will never allow it …

… she thinks of the father she remembers and then of the King who ordered her to Hatfield.

And she wonders if she really knows the King at all.

The harlot falls, but Mary does not rise.

The Oath hangs over her head, like an axe ready to swing.

But no, she will not sign.

“You are an unfilial daughter. Listen to me – if you were my daughter, I would smash your head against the wall until it was as soft as a boiled apple.”

To talk so to her, surely her father would not …

Yet what man would dare to say such things, unless he had the agreement of his King?

She runs back to her chamber, the words ringing in her head.

Cannot guarantee your safety … cannot guarantee your safety.

She is sick three times.

Dessert that evening is apple pie.

She is sick twice more.

I can be brave, she thinks, I can be strong, like my mother.

(but her mother is dead).

Sign, pleads Chapuys. Sign, urges her cousin Charles V. Sign, demands Cromwell.

My immortal soul, my principles, my faith.

She wants to live.

Does that make her a coward, to flinch from the martyrdom that Sir Thomas More and Cardinal Fisher embraced?

She has nightmares of her father bashing her head against the stone walls and she wakes up screaming.

She signs.

And a part of her dies inside.

“I only ask that the Pope will grant me absolution for what I have done. As long as I live, I will never forgive myself.”

Her father and Queen Jane visit, all amiability.

Mary trusts the Queen’s smiles, but she has long since become wary of her father’s.

He is mercurial, ever changing, always dangerous.

She holds her head up as she enters court for the first time.

The blood of countless royal lines runs through her veins, probably more so than in anyone in England (including her father).

She curtsies and tries not to tremble.

I am not afraid.

He lifts her to her feet, paternal and gentle

(if only that were always the case).

“I remember that some of you were desirous that I should put this jewel to death.”

And she breathes slowly. In, out, in, out.

Her mind goes dizzy, her mask breaks for just one moment.

She slumps into the King’s arms, her body betraying her even as her mind screams at her to show no weakness.

After that one incident, things are better.

Mary finds it easier to pretend that she doesn’t tense when her father places a hand on her shoulder.

(sometimes she even manages not to).

Her smiles become a little more genuine, her movements more sure.

(the King has little reason to direct his anger towards her now. She has signed the Oath, and he has his son).

Court is still a deadly game, though, even if she has the King’s favour.

Factions build, courtiers plot, wives come and go.

Mary weathers every storm, but still she is so very cautious.

This is what life has taught her, to step carefully and to never let the world see that you are scared.

Her father’s ailments begin to overtake him and Mary reflects (in the privacy of her own head, of course) on a future without his magnificent presence overshadowing her life.

However, she worries. Edward is in the clutches of his Reformist tutors and uncles. At least her father desires no further changes. But what will happen when her brother rules?

He is only a child, and one who might be easily led.

Better the devil you know, after all. Better the one you have spent years learning how to placate.

Will she ever be free of the fear that has permeated her life for so long, even when her father is gone?

She rather thinks not.

Heir(ess)

When Catherine fails to bear him a son who lives past infancy Henry feels sure that the fault is with her.

He has married his brother’s widow and God will not grant him children with her.

Children, meaning sons. He conveniently forgets about Mary, because she is a girl and he needs a boy.

Anne falls pregnant and he marries her as soon as possible, determined that no one will doubt his son’s legitimacy.

He fails to consider that the baby might not be a boy, and the soothsayers don’t dare suggest it.

In the end it all comes to nought. Anne gives birth too early and the baby is born dead.

It was a girl, the doctors say.

He is disappointed but philosophical. They are both young and boys will follow.

(he avoids thinking about how many times he said the same thing to Catherine).

They keep trying, he and Anne. She falls pregnant again once, twice. Neither come to term.

It’s not his fault. After all, did he not have a healthy son with Bessie Blount?

Catherine dies, still insisting she is his true wife. He wonders if maybe her death will bring a new beginning.

But there is no son, just another pregnancy that ends in blood and tears.

His roving eye falls on pale, meek Jane Seymour. She comes from a large, fertile family.

He orders Cromwell to investigate Anne’s conduct, even when he knows in his heart of hearts that she might be a flirt, but she is not what the charges suggest (witch, seducer – his lack of children must once again be due to God’s displeasure).

He gets the result he wants at the price of her life, and the lives of men he once called friends.

Jane Seymour does not fall pregnant immediately.

In fact he starts to worry, after a while, that she might be as cursed as Catherine and Anne were.

(because it’s not his fault, not at all).

He considers sending the Oath of Supremacy to Mary to sign, but his councilors advise against it. Henry Fitzroy is dead now and she, though declared a bastard, is still his only heir.

He invites her to court when Jane falls pregnant, as a favour to his Queen.

And Mary is a daughter to be proud of. She forms a close friendship with her new stepmother, charms ambassadors and is incredibly popular with the common people.

But she is not a boy. And Henry needs a son.

Jane’s labour is long and arduous. The whole chapel is full as everyone prays for the safe delivery of a son.

The doctors mutter and sigh, glancing at him with worried expressions.

“It may come down to the life of the child or the mother,” one tells him, “we shall see.”

In the end, though, he does not have to make the decision.

The ordeal is too much for Jane and the baby. Before the doctors can even think of trying to at least save one, it is too late.

And Henry is faced with Queen and son both dead.

The whole court hears his screams of sorrow.

He spends weeks in seclusion, seeing only his fool and his daughter.

Three marriages and she is the only one who lives.

He can marry again. He will marry again. He has to think of the succession, though.

He seems to be cursed with ill-conditioned wives and how can he be sure the next one won’t be the same?

Not my fault, not my fault, not my fault, he says to himself.

Maybe if he repeats it enough he won’t think of the small seed of doubt in his mind, suggesting that maybe it is not entirely the fault of his wives.

When he finally rejoins the court, Henry hires tutors for Mary.

His daughter’s education, under her mother’s close supervision, was exemplary. He can fault Catherine for many things, but this is not one of them. Still, he wants her to know more of politics and governance, of how to rule.

He hopes for a son, but he wants to cover all possibilities.

Just in case.

He marries Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr.

And between the three of them there is not a single pregnancy, only one miscalculation on Catherine Howard’s part that gives him false hope for a few days.

Mary learns statecraft from the Privy Council and earns their respect with her attention, considered questions and determination to do her best.

She is well-schooled now, and she has always been beloved by the country.

A few months after his marriage to Catherine Parr he finally reinstates her into the succession, returning her title of princess with a vague statement about his marriage to Catherine of Aragon being of good faith.

(he cannot admit that he might have been wrong).

There are some who doubt whether a woman can rule, but Henry has faith in his daughter.

He arranges her marriage to Philip of Bavaria before he dies. Henry wants to ensure there is no jostling for the position of Mary’s husband and he knows that Duke Philip is royal enough to satisfy the country, but without the means to raise an army and seek to make England an annex of some foreign power. He also hopes that Philip’s moderate Lutheran leanings will balance Mary’s Catholicism.

Philip is besotted with his bride. Love is of little concern in dynastic marriages, but it makes Henry feel better nonetheless – his relationship with his daughter has been fraught in the past, but he loves her and wants her to be happy.

He lives long enough to see his grandson born. And in his final moments, Henry imagines Catherine laughing at him from Heaven. Six wives, a break with Rome and far too much blood spilt in his quest for a son.

But Mary is the only one left and she will fulfil her mother’s fondest dream.

The King is dead.

Long live the Queen.

Chapter Text

Friends

Sometimes they aren’t bitter enemies.

Sometimes they are even friends.

Catherine of Aragon dies in childbirth with a stillborn son when Mary is three. The King mourns her for years until a chance meeting at a masquerade puts Anne Boleyn and her bewitching dark eyes into his path.

Anne is happy and carefree, not yet jaded by years of waiting and whispered gossip and fear. Some of the court think her too lowborn to be a Queen, but in this life the King is a free man and there will be no protracted battles over a divorce, no acrimonious break with Rome.

Mary likes the spirited young woman her father introduces her to, who helps her perfect her French and claps enthusiastically when she plays the virginals and teaches her all the latest dances.

Mama will always be Catherine of Aragon, though Mary’s memories of her are fuzzy. Anne is still important to her, though, like a favourite aunt or older sister or close friend. And the King’s new wife does not seek to replace her mother in Mary’s eyes, in fact always ensuring that her memory is kept fresh in Mary’s mind.

When Anne has sons named Henry and Edmund, Mary does not feel slighted or pushed aside. She loves her brothers and delights in telling courtiers all about every one of their new accomplishments. When Anne bears a daughter named Elizabeth, the little girl is incredibly dear to Mary, who is more like a second mother than a sister.

It is Anne who fights for Mary to have something of a choice in her own marriage, to let her have a chance for love the way the King did. It is Anne who counsels her when Mary finds herself falling in love with a Lutheran of all people, and who reminds the King of all the benefits of an alliance with the German states. It is Anne whose smile is the widest (aside from the bride and groom) when Princess Mary marries Duke Philip of Bavaria just a week before her twenty-first birthday.

In this world Anne Boleyn dies peacefully at a ripe old age, not heartbroken on a scaffold. She leaves behind beautiful, strong children, including her eldest son Henry IX, who will bring glory to the Tudor name.

In this world Mary is never Queen. But she is never a bastard either, never comes close to being imprisoned or executed, never has to break her own heart by signing the Oath of Succession. She has a husband and children she adores and a place of honour at court. She names her first daughter Catherine for her mother, but the second is called Anne after the stepmother who always supported her.

In this world, they are happy.

Doubt

Mary receives the news of the harlot’s fall with great satisfaction.

She hopes her mother will now be vindicated, even if her heart weeps at the remembrance that Catherine of Aragon is not alive to see it.

She hopes for many things. The love of her father, her return to the succession, the Catholic faith restored in England.

… and she is sorely disappointed.

Anne Boleyn’s execution does not bring all Mary once believed it would.

And as time goes by, she finds herself coming to a realisation that she resists but must accept.

Perhaps the harlot was not all people say she was.

Lady Elizabeth is the daughter of Mark Smeaton, people whisper, not of His Majesty.

But Elizabeth looks so much like the King, more so than even Mary, so how can that be true?

She had over a hundred lovers, they say, most of them entertained in her bedchamber at court.

Mary remembers when her mother was Queen, and how her ladies attended her constantly. How could the harlot ever have hidden so many assignations from the court?

She lay with her brother, for no perversion was too much for her.

The evidence, though, is based on a neglected wife’s testimony and tales of hugs and kisses of the sort that are regularly exchanged between family members. It is, she thinks, flimsy at best.

The concubine was a witch, the sole cause of England’s break from the true faith.

That must be true, it has to be … and yet is her father the sort to be ruled by anyone, especially on such a weighty matter?

The questions build up in her mind, even as Mary clings to her hatred of Anne Boleyn.

She never lets go of that hatred, because to do so would be to admit so many thoughts that she does not wish to ponder, chief among them being the idea that her father was not hoodwinked or forced into abandoning her, but that he did it of his own free will.

After all, it is easier to despise Anne Boleyn than to accept the truth about her father.

But sometimes, in the back of her mind, she remembers her doubts.

And she wonders if Anne was a victim too.

Fairytale

It seems like a fairytale in some ways …

The young princess, beloved by the kingdom, suffers the tragedy of losing her mother.

(torn apart by a King obsessed with having a son, by a man bewitched by love and lust).

The father who marries again to a cruel woman who treats her innocent stepdaughter like a slave.

(except the father knows too, and it is he who orders the girl who was once a princess to wait on her baby half-sister, he who calls her an obstinate, unnatural daughter when she defies him).

The stepmother wishes ill on the girl, perhaps even hopes that she will die. She whispers poison in the King’s ear and turns him against the daughter that used to be pearl of his world.

(maybe the stepmother is just scared. Oh she is not entirely innocent, but these are dangerous times … and she loves the King, wants desperately to give him the son he craves. The girl could be her undoing and it terrifies her).

But you see the girl has a fairy godmother.

(or rather, there are many men and women in high places at court who seek to destroy the Queen. Among them are the King’s best friend, the envoy from the Emperor and even the councilor raised so high by the Queen and her family and yet quite ready to engineer her fall. This group possess no magic and not all of them have the girl’s safety in mind, only their own grudges and cravings for power, but for a time at least their interests align with hers).

Soon the whole kingdom begins to see how evil the Queen truly is, and the King finally has his eyes opened to the way she has been treating his people and his daughter.

(although … is the Queen truly evil, or just a flawed woman in bad circumstances? And has the King not treated his daughter terribly of his own accord? The Queen has encouraged, but even she cannot command the proud King).

The evil Queen is banished from the land, never to return.

(she is executed, killed for crimes she almost certainly never committed. She has behaved harshly towards the King’s daughter, but she does not deserve death, nor does her own little daughter deserve to suffer for the Queen’s imagined crimes).

The girl who was once a princess is reunited with her father.

(that is true, but of course it is not easy. The girl has to renounce all that she holds dear, to sign a document that makes her weep with sorrow. And though her father welcomes her back to court, she never forgives herself).

The kingdom prospers and there is peace.

(factional fighting breaks out, as it always does. Religious differences split the country and bloodshed becomes common as the King executes Catholics and Lutherans alike. There are moments of peace, to be sure, but they never last long).

And the girl lives happily ever after.

(or at least she lives a while longer, which is more than can be said for the so-called evil Queen. But she grows sadder and angrier every day, craving children she never gets to have and later married to a man who brings her mostly sorrow. And though she becomes Queen herself she gains a reputation just as infamous as that of the evil Queen, whether it is deserved or not).

While this story is passed down through generations to show how good triumphs over evil.

(or rather how one man’s desire for an heir can rip a country apart and destroy countless lives. The evil Queen would probably have been happier married to the Earl’s son she had once loved, and the girl that used to be a princess may have found more peace in marriage to a kindly man who could have loved her and given her children than she ever did in her years as Queen of the kingdom that her father once ruled).

It seems like a fairytale in some ways …

(but this story doesn’t have a happy ending).

Burning

Anne dreams of burning.

Always the same dream. She is dragged away and locked up. A hooded figure approaches with a flaming torch in hand and, when she gets close enough, Anne realises it is Lady Mary.

And then Mary burns her alive.

She consults mystics across the country but it is no use.

Most offer details of bright futures, of many sons and a great dynasty, but she knows they seek only to flatter and please her.

A few mutter about how she will lose her head if she’s not careful. She likes to think they are being spiteful, but they seem so sure, even when she threatens them with imprisonment and torture.

In time Anne regrets agreeing with Henry that Mary should serve Elizabeth.

What if the girl takes it into her head to burn down Hatfield with Elizabeth inside?

She hears stories that Mary loves her sister as much as she hates Anne, but she isn’t sure whether to believe it – it may all be a ruse after all.

Catherine of Aragon does not much scare Anne. She is an old, worn out woman who will never bear a son, and she is likely to die soon.

Mary, though. The girl might be prone to illness but she is beloved by the people, young, capable of bearing children and with powerful royal relatives abroad. Mary is to be feared.

No platitudes from Henry can make it better. No laws regarding the succession ever make her feel secure.

She just keeps dreaming of burning.

And as the months go by and no son appears, she begins to think her dreams may come true.

“She is my death and I am hers.”

Anne is starting to think Mary will have the last laugh.

Mercy

Anne is six months pregnant and Elizabeth has just turned two years old when the King falls from his horse while jousting and does not get up again.

In her shock and stress, Anne miscarries the son that might have secured her future.

And in the chaos the Duke of Suffolk and Imperial Ambassador Chapuys hurry to Hatfield and spirit Lady Mary away to the Catholic strongholds in the north.

There are attempts made by Anne’s father (the lady herself still abed, grieving her husband and lost son) to proclaim Elizabeth as Queen, but the people rise up and the nobles desert in droves.

Two weeks after the King’s death, Mary rides triumphantly into London as Queen.

A Queen Regnant is not ideal but a grown woman, with ties to other royal houses, who can marry immediately and bear children, is far preferable to a toddler who half of Europe considers to be illegitimate.

Anne Boleyn, stripped of her titles, kneels before the new Queen.

Mary eyes her with disdain and something that is approaching hatred. Rumours say this harlot wanted her dead, that she persuaded the King to abandon and humiliate her.

Yet the woman in front of her now seems only tired and sad. Her famously bewitching eyes have lost their sparkle and there seems to be little fight left in her.

And Mary feels the stirrings of pity. Perhaps the harlot had felt something for Mary’s father beyond ambition to be Queen. Maybe her soul is not entirely black.

Her advisors have varying views on how to deal with the former Queen and Mary’s little half-sister, ranging from execution to banishment to forgiveness.

Mary does not think she could bear to have Anne Boleyn at court, or indeed anywhere she might one day lay eyes on her. Too much has happened between them for that.

But she thinks of innocent little Elizabeth. She loves her half-sister in spite of who her mother is, and Mary knows the pain of losing her mother. Can she in good conscience deprive Elizabeth of the one parent she has left?

A part of Mary yearns to order Anne Boleyn’s execution.

She wants to be better than that, though, to show true Christian charity.

So she is merciful, for Elizabeth’s sake.

Anne and Elizabeth go to a nunnery in Spain. Anne takes the veil and her daughter, styled Lady Elizabeth, is educated there.

Anne is able to watch her daughter grow up. Elizabeth has the comfort of her mother’s love.

When she is grown, Mary arranges for Elizabeth to marry a Spanish noble and though he is an ardent Catholic and supporter of both Mary and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, love does develop between them, of a quieter and more lasting sort than that which had existed between Elizabeth’s parents.

Mary, back in England, marries a minor Catholic Prince. Not the Dauphin or the Emperor, not even an eldest son, but she has to do what is best for her country and ensure she picks a husband that will not degrade her but who will also not have the military power to attempt a coup. It is a fairly popular match and the marriage produces two sons and two daughters to fill the royal nursery and let Mary feel secure about the succession.

In this universe, Mary I takes centre stage with her father in Tudor history books. She rules as Queen for over forty years and is much loved by her people. Thanks to Henry VIII’s death cutting short the Reformation, she has far less cause to burn heretics, and she treads a path of relative religious tolerance when compared to other European contemporaries. In this world hers is the golden age.

Elizabeth is never a queen. But she has her mother, has a husband who appreciates her clever mind and children she adores, does not have to live her life walking a fine line in politics to keep away from the executioner’s block.

Anne’s character does not suit a monastery, but she makes the best of her situation, knowing how much worse it could have been. And she finds a kind of peace there, especially with her daughter close to hand.

In the end Mary and Anne, whose fortunes once depended on the caprices of a changeable King, make better lives without him.

Chapter Text

Pity

Mary does not much like Thomas Cromwell.

He represents religious leanings that she despises, has played a key role in the dissolution of the monasteries, and has aided the King with reforms that Mary abhors.

Yet the man is clever, and an able administrator. In addition, Mary does not forget that he assisted her when she was seeking reconciliation with her father, and that his gift on her restoration was a horse that allowed her to enjoy exercise in more freedom than she has had in years – she is still grateful for that small kindness.

When she learns of the charges laid against him, of his fall from grace over the affair of the Cleves marriage, Mary cannot help but be shocked.

Anne of Cleves is no raving beauty, but she has some prettiness about her and it is clear that a better wardrobe would work wonders on her appearance. Mary thinks she would make a fine Queen and she does not understand why her father will not even give her a chance. But the King will have his own way and he wants a scapegoat for his marriage.

The charges against Cromwell pile up from there, some of them frankly ridiculous. When Mary hears one that states the former Lord Privy Seal planned to marry her to gain more power she almost laughs out loud at the absurdity – surely all must know that neither she nor the King would ever agree to such a thing, nor does she think Cromwell has ever considered it. He has risen exceptionally high by the King’s good grace, but he is too sensible to grasp beyond his reach.

She thinks of Cromwell while he is in the Tower. In a way he is reaping what he has sown, for many lives have been manipulated or ruined by his actions … but she still pities him.

If there is one thing she can say for him it is that he has been loyal to her father, even if she thinks he may also have been a negative influence.

Misguided he has been, certainly in religion, she thinks. But not malicious, not taking pleasure in any wrongs he has committed.

(if he had thought it the right thing to do, she does not think he would have hesitated much to have her arrested, even executed. But she knows he would not have been happy about it, that he would have regretted it. In an almost twisted way she thinks that makes him better than countless others at court).

To end his days thus, in the Tower that has seen so many condemned, is not a pleasant thing.

But there is nothing Mary can do. Her own position is on shaky enough ground that she cannot hope to influence the King in this.

Is it wrong to say nothing, even when she knows her words would do no good, might do her harm as well?

She thinks of the many supporters of hers who have been executed in her lifetime. Thomas More, Cardinal Fisher, Nicholas Carew and so many more. She remembers the Pilgrimage of Grace and the violence used to put it down. It is hard to say how many people are at fault for such things, but she imagines Cromwell paid a large part.

Is Cromwell paying for his own sins?

It occurs to her for the briefest moment that all Cromwell has ever done is facilitate her father’s wishes, however horrific those wishes have been.

She cannot blame her father, though. She cannot think him capable of such things.

She has always found others at fault in his place. The harlot, the heretical Cramner, Cromwell.

Because if she accepts her father is behind it all then …

Then her world will never be the same again.

She pushes such thoughts away, as she always does.

And in the end Mary says nothing in Cromwell’s support.

Maybe that is because there is no use in her trying. Maybe not.

She does not accuse him of anything, though, and she refuses to abuse him to anyone at court.

On the day of his execution, Mary Tudor pities Thomas Cromwell.

And she prays for his soul, because despite what he has done he deserves that much.

Obstinate

Thomas Cromwell does not want the Lady Mary to die.

No matter what might be said about his religious leanings compared to hers, no matter how much they may disagree … he does not wish to see the King’s eldest daughter executed.

Aside from his own sympathy for her situation, she is the King’s eldest child and with no male heir she is the obvious choice to succeed to the throne should the worst happen (because there would be few who would fight for the claim of a toddler when there was a fully grown woman who could marry and have sons).

So Cromwell does not wish Lady Mary to die.

But she does not make it easy to help her, not at all.

She refuses to sign the Oath, she refuses to admit her illegitimacy, she refuses to admit that her parents’ marriage was invalid.

He might admire her strength and her resolve, if it wasn’t so damnably frustrating.

… if it did not put both her and him in serious danger.

He writes constant letters to her, coaxing in a way that does not come naturally to him. He speaks to Ambassador Chapuys too, knowing that the man is not only close to Lady Mary, but is also very determined to ensure she survives – Chapuys is a sensible man and he realises far more than Lady Mary that the safest thing for her to do would be to sign the Oath and submit to her father’s authority.

Cromwell isn’t sure that she understands the seriousness of the situation. She begs her father’s forgiveness and sends fervent prayers that Queen Jane will soon bear a son, but it isn’t enough.

Not for the King. He wants total submission and nothing else.

Cromwell sends delegations. He writes more letters, enclosing drafts for her to copy and sign.

She agrees to certain things, but it is what she will not write that is the problem.

In the end he loses his temper and scribbles out a frustrated letter to her.

To be plain with you, I think you the most obstinate woman that ever was.

He looks at the words, at the rest of the letter that reads like the product of a man half-crazed.

Perhaps he is. After all, everyone knows what happens to those that fail or disappoint the King.

He sighs and looks at the letter. He will sleep now and look at it fresh in the morning.

Maybe he will send it, or he might try to couch it in more diplomatic terms.

One thing is for sure, though.

If Lady Mary continues in her obstinacy then he isn’t sure that he will be able to save her.

Prisoners

They have adjoining cells.

There’s an irony in that, Mary supposes.

The Catholic princess (for that is what she is, no matter what they try to say) and the ardent reformist.

Both imprisoned for the same thing. Mary’s refusal to sign the Oath, Cromwell’s inability to make her.

All of Mary’s illusions about her father are shattered.

She has always blamed the harlot, or manipulative advisors, for what has happened to her.

But now she knows the truth. The harlot is dead, the highest advisor in the Tower with her.

She knows it is all her father’s doing.

And it nearly destroys her, the heartbreak of it all.

They send daily letters to the King, she and Cromwell both.

She tries to make her father understand. She will not dispute the legitimacy of any child he has now. She prays constantly for him to have a son with Queen Jane (who she hears is now pregnant, about four months gone) and that son would obviously be ahead of Mary in the succession.

But a girl, a girl would be behind Mary. She will not call herself illegitimate, and she will not agree that her parents’ marriage was invalid. They have cajoled and threatened and pleaded, friends and enemies alike, but she cannot do it. She will obey her father in all things except those which touch her conscience in this way.

She is sorry that Cromwell has been caught up in it all, though. He was often frustrated and irritated but he was never cruel when trying to persuade her to sign the Oath.

They talk, the two of them, through the small gap in the wall of their apartments in the Tower.

There isn’t much to do, after all, and even Mary cannot pray for the entire day.

He tells her about the corruption in the Church. At first she does not want to listen, but she soon comes to realise that however much she disagrees with his methods, he does make some valid points. After a while she makes suggestions in return, ways to soften his reforms so that the common people can still be helped.

When he tells her that Anne Boleyn once said similar things to him as she does now, Mary does not know whether to laugh or cry. She will never like Elizabeth’s mother, but Mary can understand her a little better now … she cannot refer to the woman as Queen, but she does not think the title ‘harlot’ will pass her lips again.

They speak about books, argue theology and debate religion. He expresses admiration for the strength of her convictions (whether he agrees with them or not) and she admits that she thinks him a clever man. They both cry when he talks of the daughters he has lost and the son he worries desperately for.

Imprisonment makes for strange friends, it seems.

“Do you think we’ll ever be released?” she asks him quietly one day, as Queen Jane’s confinement draws ever closer.

He sighs and she can imagine him rubbing his hand tiredly over his face, can see his drawn expression through the small gap in the wall.

“I do not know, my lady,” he tells her, “the King knows his own power now, and even friends have not been safe from his … displeasure.”

Mary thinks of poor Thomas More and winces as she remembers being informed of his execution, as well as that of Bishop Fisher. She thinks her father regretted it after … but he authorised it all the same.

“You are of royal blood, my lady,” Cromwell says after a moment, “you have a level of protection I can never hope for, a popularity with the people that I lack.”

“My cousin, the Emperor,” Mary agrees, “he has written many supportive letters to me, and I am sure he will intervene on my behalf.”

Her voice wavers a little, though. They both know that the Emperor has many calls on his time, wars to fight, enemies to dispatch. She cannot say where she falls on his list of priorities – she is a little scared to know.

“Has the King responded to any of your letters?” Mary asks softly.

“No,” Cromwell admits, “I write often but who knows if he ever reads any of them, or if he even receives them.”

“I have not had even a note,” Mary says, “nothing at all.”

There is silence between them. They both worry about the lack of word from the King but they do not wish to put their fears into words.

Mary hesitates for a moment and then she pushes her hand through the hole in the wall, offers her hand to Cromwell. It is certainly not protocol, but what use have they for courtly rules in this prison.

Cromwell grasps her small, thin hand in his own larger one, and the warmth and human contact calms her.

They sit there, hand in hand, pondering their fate.

Maybe they will both be saved. Perhaps one of them.

Or it could be that they will both die.

In this moment, they don’t think of that, though.

They simply draw what comfort they can from this most unexpected of friendships.

Luck

Thomas Cromwell’s life is saved by luck.

By luck and, in a way, by Lady Mary Tudor.

It starts when Anne of Cleves’ journey to England is delayed by her brother’s insistence on questioning every aspect of the marriage contract. Then the roads are bad, the princess herself falls ill for a while, and the group reach the port almost a month later than planned. There are raging storms over the seas and they all settle into accommodation to await better sailing conditions.

It might be weeks, unfortunately, before they can depart.

Meanwhile, Philip of Bavaria arrives in England, unaware that his cousin Anne of Cleves has not even left Calais yet.

He comes to court the Lady Mary, and despite his Lutheran leanings he does a more than fair job of charming the King’s eldest daughter.

Cromwell senses that the lady craves a husband and children, that Duke Philip pleases her, and that she might be willing to overlook their religious differences (the Duke is moderate in his religion) if he makes no attempt to prevent her from worshipping as she wishes.

And Cromwell sees an opportunity.

The King may have his son, but children can be easily swept away by disease and it would be wise for Lady Mary, the natural next heir, to be married to a man who is not a zealous Catholic, one who might be able to persuade her to at least tolerate some reformations.

And so Cromwell plans, he takes advantage of the King’s good humour and he speaks to Lady Mary herself.

Though they disagree on religion, and on his role in the dissolution of the monasteries, the lady is fairly well disposed to him for his assistance in reconciling her with the King after his marriage to Jane Seymour. And while he considers her to be difficult and stubborn at times, he does feel some sympathy with her plight and is happy to help her when his actions are also in the best interests of the country and the King.

It is a whirlwind courtship, for Cromwell is well aware of the King’s mercurial moods and he wishes to have the whole affair settled before he can change his mind.

So Mary and Philip are married, granted the Dukedom of Somerset and settled into one of Mary’s manors before Anne of Cleves reaches England’s shores.

The King’s own marriage, forecast for the beginning of January, does not take place until late February, and by the time of the service everyone knows of Henry’s disgust with his new bride’s appearance.

They all whisper about the fury he has directed towards the Lord Privy Seal.

And in countless other worlds this is the catalyst for Cromwell’s downfall.

But not in this one.

Because in this world Mary and Philip’s marriage preserves the link with Cleves even when the King insists on divorcing his fourth wife almost immediately. In this world Cromwell is known as the architect of a marriage that is already bearing fruit.

For Mary is with child, barely two months after her own wedding, and the possibility of a grandson consoles Henry for his own unhappy marriage.

There are attempts to topple Cromwell, for he has a number of powerful enemies, but they all come to naught.

A way out of the Cleves marriage is found for the King, Lady Mary herself defends him after rumours are whispered at court for a few weeks that Cromwell wishes her death so that the Catholic faction will lose power, and Henry remembers that Cromwell may be unpopular but he is probably the most capable minister the King has ever had.

Still, Cromwell treads carefully after that.

He does receive the Earldom of Essex, when Mary’s first child is a healthy baby boy, and he is proud of that, if only for the future security it gives to his son Gregory.

He loses influence during the short reign of Henry’s son Edward, who is dominated by his two uncles and their attempts to control his Regency council, but he does not protest, knowing that putting a foot wrong could lead to the execution he narrowly escaped years before.

When Mary takes the throne in July 1553, the proud mother of two sons and a little daughter named for Catherine of Aragon, Cromwell finds himself back in the halls of power. Mary will never like his religious leanings, and she keeps a careful eye on his actions and policies, but she knows he has talents that should be used for the good of the country and she wants very much to do what is best for her people.

Cromwell dies peacefully in his bed at the age of seventy-five, a figure of controversy but well-known for playing a key role in maintaining England’s stability.

Mary does not die a sad and disappointed woman at the age of forty-two. Instead she lives to be sixty-four and leaves the country in the capable hands of her eldest son, Henry IX.

Thomas Cromwell’s life is saved largely by luck and a little by Lady Mary.

And Mary, well she lives to be a great Queen, a devoted mother, a loving wife. She lives to be all her own mother ever wanted her to be.

And if it is Thomas Cromwell who helps make that happen … well it is likely that Catherine of Aragon, looking down from Heaven, does not much mind.

Chapter Text

Edward Seymour was presented to the Queen for the first time in June 1532 when she was sixteen years old. He had recently been appointed to a post at court and the Queen had expressed a wish to meet him. The Seymours were well regarded by her and she had heard Edward praised by his sisters Jane and Elizabeth, who were two of her favourite ladies.

In a letter to his wife, the Duke of Suffolk mentions that Mary ‘spoke to him kindly. Her Majesty asked many questions about his family and commended the virtues of his two sisters. Seymour responded with effusive but sincere gratitude and praise towards her Majesty and was just as he ought to be’.

Seymour was intelligent and able, rising in station at court over the next few years and receiving the titles of 1st Viscount Beauchamp of Hache and 1st Earl of Hertford in 1535 and 1539 respectively for his work and loyalty to the Queen. She soon found him to be an interesting conversationalist, for though he was known to be rather proud and arrogant about his abilities he was clever enough to defer as was proper to his Queen.

Seymour’s tolerant and reforming attitude towards religion was rare at a time where most were strongly Catholic or fierce Lutherans (or heretics, to Queen Mary’s mind). Seymour never publicly admitted to any non-Catholic views but he certainly had a great deal of sympathy towards, and interest in, the religious reformers.

It was religion that caused the fiercest arguments between the Queen and Seymour, who she otherwise considered excellent company and a great favourite. On occasions when their talk turned for more than a few minutes to religion, arguments were inevitable and the Queen could sometimes be heard channeling her late father’s temper by screaming at Seymour in a rage that only her religious faith could inspire in the usually gracious and gentle woman.

He was forgiven each time, often at the urging of the Council, who found that Seymour was most adept, with his quick and clever arguments, at talking the Queen out of any serious plans to persecute heretics beyond the occasional execution. He could never, with all his persuasive powers, make her sympathise much with anyone who turned away from Catholicism, but he has been greatly praised by historians for reminding the Queen of the virtues of kindness and forgiveness, which only her faithful adherence to Catholicism and hatred of heresy could make her forget. And Seymour did at least help persuade Mary of what a wide-spread persecution could do – when she was told of the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition she was heard to exclaim that such a thing was ‘not God’s work’.

Excerpt from the article ‘Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, in the court of Mary I of England’ by James Hirst

Mary was known to take a keen personal interest in the families of her friends and allies, and there is of course evidence of this in relation to the Earl of Hertford.  She was on good terms with his second wife Anne Stanhope, who she refers to in her letters as ‘my good gossip Nan’.

The Queen stood as godmother to a number of Hertford’s children, and was said to have been especially fond of his second daughter, who was named Mary in her honour.  Surviving accounts books show gifts of varying value to Hertford, his wife and many of his children in every year following Mary’s first meeting with him in 1532, often with notations in her own handwriting.

Excerpt from ‘Chapter 5: Family Life’ in ‘Edward Seymour: A Life’ by Alexandra Sutton

Your Majesty has expressed a wish to hear news of Queen Mary’s courtiers, especially those on whom she relies for advice.

Her old Regency Council are still of great use to the Queen and she is on good terms with all of them, especially the Duke of Suffolk, whom she considers quite in the light of a father.

She has lately promoted Edward Seymour to Earl of Hertford for his role in the recent skirmishes against the Scots. I must agree that Hertford fought bravely and was an exceptionally able commander, but the rise of one rumoured to have Lutheran tendencies is a little troubling. Of course, the Queen shows no sign of wavering in her faith and you can be assured of her continuing devotion to the Catholic Church, and of her affection for you, who she calls her dearest cousin.

Excerpt from a letter from Eustace Chapuys to Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, January 1540

… I know that you had planned to stay at your estates for a month or two more, my lord, but I ask if you could return sooner. The Queen has been receiving missives from her cousin the Emperor urging her towards harsher action against suspected heretics.

The Prince Consort attempted to persuade her to err on the side of mercy and tolerance but was soundly chastised by Her Majesty, who said ‘you know not of what you speak’. A fair assessment to be sure, for the Prince Consort is a faithful Catholic and he knows little of the reformation ideas. Not like Her Majesty, who studies it carefully that she might find every scrap of heresy.

My apologies, my lord, for I know of your inclinations, but on matters of religion I fear we shall always disagree.

… however, your presence at court would be welcome to soothe the anger of the Queen …

Excerpt from a letter from Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk to Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, c. October 1541

My Lord Hertford,

We thank you for your most thoughtful gifts over this Yuletide season and send by our messenger tokens of our esteem for you and your good lady wife.

We have also received your petition on behalf of your brother Thomas, who still resides at our pleasure in the Tower for his presumption in regards to advances made towards our dearly beloved cousin the Lady Margaret Douglas.

We note your plea for clemency in this case and assure you that the most serious of sentences will not be your brother’s fate.  He is, however, a knave and a fool, and we will not be prepared to welcome him back to court at this time.  We hope a further spell in the Tower will help to cool his rash behaviour but we will consider his release in the spring.

Wishing you and your family a holy and peaceful Christmas and New Year.

Mary the Queen.

Letter from Mary I of England to Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, December 1542

A small number of historians have at various points over the past century or so put forward the theory that Queen Mary may have been in love with Edward Seymour.

On the surface there are perhaps some indications that it might have been possible. Mary was sixteen when she first met Seymour and it is likely that the teenaged queen was quite taken with the handsome, clever man, especially having heard good things about him from his sisters. There is also a plethora of evidence that the two were close friends and Seymour was well known as a useful advisor and given credit for persuading Queen Mary against any sort of English equivalent to the Spanish Inquisition.

However, Seymour was a reformer, though he did attend Catholic Mass, and it is unlikely that the exceptionally devout Catholic Mary would have fallen in love with someone who had an opposing view on something so important to her. He was a great friend and advisor to her, to be sure, but the two also clashed often over religion.

There is no surviving evidence to indicate that Mary had any romantic feelings towards Seymour. She does write in her diary that he was ‘well built and fair to look upon’ but she often commentated on the looks of her court, for while she was a pious lady she also appears to have had an appreciation for a handsome countenance. Other than this she makes no other mention of Seymour’s appearance in surviving evidence and her letters to him were friendly but without the deep warmth expected of someone in love.

Excerpt from ‘Chapter 15: Edward Seymour’ in ‘Mary I’s Inner Circle’ by Alexandra Sutton

Chapter Text

Sanctuary

When Charles Brandon comes home from work all he wants to do is collapse into bed and sleep. It’s been an extremely long week for the government as they deal with the PR fallout from the two news stories that have been running in all the papers – the corruption in Thomas Wolsey’s Foreign Office, and the lurid details about Henry’s nasty divorce from his wife Catherine due to his affair with Anne Boleyn, the daughter of one of his campaign managers.

But when he walks into the sitting room he finds his wife looking sadly at the familiar sight of four teenage girls all piled onto one settee together.

Two of them are his own daughters, Frances and Eleanor, and another is their cousin Margaret, visiting from Scotland.

And then there is Mary, poor Mary whose misery is clear and who, judging by the dark smudges under her eyes, clearly isn’t getting enough sleep.

Margaret is trying to be cheerful, Frances looks like she’s plotting the best way to commit a double murder with Henry and the Boleyn woman as the victims, and dear little Eleanor just clings to her cousin.

“I could kill my brother,” his wife Mary whispers as he walks quietly over to kiss her hello, “Mary used to be such a happy little girl, and look at her now, permanently anxious, missing Catherine.”

Charles sighs. Henry is his best friend but he can’t support what the man is doing now. It’s one thing to divorce Catherine, but quite another to both flaunt Anne Boleyn in front of her and to separate her from Mary because he’s worried his daughter will choose to support her mother.

As if his actions now haven’t all but ensured that Mary has picked her side (and it’s not Henry’s).

“Henry is still threatening to get his government friends involved if Catherine tries to see her – I’m starting to think she will die of heartbreak if this doesn’t get better – and with that cancer scare she had last year, this is the last thing she needs.”

“I’ll try talking to him,” Charles promises.

Not that he thinks it will do much good. Anne Boleyn seems to have bewitched Henry entirely, and Catherine’s refusal to sign the divorce papers is making his usually jovial friend very nasty indeed. Catherine has powerful friends in Spain, but here in England it is Henry who is the connected one – he’s already manipulated the family court to ensure he gets sole custody of Mary, and now he’s using the Number 10 security officers to make sure she doesn’t try to sneak off and see her mother (all under the guise of keeping her safe from those who might want to harm the Prime Minister’s daughter).

They’re lucky, Charles supposes, that Mary is still able to come and see her cousins, as long as it isn’t when Catherine is visiting her ex sister-in-law.

Hearing the murmurs of Charles’ conversation with his wife, Mary lifts her head and gives him a small wave over Eleanor’s head, “hello, uncle Charles, how are you?”

“Busy,” he says with a grimace, not mentioning anything about work because he doesn’t want to upset her, “but happy it’s the weekend. Are you going to stay for dinner – your aunt is cooking so I’m not sure it will be edible, but the takeaway down the road does great Chinese food.”

His wife elbows him in the ribs, though he can see the smile on her face, but Mary shakes her head sadly, “I’d love to, but dad said I have to be home for dinner. He keeps trying to get me to talk to that woman.”

Charles winces at the venom in his niece’s voice, even though he can understand it. She wants to blame someone, and while Charles knows it should probably be Henry he also understands that it might hurt Mary even more to realise that while Anne Boleyn is wary of her, her father’s treatment of her is all his own idea.

“Shall I drop you home?” he asks, thinking that maybe he’d be able to lend her his phone while they drove so that she could at least call her mother and chat for a few minutes.

“Dad’s minions are waiting outside for me,” she scowls, shooting a dark look out of the window at the car on the road he hadn’t spotted when he’d parked, “he thinks I’ll run away if I have five minutes to myself.”

“He’s right,” her cousin Margaret whispers from next to her, shrugging when Frances shoved her, “what! It’s true.”

Mary just starts to hug her cousins goodbye, before grabbing her bag and coming over to embrace her aunt.

“I’ll send the photos we took to your mother,” he hears his wife murmur, “and next time you’re here I’ll probably have a letter for you.”

Charles pretends not to hear. Mary can’t ever take letters from her mother home, but her aunt is happy to receive them from Catherine and let Mary read them when she visits. Henry would probably go ballistic if he knew, but Charles isn’t about to tell him, not when it makes his niece tear up happily like she is now.

“Come and visit anytime you like,” he tells her when she wraps her arms around his waist, just like she did when she was a child and didn’t want to go home from a play date with her cousins, “you’re always welcome here, I promise.”

“Thanks uncle Charles, aunt Mary,” she smiles at them, and the expression seems more genuine than usual.

He watches her go and wishes things were different, wishes that his best friend would be the man he used to be, wishes that Catherine and Mary could see each other like they should be able to.

It will get better one day, he thinks.

He hopes.

And for now they’ll just do their best to offer her a sanctuary.

Lies

“What’s it like having the Henry Tudor as your father?”

It’s a question she gets asked a lot, one she’s been asked for as long as she can remember.

What is life with Henry Tudor?

It’s having a mother you are forbidden to see for over two years, whose memories of England are so tainted by her ex-husband that she flees back to Spain once the chemotherapy is over for a fresh start. You see her and her new husband Eustace (a kind, gentle man who adores her) every few months (always in Spain, never in England) and you talk on the phone every day … but you know your mother, and you know the scars haven’t healed.

It’s hearing about his attempts to divorce your mother in the newspapers rather than from him.

It’s hating Anne Boleyn until you realise that it isn’t all her fault, until you see her crying and pleading with a bruise on one arm and little Elizabeth clinging to her as she tries to convince your father that she’s never cheated on him (she’s telling the truth, and what’s worse is that he’s had affairs during most of their three year marriage without ever seeming to realise what a hypocrite he is).

It’s trying to shield Elizabeth from the drama of her parents’ divorce in the way that no one had ever managed to do for Mary herself.

It’s Jane Seymour trying so hard to be the perfect society wife, being lauded and adored by Mary’s father for a few months after finally giving him the son he has always craved, only to be ignored when his attention turns elsewhere.

It’s walking on eggshells in private, knowing the temper he has, but always remembering to smile in public.

It’s watching him loudly insult Anne Cleves, the German Ambassador to the UK, by comparing her to a horse while they’re at a state dinner. It’s seeing him grope eighteen year old Katherine Howard, one of the nieces of his Chancellor of the Exchequer, during a Christmas party, while Jane grips Mary’s hand tightly and looks away with tears in her eyes. It’s seeing him leer at Catherine Parr, the wife of Jane’s brother Thomas, when they are introduced.

It’s questioning if he really loves you, no matter that he still calls you the pearl of his world (when he’s in a good mood), if he loves your sister, or if there is only room in his heart for his son.

It’s Thomas More leaving the Cabinet because he can’t bear to see what his protégé has become. It’s Wolsey and Cromwell going to prison for frauds committed only under his direction (not that the truth is ever made public).

It’s your little sister Elizabeth, all of ten years old, telling you that she won’t ever marry, because all your father ever seems to do is cause his wives pain.

It’s wondering how the public forgive him, considering all the stories they hear (and half the things he does never even make it into the papers), how a man so amazingly charming (he’s regularly voted as one of the most popular Prime Ministers ever) in his public persona can have such a shambles of a personal life.

It’s never saying a word except to those she trusts implicitly.

It’s knowing she can never answer that question truthfully.

What’s it like having the Henry Tudor as your father?

A life of lies.

Catherine Howard

When Mary first meets Catherine ‘call me Cathy’ Howard she is disgusted.

She’s not underage, thank goodness, but it’s a close thing.

Her father’s new girlfriend is nineteen (over five years younger than Mary), studying at London College of Fashion and obsessed with frivolous pursuits.

Mary likes to have fun, enjoys dancing and nice clothes. But she also understands the word moderation, and it seems like Cathy doesn’t.

Mary admits she isn’t very nice to Cathy to begin with. She thinks the girl is empty-headed and vain, that she is only with Mary’s father for his money and family name.

Her father admonishes her for her rudeness, but Mary cannot bring herself to listen. He is her father and she loves him, but she doesn’t trust him, not anymore. And to marry a girl more of an age with his daughters … it is too much.

Time passes, and Mary and Cathy settle into a truce. She is coldly polite but not outright rude and her father seems to accept this.

Then, one day, her opinion of her father’s girlfriend begins to change.

“You should wear the blue one,” Cathy says as she passes Mary’s open bedroom door and sees her holding up two dresses, “it suits you.”

Mary’s first instinct is to disregard this advice, but when she looks in the mirror she realises the cobalt blue does look much better with her auburn hair than the other option.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

When Cathy beams at her, Mary finds herself smiling back.

“Do you want to help me pick out jewellery?” she asks tentatively, “It’s … it’s mine and Philip’s first anniversary.”

“I’d love to,” Cathy says cheerily, as she practically skips into the room and begins sorting through Mary’s jewellery boxes with all the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

After that, Mary can’t help but see things.

The way Cathy will play for hours with little Edward. How she’s happy for Elizabeth to play dress-up in all her wonderful clothes and talk constantly to her about the adventures she has with her best friend Robert Dudley. The presents she gives to others in the hope of making them smile. The position she found at Tudor Ltd for her best friend Joan, who had recently lost her job. How much she seems to love life, to take delight in every new experience.

And Mary starts to realise that maybe Cathy isn’t who she thought she was.

Mary’s father doesn’t behave as he should.

Her mother died alone in a Spanish hospital because he used his connections to secure sole custody of Mary and wouldn’t even let her visit when her beloved mama was dying of cancer.

He abandoned Anne Boleyn after she miscarried two sons and forced her into a two year court battle by insisting Elizabeth was not his daughter and refusing to pay child support.

He mourned Jane’s tragic death in childbirth only because she gave him the son he so desired, and forgot all about the woman he professed to love above all others as soon as his head was turned by a pretty face.

He humiliated Anne Cleves, the German Chancellor’s sister, after being introduced to her at a gala by his friend Thomas Cromwell, nearly causing a diplomatic incident and leaving the woman herself in tears.

Mary should have known things would eventually go wrong with Cathy.

Mary has a room at her father’s house, but she lives on the other side of London with her boyfriend Philip (Anne Cleves’ cousin, their relationship the one good thing that came out of that disastrous evening), which is why it takes her so long to realise what is happening between her father and Cathy.

She overhears them arguing one night, but as her father is prone to jealousy and Cathy can be dramatic, she writes it off.

It keeps happening, though. The arguments get more frequent, Cathy becomes somber, Mary’s father seems irritable.

And then comes the day when she lets herself in to the house and finds Cathy in the living room, tears pouring down her face and a red handprint on her face.

Mary has experience with her father’s temper, but she’s never suffered any violence by his hand. Still, she knows she has to take control here. Cathy is shaking badly and looking, for once, very much her age. Mary considers fetching her some tea but she isn’t sure Cathy’s trembling hands will hold the mug.  Instead she grabs a blanket from the sofa and wraps Cathy’s tiny frame in it.

She knows she isn’t going to get any sense out of her at the moment, so Mary simply maneuvers Cathy to her feet and leads her slowly back out to her car.  She’s not entirely sure where they’ll end up but she only knows she has to get them both away as soon as possible.

They end up at Anne’s house, though Elizabeth is thankfully at school.

A couple of years ago, Mary would never have been comfortable enough to do this, but she had to be civil with Anne for Elizabeth’s sake (she loves her sister and can’t imagine not being in her life) and eventually they just fell into a sort of friendship.

And if anyone is going to understand Cathy’s position, it will be Anne.

Her ex-step-mother takes one glance at the two of them and opens her door wide open. There’s a look in her eyes, a sort of sorrow mixed with understanding and anger.

Mary shudders. Her father and Anne’s relationship had been passionate and volatile, but she was never quite sure if he …

… well, she knows now, knows that Anne will be able to help in a way Mary can’t.

Mary sees the determined look in the older woman’s eyes and reckons all the sorrow her father has caused might finally be catching up with him.

She thinks he probably deserves nothing less.

Prince Charming

Mary’s father falls in love with a painting.

Or rather, as the cynical part of Mary’s mind suggests, he falls in lust with a painting.

She doesn’t pay much attention to his weird fixation at first.  After the upheaval of her teen years, Mary is finally in a fairly stable place in her life and does not need to contemplate this new development in her father’s dramatic and patchy love life.

Henry Tudor is forty five with three wives under his belt (plus a number of affairs), a child with each of his wives (plus an illegitimate one between Mary and Elizabeth in age), an ego the size of large country and all the signs of heading headlong towards a (second? third?) midlife crisis.

So Mary ignores it when her father bores everyone else to tears with praise for the upcoming painter Hans Holbein, the artist responsible for Beauty of Cleves, and whose work he has been given a sneak preview of with the help of Tudor Industries’ terrifyingly competent Thomas Cromwell.

She ignores it right until he both drags her and Elizabeth to Holbein’s exhibition, having heard that the woman Holbein has painted will be present. And then she just hopes her father won’t make a fool of himself.

Hours later and she is hiding in a corner of the gallery, trying to pretend that Henry Tudor does not exist.

It starts out well, with her father in high spirits as Hans Holbein leads them over to meet Anne La Marck, the young woman from Cleves whose portrait he is enamoured of.

… except he does not like what he sees.

And he makes sure everyone knows it.

Mary herself thinks Anne to be quite pretty, though clearly Holbein has painted her to the best advantage. But her father has obviously built her up in his head as a paragon of beauty, and he is greatly disappointed to realise that she is more human than the ethereal vision shown in the painting.

Mary and Elizabeth both flee as their father heads for the wine, but not before offering apologetic glances and stuttering praise to both Anne and Holbein, who are very red and, in Holbein’s case, indignant.

Sometimes, Mary thinks as she wanders around the gallery, she wishes her father was not quite so … larger than life in his personality. She can see her uncle Charles Brandon and Mr Cromwell trying to calm him down, but he simply downs another glass of wine and eyes a pretty blonde girl who can’t be older than nineteen or twenty.

It’s a disaster really, though at least Elizabeth has managed to find a few of her friends and is laughing happily with them, oblivious to the way their father is embarrassing himself.

When uncle Charles manages to maneuver her father outside and into a waiting taxi, Mary settles herself onto a bench at the end of the room and prepares to wait for Elizabeth to finish with her friends so that the two of them can go home.

For a while she plays around on her phone, head ducked so that no one will see her and make some sympathetic comment (even as their eyes mock her for being related to the infamous Henry Tudor). But her phone cannot hold her attention for too long and so she stands up to stretch her legs and goes to look at a few of the paintings she missed before.

She stops in front of a picture that seems to be depicting a fairytale prince, sitting astride a horse with his armour gleaming silver. Something about his face captures her interest. There is a warm humour in his eyes and the kind smile on his face makes her feel better.

“Do you like it?” asks an accented voice to her side.

“Oh yes,” Mary says, turning around with a wide smile, “I think he looks very …”

Her voice trails off and she flushes pink as she realises the similarity between the man in the painting and the one standing in front of her.

“Looks very what?” he asks with a small grin.

“Arrogant,” she bites out, embarrassment making her bolder than usual.

“Really?” his eyes widen in a way that tries to seem innocent but fails badly.

She scowls at him, though she isn’t really angry.

He offers her his hand, “I am Philip, I believe you met my cousin Anne.”

Mary winces, “I’m so sorry about my father – he … well I can’t really offer any excuses.”

“No need,” Philip says gently, “you are not responsible for him. Besides, I’m not very interested in your father – I’ve found someone far more interesting to talk to.”

She raises her eyebrow when he winks at her, but inside she’s hyperventilating. This is what her life should be like, a normal flirtation rather than watching the car crash that is her father’s personal life.

She decides to take a chance, because she’s young and she wants to act like it, “my little sister’s going to be a while with her friends, do you … do you want to get a drink in the café and tell me how you got roped into dressing up in armour?”

He laughs and gallantly offers her his arm, “I’d like nothing more, Mary.”

She looks at him quizzically, “how did you know my name?”

He taps his nose, “a man must have his secrets, correct?”

She blushes a little and nods, tucking her arm into his and letting him lead her towards the café.

Perhaps he isn’t a real prince.

But maybe he’ll be her Prince Charming anyway.

Chapter Text

United

It is May 1531 and Henry VIII lies dying.

The doctors are baffled, unable to do anything except try and make him comfortable. Anne Boleyn, sent home to Hever, is inconsolable – whether her grief is for the man she loves or the crown she covets … well, only she knows for sure.

While courtiers whisper and gossip, Henry and his councilors debate the succession.

His illegitimate son Henry Fitzroy is considered but discarded – there is not time to legitimise the boy, and few will accept a bastard on the throne when there is the beloved daughter of Catherine of Aragon as an option (especially the lower classes, who all adore Henry’s only daughter). Besides, Fitzroy is not yet twelve years old, a child still.

It will have to be Mary, who at fifteen is at least of an age to marry and bear sons.

And yet, Henry thinks, will England simply become an Imperial outpost? He knows Catherine will favour a match with a member of her family, just as he knows that Mary’s love for her mother will incline her to agree.

But who else is there? After all, he does not trust the French, not when it comes to the English crown.

Then his mind alights on Scotland. It would have to be carefully managed, and of course his nephew James could only be Consort in England, not King. But Henry’s grandson would be King of a united England and Scotland – a dream of Henry’s that he has never been sure could be achieved.

So he dispatches messengers, in the hope that his daughter and nephew can be brought to him in person. He doesn’t trust his wishes will be followed after his death and he wishes to see the two married while he still has breath in his body.

(dispensations, since Mary and James are first cousins, can be dealt with after the marriage – he imagines the Pope will simply be grateful that Henry’s heirs are Catholics).

Princess Mary of England and King James V of Scotland are married a week later.

After some fierce debate over the terms it is agreed that James will just be Prince Consort in England, for the united crown will be reserved only for his son with Mary. English and Scottish ambassadors are dispatched with haste to Rome to obtain the required dispensation from the Pope.

Henry lives long enough for his daughter and nephew to marry, but not to see the ambassadors’ triumphant return with the dispensation and a letter of hearty (and relieved) congratulations from Pope Clement VII.

Mary and her new husband get along well enough. Love does not feature in their marriage, but friendship and respect do, and in the circumstances Mary can be satisfied with that.

Her mother lives as Queen Dowager, in great comfort and state, as she deserves. And Mary can reward all the friends who spoke out against Anne Boleyn, can be satisfied that the harlot herself will never set foot at court again (and neither will her loathsome father or brother).

They are popular rulers, she and James, and though he often offers opinions on matters of state in England he knows enough about her council’s protectiveness of England’s autonomy to realise that he will never be permitted to interfere much in English affairs.

It is an annoyance, but he does not mind much. He has Scotland, after all, and the promise that his son will one day rule over both nations.

It is not all smooth sailing. Mary suffers miscarriages as her mother did, and some discontent does arise when ten years have passed and the only living child she has is a daughter named for her mother Catherine.

But sons do come in the end. When Mary is twenty-six, and then again when she is twenty-nine. Their eldest is named James, and the younger is Henry.

Mary has only a vague inkling of how different things might have been.

Of what she might have endured if her father had lived long enough to marry the harlot.

But in this world she rules as Queen Regnant of England and Queen Consort of Scotland for thirty-five years. In this world she watches proudly, with her other children and numerous grandchildren by her side, as her son is crowned King James VI of Scotland and I of England.

The two countries, finally united.

And they live (the usual plagues, minor skirmishes and intrigues aside) in a golden world.

Timing

It’s all a matter of timing, really.

In this world Henry thinks he has found a solution to his succession problem by looking to Scotland. His daughter Mary is nine and her cousin James V of Scotland is thirteen. Why not marry the two of them so that there will be one with Tudor blood on the throne, no matter what, and so England and Scotland can finally be allies rather than enemies.

In this world he has not met Anne Boleyn yet, has not considered the state of his conscience in relation to his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.

In this world the betrothal of Princess Mary and King James is solemnised before Henry and Anne’s eyes ever meet.

But then the King becomes entranced by the younger Boleyn sister. He claims to have suddenly had a crisis of conscience about marrying his brother’s widow.

He cannot make it public, though. The Scots are being friendly, knowing their King will one day rule England and Scotland together with the English Princess. So he orders an enquiry – a discrete one – and waits to see what will happen.

The Pope refuses to sanction an annulment. Henry’s previous plans to have Mary and James marry suit him quite well, being a solution to the problem of a female heir and an assurance that two Catholic monarchs will reign there.

Catherine refuses to consider a nunnery. She insists their marriage is valid and she will not give it up. She has not always been pleased with Mary’s betrothal to James (she still favours an Imperial match and she does not know why her daughter must be a joint ruler rather than a sole Queen Regnant) but it is far preferable to what is certain to happen if Henry marries Anne Boleyn and has sons.

Henry cannot find the support he craves and it makes him desperate. Anne has made him hope for sons of his own, rather than male heirs through his daughter. And Anne herself is bewitching, a woman he wishes to possess utterly.

He still proceeds with caution and secrecy, though. He does not want to upset the truce with Scotland until he absolutely has to.

But of course it comes out. These things always do.

The Scots are in uproar. They have been promised much, after all, and now Henry wishes to take it all away.

And abroad the Emperor is incensed at the insult offered to his aunt and cousin. It is a shame of course that Princess Mary cannot have an Imperial husband, but he knows that she will look favourably on the interests of her mother’s family, especially when it comes time to find brides for the sons she will surely have in time.

It is an uneasy time, with violent outbreaks and the threat of civil war as Henry becomes more and more desperate to have his marriage to Catherine invalidated so that he can wed Anne Boleyn.

And then in 1528, out of the blue, King Henry VIII of England dies.

No one can find any real evidence of foul play, but it is awfully convenient for all of those who opposed his plans to marry Anne Boleyn. The problem is that there are so many such people that it is truly difficult to work out who might be guilty, if indeed the King’s death was not a tragic illness.

James and Mary’s betrothal still stands, and they marry just days before they are crowned as King and Queen of England and Scotland.

As they are sixteen and twelve respectively, the marriage remains unconsummated for a number of years, but in the end it is a fruitful one and they raise to adulthood three sons and one daughter who are beloved by England and Scotland both.

Historians for centuries after debate whether Henry VIII was murdered, and not one of them ever comes to a conclusive answer.

The evidence, it appears, is simply not there to give a definite answer either way.

Some things are simply mysteries lost to time.

Widower

James V of Scotland does not die after the Battle of Solway Moss.

Unfortunately, his Queen, Mary of Guise, does not survive the birth of their daughter in early December of 1542.

And James is left a widower with only a single baby daughter as his heir.

Henry VIII ponders his Scottish nephew’s bereavement with less sympathy and more interest as to how such a turn of events might benefit him.

It would not be in England’s interests for James to seek another bride from France, and so his mind turns to who England could offer.

His thoughts fix, soon enough, on his own daughter Mary.

Henry knows he has Edward as his heir, but he also knows well enough that his son might not live to see adulthood, or might die without begetting heirs. In that case the natural heir would be Mary.

By marrying Mary to James he can combine both their claims, so that in the unfortunate event of Edward dying without issue, Henry might at least have the consolation of knowing that his grandson will sit on the united throne of England and Scotland.

And in the event that Edward enjoys a long reign, he can at least hope that Mary might exert enough influence over her husband to induce him to offer friendship to England rather than France.

Ambassadors are dispatched at once to Scotland to offer Mary’s hand to James. The dowry he suggests might not be quite as grand as Francis or Charles V might offer, but his candidate comes with the tantalising prospect of James possibly being able to one day leave the crowns of both Scotland and England to his son (it is not a future Henry desires, as he wishes his son to enjoy long life, but he has no qualms about using it to induce James to marry Mary).

He knows, of course, that James will be wary of marrying an illegitimate woman, even if he knows the Catholic world still consider his eldest daughter to be legitimate. He therefore offers to ensure there is no doubt about Mary’s legitimacy in the event of a James agreeing to the marriage. He does not want to admit to any error on his part, but he is sure he can find a way to shift the blame onto someone else so as not to hurt his pride and standing.

The negotiations drag on for months, but eventually they come to an agreement that both parties find acceptable and in May 1543 Mary and James are married.

Mary, at twenty seven, is rather old for a first-time royal bride, but she falls pregnant relatively quickly and all of Scotland rejoice when she gives birth to a healthy boy in June 1544.

By the time of Henry’s death in January 1547 she has suffered three miscarriages, but her young son is strong and, though Henry does not know it, she is three months pregnant when he passes away at Whitehall.

This pregnancy comes to term and the people Scotland are blessed with a second robust prince.

There are no further pregnancies after this, and though Mary is sorry to have no daughter to name for her mother, she loves her two sons dearly and also adores her little stepdaughter Mary.

She lives quietly in Scotland while her half-brother Edward reigns, in some ways relieved that she does not have to fight for her faith the way she might in England, and in other ways upset that he is being led astray by heretics. They maintain a cordial relationship, though, even if they see each other rarely.

With Elizabeth she maintains an extensive correspondence, and by inviting her to visit for months a little after Henry VIII’s death she unwittingly saves her half-sister from the scandal that might have occurred thanks to Catherine Parr’s new husband Thomas Seymour.

Edward, when he knows he is dying, wishes he might appoint Jane Grey as his successor, but in this world he cannot use her illegitimacy as a reason to remove Mary from the succession – as a term of her marriage to James, Henry VIII had returned her title of Princess and (using convoluted pieces of scripture to avoid being considered at fault) declared her legitimate.

No one ever tries to crown Lady Jane Grey. Instead, on Edward’s death in 1553 Mary is immediately declared Queen Regnant of England with James as her consort.

Jane Grey never marries Guildford Dudley. Instead she remains on good terms with Mary, despite their differing religious beliefs, and marries a man far more suited to her academic nature than Guildford.

The Duke of Northumberland does not lose his head for seeking to proclaim Jane as Queen. Instead he loses it a few years later after being arrested as the ringleader of a Protestant plot.

Elizabeth is watched carefully by many of the council, but she never seeks to challenge her sister, with whom she has a warm relationship. And she learns that not every man will make her as unhappy as her father made his wives. On the day she marries Robert Dudley, Mary puts aside her enduring dislike of Anne Boleyn for a few hours and restores to her daughter the title of Marquess of Pembroke. Elizabeth is never known to history as Gloriana, the Virgin Queen … but she is known as a staunch ally and advisor (if in an informal sense) to her sister.

Mary’s eldest son is only nineteen when he becomes King of England and Scotland, but she thinks he is ready.

He has a supportive family to help him. He is serious, clever and strong … determined to be remembered as a great King.

And history smiles on him.

Rescue

The last thing Mary thinks, when she is told on the same day about the birth of her half-sister Elizabeth (not the son the harlot had promised) and her father’s death in the celebratory jousts that had followed, is that a King will ride to her rescue.

And yet … that is exactly what happens.

She’s been under house arrest for nearly three weeks, probably to keep her out of the way until they can crown baby Elizabeth as a false queen. Mary imagines her own execution, or marriage to a low-born ally of the Boleyns, is planned to follow, and so she keeps an eye out for any opportunity to escape.

Her guards are eagle-eyed, though, and clearly loyal to the Boleyns. Still, she expects an Imperial messenger who can smuggle her abroad, where she might receive troops from the Emperor to allow her to take back her birthright.

She does not expect aid to come from the Scottish King James, especially not in person.

“Hello, cousin,” he grins at her when she exits her chamber to discover the source of the noise and finds his soldiers subduing the men who are posted to prevent her escaping.

She recognises him almost immediately. His greeting and Scottish accent help give his identity away, and it is confirmed by his appearance matching the miniatures she has seen and the description given by his half-sister Margaret Douglas a number of years previously.

She curtsies quickly, “Your Majesty.”

He lifts her back to her feet and kisses her on both cheeks, “oh, none of that, we are cousins after all, are we not?”

“What are you doing here?” Mary asks.

“Rescuing you,” he tells her, “you are England’s rightful Queen now your father, God rest his soul, is dead. The Boleyns are trying to crown the little baby, of course, but it is clear the country wishes for you to sit on the throne, as King Henry VIII’s only legitimate heir.”

She smiles at him, tears in her eyes, “you are very kind, cousin.”

“I have been in contact with Ambassador Chapuys,” he explains as he leads her downstairs, “and he is sure he can receive a papal dispensation very quickly.”

She looks at him in confusion, “a dispensation?”

“So that we may marry,” he says, “the Emperor will send some men, I am sure, but we can manage with loyal Scottish and English soldiers for the moment to contain any who might try to proclaim Elizabeth Fitzroy as queen. And with our marriage we shall finally unite England and Scotland, which I believe was one of your father’s fondest wishes.”

Her eyes widen and he takes her hands gently, which calms her a little despite the fact that she is not entirely sure they should be standing so close together.

“This has all been a great ordeal for you, dear Mary,” he says, “and I am sure you are quite overwhelmed. You must eat and then retire, for we shall have a busy time of it now – tomorrow we will begin to ride to London and you must look your best for the crowds that will come to see us.”

The next few days are a bit of a blur.

Travelling, waving to the crowds, members of the nobility coming to swear fealty, ambassadors visiting to convey the support of their masters.

They take control of London with little bloodshed, which Mary thinks is an auspicious start, and surely a sign from God. The majority of the common people have always supported her, and the few allies the Boleyns have in the higher ranks of society desert once they realise what is happening.

James, she learns, is energetic, and he talks a great deal to her about Scotland, the artists and musicians he patronises (“I have a great desire,” he tells her, “to hear you play on the virginals – I have been told you have real talent”), how he escaped the custody of his stepfather the Earl of Angus when he was sixteen and began to rule for himself, and how wonderful it is that they will be uniting their two crowns.

He has an eye for ladies, she notices, and given his handsome looks he has no difficulty getting most of those ladies to look back.

He will not, she thinks, be a faithful husband. But she knows how dynastic marriages work and how lucky she is she will not have to leave home, or be shackled to a much older man the way her aunt Mary was before she married the Duke of Suffolk (James is only four years her senior). And she will be a Queen, will be permitted to see her mother and ensure she is comfortable.

Besides, if James looks at other women then at least he looks at her too. He compliments her, engages her in conversation and gazes at her with a warmth that makes her smile.

She thinks she can love him. And she thinks (she hopes) he will love her in return.

They are crowned together at Westminster Abbey, as Queen Regnant and King Consort of England. A ceremony will follow later in Scotland to crown Mary as Queen Consort of Scotland.

Negotiations between their respective councilors have produced this settlement, with the agreement that Mary and James’ son will inherit the two crowns and be the first king of both nations.

James is, as Mary predicted, not faithful. But though he is kind to his bastards he never seeks to raise them to dangerous heights the way her father did with Henry Fitzroy. And he always comes back to her, always treats her with the greatest of respect and (for the most part) accepts her superior status in England as she does his in Scotland.

Love does grow between them, as does a deep and abiding affection.

Two sons and two daughters follow, all of whom grow to adulthood.

And Mary lives to see her son unite England and Scotland.

Chapter Text

Lucky

Lucky.

It’s not a word Mary generally uses about herself, at least not usually.

Perhaps she’s lucky her father didn’t lock her in the Tower until she signed the Oath, that Anne Boleyn or her supporters didn’t have her poisoned, that she isn’t locked away in a convent somewhere.

But that isn’t really luck, not in Mary’s mind.

Her real luck, she thinks, nearly always seems to stem from her mother.

She is lucky to have had a role model like Catherine of Aragon, to have someone who always insisted that women could rule just as well as men, who was strong and fierce and clever and determined.

She is lucky that her mother took such an interest in her education, that she commissioned works on the subject and tried her best to make sure Mary was prepared to rule, that she persuaded the King to send Mary to Ludlow to preside over her own court (and even if she might have had that snatched away from her, she still has the memory of that experience, one even Edward never received).

She is lucky to have had a mother who fought so hard for her, who kept on fighting for both her own rights and her daughter’s until she died.

She is lucky to have known her mother. Edward has no memories at all of Jane Seymour, and Elizabeth likely has very few (if any) of Anne Boleyn. Mary lost her mother too soon, but at least she knew her. She remembers her mother’s embraces, her Spanish lullabies, her wisdom and her comforting words. She keeps them all in her heart and when she remembers them even the darkest moments seem a little bit brighter.

Sometimes Mary feels like the unhappiest lady in Christendom.

But, despite it all, she always remembers how lucky she is to have had Catherine of Aragon for a mother.

Proof

Almost immediately after Catherine of Aragon’s death, it seems that the King wants to erase her entirely.

Mary never hears her mother’s name pass his lips. No one ever dares to compare Mary to her mother in the King’s hearing. Any stories about Catherine of Aragon have to be told to her in furtive whispers.

It seems the King will never forgive his first wife (and she was his true wife, Mary will always believe) for stubbornly (and rightly, Mary thinks) refusing to give way to the harlot.

But all this means that Mary, who considered Catherine of Aragon to be one of the centres of her world, has to find other ways to remind herself of her mother, ways that are not simply the memories in her head (some of which, to her horror, grow fuzzier as the years go by).

And so Mary, denied what her father could have told her, constantly searches out more physical proof of her mother’s existence.

Mary does not receive many of her mother’s possessions when Catherine of Aragon dies. There is so much that simply disappears into the King’s coffers or the harlot’s collection. But every little thing Mary finds in the small wooden box handed to her is precious.  A few furs she will keep carefully for the rest of her life, a wooden rosary from Spain that had clearly been overlooked by the King’s men due to its lack of adornment (she will pray with this rosary every day for the rest of her life), and a few letters that give her the gift of her mother’s outpouring of love for her in her own words and handwriting.

Over a year later, as Mary prays for the safe delivery of Jane Seymour’s child, the new Queen offers her another rosary that had belonged to her mother. And Mary takes it with trembling fingers and a grateful smile, happy to have any memento of her mother.

As time passes, whenever Mary travels around the royal palaces, castles and houses, she always looks for signs of her mother, for her pomegranate badge or her initials entwined with those of her father. Such decorations seem to change so often these days, Mary thinks, with work done all over whenever the King marries again (the paint is barely dry on some of the pieces to celebrate his weddings to Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard before the ladies themselves are divorced and beheaded respectively). It makes her a little bitter, but at least it means it is easier for pieces to fall through the cracks, and her heart leaps every time she spots Catherine of Aragon’s badge or motto, or comes across a book dedicated to her mother.

Then, on the day Chapuys (her dearest friend, her staunchest ally) leaves her to return home, he offers her a ring as a parting gift, explaining that it had been given to him by the Emperor, who had himself received it from her mother. She treasures that ring and wears it constantly in memory of three people who have been so important in her life.

It isn’t ever enough, though, these little pieces of her mother that she finds over her lifetime. It never makes up for the separation between them, or for the fact that Mary wasn’t able to be with her mother when she died.

It is also a pitiful amount of physical evidence left behind of a woman who was Spanish Infanta, Princess of Wales and Queen of England over her lifetime.

She does not discount these items, though. All of them remind Mary that her mother was Queen once, was loved by the King, ruled with majesty and grace.

And Mary knows that no matter how hard her father tries to physically erase her mother’s existence, Catherine of Aragon will live on in the hearts and minds of the daughter and English people who always adored her.

And maybe that is the best legacy her mother can have.

Laughter

Mary knows that most people would consider her father a more jovial figure in his youth than her mother, and perhaps that is true, in a way. But when Mary thinks about the laughter in her childhood, the memories almost always involve her mother.

Of course her father liked to swing her around playfully and show her off, but he was always so busy that these moments were far and few between.

But with her mother …

They run around the palace gardens, skirts held up as the Queen, her ladies following, chase the young princess as she darts around the hedges. Their laugher echoes around the grounds, causing all within earshot to smile to themselves.

Mary struggles over the pronunciation of some difficult Spanish words. Her mother repeats them and Mary tries again, but all that comes out are incomprehensible sounds. They share a glance and suddenly burst into laughter, Catherine due to her daughter’s adorably frustrated expression and Mary at the absurdity of her attempts to speak the Queen’s mother tongue.

Mary and two of her cousins, Margaret Douglas and Frances Brandon, act out a comic scene for the Queen and her sister-in-law, Frances’ mother the Duchess of Suffolk. Mary steps forward and in a loud, clear voice she gives her character’s speech, mispronouncing about a third of the words and putting emphasis in all the wrong places. She catches her mother’s eye and sees the proud, if amused, look in her eyes. She sweeps into a deep curtsey, accidentally trips over the long skirt of the dress (her mother’s, borrowed for the piece) and the whole production ends with all five of them laughing so loudly that the King comes in to see what is going on.

The two of them dance together, spinning around and around the room as Mary takes a break from her more formal dance lessons to just have some fun with her mother. Their joint laughter drowns out the music and Mary thinks her smiling mother looks beautiful.

Every memory of her mother is precious to Mary, but these ones are often even more so, because they aren’t about her mother’s miscarriages, her father’s affairs or the King’s ‘great matter’, they are simply happy memories.

Mary doesn’t laugh much anymore. She doesn’t really have cause to.

But even in her darkest, most difficult days, the remembrance of her mother’s laughter always makes her smile.

Queen

Henry VIII dies in a hunting accident in June 1532, before he can marry Anne Boleyn or bear any children with her, and before he can declare his daughter Mary illegitimate.

The Boleyns flee from court immediately, clearly sensing what will happen next. They have played the game, and they have nearly won, but fate has scuppered their plans.

Mary and Catherine of Aragon make their triumphant return (crowds cheering loudly) to London, and while there are those who would rather have seen the advancement of the Boleyns and the reformist cause, no one is foolish enough to try and challenge the King’s only child’s right to the throne.

Perhaps some might have suggested Henry Fitzroy, but he is known to be sickly and is still a child, while sixteen year old Mary is able to marry and produce heirs immediately. Others think of James V of Scotland, but Mary (and her mother) are beloved by the English people and though James might be considered as a consort for their new Queen, Mary is the one they truly adore.

Mary mourns her father, but a part of her (though it may be un-Christian) is a little relieved that she has never had to discover if he would truly have married the harlot and abandoned Mary and her mother. And though she thinks she might have learnt much from the King, somehow she thinks her mother will offer a more useful education on balancing the difficulties of being a woman and a powerful, influential Queen of England.

So she finds herself now, dressing for the coronation her mother has long desired for her, the one Mary hasn’t ever been sure she would receive.

And she is terrified.

Her mother notices, of course, and clears the room in less than a minute, insisting she needs a few minutes alone with her daughter.

“I do not know if I am ready, mama,” Mary whispers, all the insecurities she tries to hide from everyone else coming out to the person she trusts the most.

Her mother engulfs her in a warm embrace, “oh Mary, mi hija, you were born for this. You are my clever, kind, wonderful girl and you will make an incredible Queen.”

“Papa always said that England needed a King,” Mary tells her, “and my tutors always spoke about all the disasters of Matilda’s attempt to reign.”

“Your father, God bless his soul, was a great King,” her mother says, “but he was not always right. My own mother was Queen in her own right and you, Mary, you have had an education just like father did. You are the rightful ruler of England and though it will not always be easy, I know you will always do your very best – and how can anyone ask you for more than that?”

Mary gives her mother a shaky smile, “thank you mama. I love you.”

“I love you too, mi hija,” her mother wraps her arms around her once more, “and I am so very proud of you.”

Mary sniffs back a few tears, because the last thing she wants is to face the crowds with red eyes, and when she steps away from her mother the nervousness has been replaced by a steely resolve. She will get through her coronation without the show of weakness she knows some of her detractors expected, because she is strong, she wants to serve her country and the throne is her right, her destiny.

When Mary walks down towards the alter, the guests whisper about her serene, regal countenance and how magnificent she appears.

And when she looks at her mother, the Dowager Queen’s warm expression reminds her that even if she falters, she will always find strength from the mother who has helped shape her into the woman (the Queen) she is now.

In this universe, with resounding applause echoing around them, Mary and Catherine are victorious.

Chapter Text

1516

Princess Mary lives six months, just long enough to convince her doting parents that there will not be another tragedy similar to the one they suffered with their beloved New Year Prince.

Instead, she is swept off by a plague, despite the rigorous precautions taken by her parents and household.

Her mother weeps for days. Her father does not smile.

Henry tries to forget, determined to focus on the future and the other children he will (might) have.

When Catherine is later persuaded to enter a nunnery, Henry marries Anne Boleyn, whose bewitching dark eyes entrance him.

They have three daughters (and Anne begins to fear for her life) before the longed-for son arrives seven years into their marriage.

Henry focuses far more on his son than any of his daughters, determined to mold young Edward into a model king. Still, sometimes, when he sees his daughters all together, he remembers that there should be another, and imagines the fond eyes of a young woman watching the three little girls run around in the gardens.

Catherine never bears another living child, and agrees to join a nunnery ten years after Mary’s death with a resigned sort of acceptance, the sorrow of her lost children clear in the lines on her face.

The only personal items she retains are a few mementos of her Spanish home and a portrait of her daughter, finished just two weeks before the infant’s untimely death.

Catherine lives to be sixty-seven. When she begins to hallucinate hours before the end, it is her daughter she sees, alternately a toddler, child, teenager and woman.

She dies with a smile on her face.

And in Westminster Abbey, a tiny coffin is covered by an elegant but simple memorial, marked with marble and a single small pearl.

1524

A childhood illness takes Princess Mary when she is eight years old, robbing the King of his only legitimate child, the pearl of his world.

The same illness carries off the grieving Queen Catherine a few days later.

It is a double blow.

Henry marries again, of course he does. And he gets his son in the end (two in fact), although it takes twelve more years, two wives, two daughters and countless miscarriages.

Still, for the rest of his life a locket, inlaid with pearl, hangs off his belt, containing a lock of hair and the small portrait of a daughter gone too soon.

1536

They find her in her bed, cold and still, less than a week after Anne Boleyn miscarries a son.

The maid who discovers her thinks she is just pretending at first, that this is another little rebellion at the idea of waiting on her younger half-sister.

The truth soon becomes clear, though. Lady (once Princess) Mary Tudor, eldest child of King Henry VIII, is dead.

A desperate attempt to protect Elizabeth’s claim to the throne seals the downfall and ruin of the Boleyn family.

Poison, the people whisper, with a plot for the King to suffer some accident soon enough, clearing the way for Elizabeth to be crowned, a toddler Queen controlled by her mother, uncle and grandfather.

Mary had been too great a threat. There were many, after all, who would have supported the grown daughter of two great royal houses over Elizabeth, a girl only a few years old and easily manipulated by her ambitious relatives.

Henry gets the excuse he wishes for to dispose of Anne and find a new bride to give him the son he craves.

Anne, George and Thomas Boleyn, together with half a dozen others, all die for treason.

(four and a half centuries later, historical evidence arises proving Anne’s innocence in the plot. She may have wished death on her step-daughter but she never acted on such thoughts. On the other hand, her father and brother, fearful and paranoid, managed to bring about the event they were so desperate to avoid.)

The King’s eldest daughter is buried with pomp and ceremony, posthumously acknowledged as Mary, Princess of England and Wales, most beloved daughter of Henry VIII, pearl of his world.

Eustace Chapuys, the Holy Roman Emperor’s ambassador in England, writes bitterly to his master.

… The words are the Princess’ due, but given too late and only when they can cause the King no difficulty in his politics. The poor sweet lady, may God preserve her soul in Heaven.

1537

Her death ignites a war.

Mary Tudor languishes in the Tower a number of months, her warm letter to her new stepmother Jane Seymour and sincere wishes for her father to have a son unable to make up for her staunch refusal to sign the Oath of Succession.

Her cousin the Holy Roman Emperor writes that he cannot protect her, and Chapuys begs her to sign and then ask for absolution from the Pope. The new Queen Jane sends many messengers to ask Mary to reconsider, while her uncle Suffolk visits weekly to try and change her mind.

Mary’s faith is her consolation, and her belief in the validity of her parents’ marriage unshakeable. She stubbornly maintains her stance.

Faithful Catholics applaud her faith, even as they worry for her safety. Thomas Cromwell calls her “the most obstinate woman that ever was”. Jane Seymour prays the King will have mercy. The Duke of Suffolk hopes he will not have to witness his oldest friend sanction the death of his own daughter.

Henry does not know what to do.

Some days he almost orders his eldest daughter’s release, others he considers signing her death warrant.

He wishes to make a show of authority and yet she is still his daughter, the child of two royal houses, a princess in blood even if not in name.

Then she dies.

More correctly, she is murdered.

Perhaps it would have been different if death had come by illness. Rumours of poison might arise but they could be quashed enough to avoid danger.

However, there is no disguising that this is murder. Mary is found with her throat cut, the only mercy being that the physicians who examine her body believe it was a quick death.

And the country erupts.

Conspiracy theories abound. Was it a Lutheran trying to shore up Elizabeth’s claim; the King attempting to remove a stubborn obstacle without having to take the blame; Cromwell acting as his King’s ‘fixer’; Spanish, Scottish or even French courts looking for an excuse to invade; or the Catholics trying to make a martyr of the King’s daughter?

Rebellions break out across the country, too many for the army to effectively put down.

The Scottish are unruly at the border and there is news of armies from France and Spain, of an invasion sanctioned by the Pope.

Some of the nobles are scared, others are ready to throw their power behind the mobs and march on London.

What is absolutely clear is that something must be done.

Henry finds the Duke of Suffolk sitting with his head in his hands.

“I remember her as a child,” Charles says, “pushing the Dauphin over, playing with Tony Knivert and I in the gardens while you saw some ambassadors, dancing in the hall – she always knew all the steps perfectly.”

She was Henry’s daughter, of course, but she was Charles’ niece too, his dear departed wife’s favourite. Charles has spent so many years trying to balance his loyalty to the King with his religious beliefs and morals, the latter two of which he has compromised often in the service of his King. Mary never compromised – in this way his niece was far stronger than he was. Now she is gone, though, and all Charles can think is that he should have done more, all he can remember is that happy little princess laughing as she played.

He misses years gone by, craves simpler times.

“You have to make this right, Henry,” he tells the King, “we need peace.”

Peace is a difficult thing right now.

The mobs swell in size, their anger increases.

Henry’s spies abroad tell him of plans for ships to set sail from France, Spain and Portugal.

Scottish troops begin to fight at the border, barely kept at bay.

In the midst of the chaos, Jane Seymour gives birth to a son and then succumbs to childbed fever less than two weeks later.

Henry’s longed-for son does not bring the stability and happiness he once thought it would. In fact, it seems to make no difference at all to those baying for blood, desperate to see retribution for the death of their beloved princess (for he knows that is how most of them still see her, regardless of his own proclamations).

Danger surrounds him. Armies on all sides, a population who are against him, nobles who cannot look him in the eyes.

The Crown must stay with the Tudors. Henry believes this as firmly as Mary had believed in Catholicism.

The King gives the people their blood.

He executes Thomas Cromwell and a dozen of the Lord Privy Seal’s cronies.

Henry knows, deep down, that Cromwell would never have been foolish enough to be involved in a plot to murder Mary. He also knows that the man is the most capable administrator Henry has ever had and that he is a great loss.

But Henry cannot (will not) lose his kingdom. He refuses to allow England to become a battleground for the Scots, French and Spanish.

The executions appease the people.

Then he appeases the other royal houses as best he can. Religious reform ceases. His baby son Edward is betrothed to a relative of the Emperor’s and Elizabeth to a French prince. He wishes he could have more time to mourn Jane, but instead he is to marry a Scottish noblewoman, a kinswoman of King James – God willing, she will give him a Duke of York.

Things are not as they once were, but they calm enough for people to return to normality.

Tens of thousands visit the magnificent tomb Henry commissions for Mary. The country all join together in the prayers for her soul said at every mass for years after her death.

From his Scottish marriage the King gets his Duke of York, and a Duke of Clarence too, for good measure.

England prospers.

Still, no historian ever solves the mystery of who really murdered Mary Tudor.

1553

She dies days after her coronation.

A riding accident that everyone (eventually, and some quite reluctantly) accepts was entirely an accident.

A tragedy, for Mary’s life to be cut off so soon after gaining the Crown she has believed to be her right for years.

Some might say it is better this way.

She dies at the zenith of her popularity, the beloved daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon, always adored by the common people.

Perhaps there are those who are glad to see a Catholic queen gone, but there are far more others who sincerely mourn.

She rules only a matter of months but she dies she leaves behind the memory of a devout, kind woman who gave freely to the poor and loved her subjects.

No one ever calls her Bloody Mary.

They bury her, as her Will requests, with her mother.

1591

Mary I dies an old woman, a Queen who has ruled for decades.

There have been ups and downs, certainly, and she never can quite reconcile herself to those she considers heretics, but she has learnt some tolerance and tries to turn a blind eye to alternative religious practice unless the breach is flagrant or dangerous to the security of her realm.

In 1557 an illness she thinks might kill her turns out instead to be a pregnancy that gives her the son she has so desperately craved. People say this personal miracle brings back the kindness and warmth of her youth that has been somewhat overshadowed by the religious persecutions of her early reign.

She has her detractors, as all monarchs do, but she is still very popular, and has been more so since her husband sailed away to Spain and never returned, not even for the birth of his son. Philip knows, she thinks, that he will only ever be Prince, never King, and has sought power elsewhere.

It hurts to have her husband abandon her (though her council and her people do not seem to mourn his loss) but she realises later that it is probably for the best. Their son, her wonderful, clever, beautiful boy, is comfort enough.

Mary lies in her bed during what she knows instinctively will be her final illness.

She leaves England in her son’s capable hands, the Catholic restoration on solid footing, the treasury full from explorations of the new world, and foreign relations balanced as well as she can manage (her son has married a French princess, her grandsons are promised to daughters of the Spanish and Swedish royal houses, and her darling granddaughter Catherine should one day be Queen of Scotland.

She dies happy and contented.

Chapter Text

Fear

Mary is eight.

She is a Princess of England, her mother’s joy and the pearl of her father’s world.

She has never felt real, true fear before.

She is happy.

Mary is thirteen.

She is still a princess, but she is also scared.

She overhears rumours about a lady named Anne Boleyn, her father’s attempts to divorce her mother and a possible schism with Rome.

She is scared, however she is not yet fearful.

She hopes it will all work out. After all, Mary is sure her father cannot break with Rome, cannot abandon her mother …

Mary is seventeen.

She is called a bastard even if she refuses to accept it.

She is forced to serve her baby half-sister, and though she will never call Elizabeth a princess she loves the little girl all the same.

She is angry. She is worried. She misses her mama.

She feels the first stirrings of real fear, for herself and for her dear mama.

Mary is nineteen.

Her mama is dead.

She is not an orphan, yet it sometimes feels like she is. Her father does not write or visit – he seems to have forgotten her very existence.

She fears for her future.

Mary is twenty.

Anne Boleyn has been executed and Mary feels hope.

Surely her father will now send for her and all will be well. With the harlot’s poisonous influence gone, Mary waits daily for a letter from the King.

No letter comes.

Now, Mary must face the reality that her father’s treatment of her cannot be entirely blamed on Anne Boleyn.

Documents arrive for her to sign. With a few strokes of her pen she is expected to deny all her beloved mama fought for.

She will not sign. She cannot.

And yet … she does.

(the pressure, the panic, the terror … it nearly destroys her and she never quite recovers).

She prays for forgiveness, writes to the Pope for absolution.

Something inside Mary breaks.

She has had much to fear these past few years, but she has never truly feared her father until now.

She will carry that fear with her until the day her father dies (and its echo will haunt her even after that).

Mary is twenty-eight.

She is still Lady Mary, not Princess Mary, although she has her place in the succession once more.

She is the second lady at court, after the Queen. She dances and laughs and greets guests.

She loves her father.

She is terrified of her father too (she is not the only one).

The court of Henry VIII at this time is a dangerous place. Court factions, rivalries and religious differences all contribute to the atmosphere, made worse by her father’s mercurial temper.

She might dance with a favoured courtier one evening, only to hear of his execution a month later. Two men of equal standing might commit the same crime a week apart and receive vastly different punishments. No one ever quite knows the right move to make.

Fear abounds. It stifles the court.

Mary is thirty.

Henry VIII is dead. She is truly an orphan now.

She is free from the foreboding gaze of her father, but she is not free from the complicated, dangerous politics at court.

Edward is her brother and she loves him dearly. He is surrounded by heretical men, though, educated away from the true faith.

She knows there is still much to fear.

Jealousy

Jealousy is beneath her. It is a sinful emotion.

Mary feels it anyway, no matter how much it galls her to be jealous of a flighty, empty-headed girl like Catherine Howard.

“I think you’re jealous. You’re jealous because you’re much older than me and you’re still not married. Perhaps you’ll never be married, and will grow old a maid.”

The new Queen’s words to her are spiteful, but there is a ring of truth nonetheless. Mary ought to be married by now, ought to have children of her own.

When she had reconciled with her father she had thought marriage might be a possibility. She does have suitors (she still thinks of Philip of Bavaria with a bittersweet smile), and Chapuys does his best to try and persuade the King to allow her to wed. She is always disappointed, though.

Mary knows her father considers her possible marriage a threat. Edward is so young, after all, and she is the rightful heir should, God forbid, something happen to her brother.

It hurts, though. She wants a husband and children, wants the chance to be really, truly happy.

Jealousy is beneath you, she reminds herself daily.

Still, she’s only human.

Loneliness

Mary’s earliest years are happy.

There is a distance that must be maintained between a princess and her household, of course, but she is still surrounded by people – servants, ladies, tutors, ambassadors, courtiers and, best of all, her dear mama and father – and though she sometimes feels sad when she is away from court without her parents, she is usually too busy to feel lonely.

As she leaves her childhood behind she becomes increasingly aware of a dangerous distance between her parents, and of the terrible plot to place her mother aside and put Anne Boleyn on the throne.

Mary finds that her most trusted ladies are sent elsewhere, and the tutors her mama favours are dismissed. She can’t entirely trust the people around her now.

With few people to talk to and only rare visits from her parents, Mary begins to understand what it is to feel alone.

When everything falls to pieces around her, loneliness is her constant companion.

Her mother is far away and out of reach. Her father does not visit or write, ignoring her very existence. Her few servants are not to be trusted and Elizabeth’s other ladies are openly hostile.

Ironically, it is Elizabeth herself that offers a small spark of light in the darkness. Mary may not accept her half-sister as a princess, but she loves her just the same and she makes Mary feel just a little less lonely.

When she is restored to favour, she hopes to feel less alone.

And she does, in some ways.

However, court is not entirely the bright, exciting, colourful place of her childhood.

The King is growing older, his temper mercurial. The court is split into ever-changing factions. Mary is never sure of who to trust, and there are very few to whom she can speak the full truth.

There are so many people around her, and yet in some ways she is as lonely as she was during those awful years separated from her mama and waiting on baby Elizabeth.

It becomes even worse when her father dies and little Edward becomes King of England.

She finds herself more and more estranged from both Elizabeth and Edward. She loses Catherine Parr to the dangers of childbirth. She cannot publicly practice her faith without putting herself and her household in danger.

It isn’t quite as lonely as those dark days when she was out of favour with her father, but it is a very close thing.

Her household are fiercely loyal to her, her ladies a great comfort, but there is a void within her, a loneliness she cannot shake.

When she is crowned Queen, she thinks that maybe, finally, she might be happy.

Somehow, though, it is even lonelier. She has to be so very careful now she has been placed in the highest seat in the land, cannot give her confidences away lightly.

A husband, she thinks. A husband will be someone she can talk to properly, will hopefully give her children to heal the wounds in her heart.

Mary is so full of hope for her marriage with Philip. Unfortunately, as with so many things in her life, she finds herself disappointed. Philip pushes her to give him power and, while he makes a show of caring for her, she can see that he is not really pleased with this marriage.

Time passes. Philip is abroad more than he is with her. The population who once loved her begin to harden their hearts as she becomes increasingly desperate to return England to the Catholic Church. The circle of people she trusts shrinks until there are scarcely two or three with whom she can share her honest, real feelings.

No child comes, despite a few embarrassing moments of raised hope.

And then she gets sick, feels the end coming even though she prays and prays and prays for the chance to truly return England to the true faith.

She lies in her bed as her court flocks to pay court to Elizabeth. A few faithful retainers remain, but most start to look towards her younger sister.

The loneliness feels like a physical pain now. It is almost too much to bear.

When her last hours come, she drifts in and out of consciousness.

She can hear her ladies weeping by her bedside and the murmurs of the doctors who have clearly lost hope.

In her last moments, she thinks she sees her mother leaning over her, looking as beautiful and stately and comforting as she did when Mary was a child.

And in those final seconds, reaching out a hand for her beloved mama, Mary no longer feels lonely.

Desire

Philip of Bavaria is a Lutheran and a heretic.

He is also extremely good looking and intelligent and charming.

Mary tells herself she won’t be tempted. She is a princess (even if she must suffer the indignity of being titled lady) and her marriage will be one of state considerations, not private ones.

She has had a number of suitors and has always (barring that amusing little incident with the Dauphin of France) behaved with all the dignity, poise and grace expected of someone of her station. However, she has never felt like this before.

The Duke makes her blush, coaxes smiles from her even when she tries to be aloof, tells her entertaining stories that make her laugh.

She has felt fleeting attraction before, but nothing like this burning desire that courses through her veins.

She knows she should speak with her confessor, should spend more time on her prayers and less daydreaming about Duke Philip.

And yet … she just wants to feel like a normal young woman for once, to revel in an attraction to a handsome, clever, decent man.

Part of her wishes this flirtation might turn into something more serious, but she fears her father will never allow it.

Still, for now she cannot help but simply enjoy Duke Philip’s company.

Love

Elizabeth is a replacement, a usurper, a bastard wrongly called a princess.

Elizabeth is still her half-sister, though.

And Mary has always loved children.

She doesn’t want to care for the child she is forced to wait upon.

But she does care. She finds she cannot help it.

Mary is kept far away from the baby most of the time, but occasionally Elizabeth’s maids are lax or distracted and the little girl’s cries are not heard.

In those moments, Mary rocks her half-sister to sleep, soothing her with the lullabies her mama once sang to her.

She tries to hate Elizabeth, tries to remember who the girl’s mother is.

Elizabeth is innocent, though, and Mary cannot bring herself to dislike her for who her mother is.

The more time she spends with Elizabeth, the more she grows to love her.

No matter her opinions on precedence and her belief that Elizabeth is illegitimate, she adores her all the same.

Jane Seymour brings them both to court, tries hard to make them a family again with their father.

Mary keeps Elizabeth close, watches everyone around them carefully. The games played at court are difficult enough for adults and she has no desire to see an innocent child embroiled in the murkier aspects of the royal court.

She likes it best when she takes Elizabeth to the country with her, when they can laugh and play and learn together away from their father’s awesome and imposing presence.

Perhaps Mary will never be a mother, but she has Elizabeth and she loves the girl fiercely.

Some of the happiest times in Mary’s adulthood are when she and Elizabeth are at Hunsdon together, when they can escape the cares of the world and the stresses of their tenuous position.

Things change over time, when Edward becomes King and then following Mary’s own ascension.

The charmed moments at Hunsdon are no more, replaced by strained meetings and worries over rebellions.

Still, even years later, when religion and politics have put them on different sides, when her younger half-sister represents a real threat to her, even then Mary cannot help but love Elizabeth.

Chapter Text

Reunion

Charles’ niece Mary shows up on his doorstep at ten minutes past midnight on the 18th February, the day of her eighteenth birthday, and immediately demands her mother’s address.

He (trying to work out when he stopped being the guy who could down pints and shots like they were water, stay up for forty-eight hours without sleep and still look semi-human at work, and instead became the one who fell asleep on the settee in front of Match of the Day) tries not to yawn and invites her in for tea.

“I’m sorry none of the others are here,” he tells her as they wait for the kettle to boil, “your aunt took the girls to Edinburgh and little Henry is staying over at one of his friend’s houses.”

“That’s okay,” Mary says quietly, “I … well I didn’t exactly have a chance to let them know I’d be coming.”

Charles’ grip tightens around the mug. Henry is his best friend and he hasn’t interfered so far in the mess that has come out of his divorce from Catherine, but the way Mary has been treated by her father … well, Charles isn’t ever sure he’ll look at Henry the same way again, best friend or not.

“Your mother doesn’t live too far away,” he tells her, “but she’ll be fast asleep at the moment and I don’t want to wake her.”

Mary’s expression falls. She understands, though – Catherine’s cancer treatment is going extremely well and the doctors are positive about her progress, but she’s been very tired recently and no one likes to disturb her at night.

Charles tries to cheer her up, distracting her with more tea and plenty of biscuits, telling her stories he remembers from her childhood.

He’s careful to avoid obvious references to her father, choosing instead his memories of her interactions with her mother, cousins and aunt. He also entertains her with a spirited re-telling of the disastrous time he and Tony Knivert took her and her cousins to a theme park and made the mistake of letting Mary have a hot dog, cotton candy and a huge ice-cream just before she’d gone on the biggest rollercoaster in the park (suffice to say, he never did get the smell of vomit out of his favourite jacket, and he and Tony were never allowed to babysit unsupervised again).

Mary falls asleep on the sofa about 5.30am, despite gallant attempts to stay awake.

Charles gently covers her with a blanket and goes for a shower, knowing he won’t manage to get a nap himself.

When he comes back downstairs, she’s still fast asleep, snoring softly.

He scribbles a quick note for her in case she wakes up, grabs his phone and heads out of the door.

When he arrives back forty-five minutes later, Mary stirs slightly at the sound of the door opening.

She looks at him in confusion, “what time is it? Did you go somewhere?”

“Had to pop out for a bit,” he tells her, “it’s just after 6.30.”

She sits up immediately, “can I have mama’s address? She’ll be awake now – she’s always been an early riser.”

“No need to rush,” he tells her.

“I just really want to see her,” Mary says wistfully, “it’s been so long.”

Charles grins, “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Mary’s look of confusion turns to pure, unadulterated delight when he steps aside and reveals her mother standing in the doorway, tired but beaming when she catches sight of her daughter.

Mary vaults over the settee in an impressive feat of gymnastics and throws her arms around Catherine’s neck, half sobbing, half smiling.

Catherine is in tears too, murmuring in a quick mix of English and Spanish as she hugs her daughter tightly.

Charles side-steps them and goes outside, closing the door behind him.

They deserve a private reunion, after all this time.

He decides to head to the bakery a few roads away. Fresh croissants for breakfast sounds like a good idea.

He walks away, whistling to himself.

Today is a good day.

Panic

It’s stupid really, she thinks, to be triggered so easily.

There is a police drama on that she’s previously really enjoyed, but then she watches a scene with a fierce argument between a controlling, angry father and his scared teenage daughter.

She’s watched such things before, has seen worse without it affecting her, but somehow this particular scene gets to her.

It’s been a long week – her father has been parading his new nineteen-year-old girlfriend Cathy Howard around, all the while insulting his previous wives to all who will listen; Bess, all of eight years old, has declared she will never marry because all it seems to do is cause misery; Mary’s beloved mama is undergoing a further round of chemotherapy; and the papers have been full of another set of stories with all the gory details of her father’s marital adventures and infidelities.

Her therapist Susan has told her before that the panic attacks and anxiety will not always be predictable. What does not bother her one day may upset her a week later.

She can’t think of Susan’s words and advice right now, though. She can only remember heated disagreements, screaming matches and heavy silences; her father’s cold refusal to allow her to see her mama for almost four years; his harsh words, accusing Mary of being an unfilial, disobedient disappointment of a daughter.

Henry Tudor likes to present a good front, but his façade hides crumbling foundations.

Mary’s mama is in Spain, having put an ocean between herself and her ex-husband; Anne refuses to be in the same room as the man she once loved so passionately, is scrupulously polite to him over the phone only for Bess’ sake, and still flinches whenever she hears a raised male voice; Jane lies buried in a graveyard, her memory exalted by her widower only for the son she gave him rather than for her own self (Mary misses Jane’s sweet kindness and warmth fiercely).

Edward grows up in a stupefied sort of awe of his father, the little boy watched so carefully that he scarcely smiles and rarely plays. Mary and Bess go to therapy, together and separately, and try to repair the damage their father’s actions have wrought on their hearts.

And now, Mary sits hyperventilating on the settee, suffering another reminder that she is still scarred by the repercussions of her parents’ nasty, prolonged divorce and the separation from her beloved mama.

“Breathe, liebling,” a voice comes from next to her and Mary feels arms wrap gently around her.

Philip’s embrace helps, anchors her to the reality that she is no longer a teenager trapped in her father’s house and forbidden from seeing her mama.

She is at home, in a house that is hers and Philip’s. She is not alone, she has the man she adores, the husband who made her weep for half an hour straight with his beautiful, romantic proposal, and whose vows brought tears to the eyes of almost every guest at their wedding.

She inhales and exhales loudly, trying to focus on the sound of Philip’s voice.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, “I’m here, Mary.”

She loves him so much. He is always patient, never getting angry or frustrated with her. Philip’s fury is all for her father and he has no problem telling Henry Tudor so.

Philip whispers into her ear, and though she can’t focus on everything he is saying, she catches bits and pieces.

“I love you … I’m here … you’re ok, liebling … we’re at home together … I love you, Mary.”

She feels herself calm down, relaxes into his arms.

“I hate it,” she tells him, “I hate how I still feel like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Philip says fiercely, “never your fault. You’ll get through this, Mary.”

The first time he told her that, she didn’t believe him, didn’t think she could ever be anything but a shattered mess of a person. Now, though, she knows that it can get better, recognises that she is not to blame for her father’s sins, can see the light at the end of the tunnel even when it sometimes appears to be so dark that she thinks she’ll be trapped in her own head forever.

“I love you,” she whispers to Philip as her shaking subsides and the world starts to feel normal again.

“And I love you, liebling,” he smiles at her, kissing her softly.

She melts into his embrace, thankful as always for her husband, and lets herself fall asleep to her sound of his quiet, affectionate murmuring.

Cousins

“I hate her,” Mary mutters vehemently, hands clenching so tightly around her mug of hot chocolate that her cousins are afraid she might spill it.

Margaret eyes Mary with some worry. She’s a little bit too skinny (she often skips dinner to avoid having to eat with her new step-mother) and very pale, with shadows under her eyes that show she hasn’t been sleeping enough.

“She’s not entirely terrible,” Frances says, stubbornly refusing to back down at Mary’s glare, “I admit my mum hates her, but I think that’s more about how Uncle Henry left Aunt Catherine – and possibly a bit of snobbery – than anything else.”

“She made my father abandon mama,” Mary hisses, “and she persuaded him to keep me apart from mama.”

“It takes two,” Margaret offers tentatively, “I know you love your father, Mary, but he isn’t exactly blameless.”

Frances and Eleanor nod their agreement. All three of Mary’s cousins are well aware of her stubborn refusal to admit Henry Tudor’s faults. She wants so desperately to believe everything that has gone wrong is all Anne Boleyn’s doing that she won’t accept that her father is more responsible for her traumatic separation from her mother than his new wife is.

“Why don’t you talk to her about Bess?” Eleanor suggests quietly, “that might help.”

Mary can’t help but smile slightly at her younger cousin. It is true that Elizabeth is the main thing that can unite her and Anne. Mary, despite everything, adores her baby sister.

“I don’t want to upset mama,” she admits, “she was devastated by the affair, and then when the court awarded custody solely to my father.”

She shudders at the remembrance of being shunted off to one of the Tudor country mansions, cut off from her friends, banned from contacting her mother, only rarely allowed to see her aunt Mary, uncle Charles and cousins. And then Anne had given birth and she’d been summoned back to London, expected to act like they’re a happy little family when it is so far from the truth it is laughable.

“How can I even try and be friendly towards that woman when I haven’t been able to see my own mama in years?” she continues.

“I’ll ask dad to talk to your mother,” Frances offers, “he’ll tell her that you’re just trying to build up good will with your father so he won’t cause any problems later on.”

It makes sense. Theoretically, Mary will be able to leave and live with her mother when she turns eighteen (in one month, three days and nine hours – she has a countdown on her phone), but they all know that with his connections, Henry Tudor could make difficulties when that time comes.

“Just try an olive branch with Anne,” Margaret says, “who knows … you might be surprised.”

Mary thinks of Anne. Of how she smiles and coos at baby Elizabeth while Mary’s father mostly ignores his daughters. Of how her expression when she watches her husband flirt with Jane Seymour reminds Mary of her own mother’s face right before the divorce. Of the flicker of guilt in her eyes sometimes when she looks at Mary.

Maybe her cousins are right. Perhaps Anne will surprise her.

Wedding

Mary’s father doesn’t come to her wedding.

His excuse is a last-minute business trip that he insists is incredibly important. She doesn’t really mind, in the end. To be honest, she almost expects it.

Besides, though she’ll never tell him, she’d considered not inviting him in the first place.

They’re not close after all, there’s too much bad history for that, and she knows his presence would have caused some distress – for her mama, of course, but also for five of Mary’s other guests.

Anne Boleyn was once someone Mary hated, until she learnt to accept that her father was far more to blame for everything that happened. She and Anne have built a tentative alliance over their shared concerns for Bess, which over time has turned into a real friendship.

Jane Seymour was a balm after Mary’s turbulent teenage years, sweet-tempered and kind. For a while it had seemed like Henry Tudor would settle down, especially after Edward was born. The traumatic birth meant a long recovery, though, and Mary’s father, never patient, had sought solace elsewhere and eventually obtained a divorce.

Anna Cleves had never had the dubious pleasure of being married to Henry Tudor, but had instead met him online during his disastrous foray into dating websites. Mary still cringes when she thinks of all the horrible, rude things her father had said when he met Anna in person. The lady herself had been hurt, but hadn’t held her father against Mary, and had been the means of introduction between Mary and Anna’s cousin Philip, the man who would soon be her husband.

Cathy Howard was a whirlwind romance and marriage. Mary had been disturbed at first, given Cathy was seven years younger than Mary herself and gave off the impression of vapid frivolity. Now, though, she just feels sorry for how the cheerful, hard-partying but ultimately good-hearted younger girl had been so dazzled by Henry Tudor that she had married him before she could figure out what a controlling, bad-tempered man he could be under his surface charm. Cathy was quiet for months after the divorce, so quiet that Mary became seriously worried, but she seems better now, and she is blossoming as an intern at Burberry.

Kate Parr is the stepmother who almost was. Sensible and intelligent and kind, Mary thinks she would have appreciated Kate’s maternal presence on the rare occasions that she visits her father. In the end, though, despite Henry Tudor’s meddling attempts to destroy Kate’s relationship with Jane’s brother Tom, Mary’s father had finally let the woman be. Mary finds Tom Seymour a little too smarmy and grasping for her taste, but it’s clear that Kate loves him and is happier than she would have been married to the ageing, disagreeable, controlling, womanising man that is Henry Tudor.

It seems mad, the idea that Mary will have all these women in the same room for her wedding. Six very remarkable women, once rivals and enemies, now allies and sometimes even friends, united in their disapproval of Henry Tudor and their love for Mary, Elizabeth and Edward.

It’s crazy and yet it’s perfect too. It seems right to have them all there, a kind of closure to everyone’s stories, a moment of healing.

Mary’s father doesn’t come to her wedding.

The day is better for it.