The Other Henry VIII

Keep Your Friends Close

17 August 1522
"Don't you want to get ready for the ball, My Lady?"asked Rebecca Cavill curiously. She had come into her mistress's chambers at court, expecting it to be brimming with maids and that she would only have to give advice on the style of the gown, but had found Princess Margaret lying flat on her bed in an empty room.
Margaret didn't answer. Her blue eyes seemed to be made of glass, they were so still. Rebecca crept closer, anxiety creeping up on her—what if Margaret was ill? Or dead? Almost whimpering, Rebecca reached out her hand and lightly touched the Princess on the elbow. Oh dear God, thought Rebecca, she really is—

"Lady Rebecca,"said Margaret, her voice a little croaky and weak, "what is it that you want?"
"Are you alright, My Lady?"asked Rebecca worriedly, "Shall I send for a physician? I can run, if you're feeling very bad."

Margaret smiled and propped herself up on her elbows like she was lounging in the sun. She shook her head, much to Rebecca's relief, but her eyes still seemed red and puffy. Perhaps she had been crying? "Can I show you something?"whispered the Princess.
The young woman nodded, her mouth pressed closed to stop herself from letting out the cry she automatically wanted to. Margaret climbed smoothly off her bed and tip-toed over to the door connecting her and John's rooms. It was open a crack, and the Princess pointed to something inside. What could that be? Rebecca wondered, still too shocked to say much, Is that cheating Starling bastard at it again?

Too curious to speculate for long, she followed the Princess over to the door and peeked through. A surprising, though not scandalous, sight met her eyes: the Earl of Rochford, John Westerly, stood in the centre of his chamber with little John enveloped his strong arms. At first, Rebecca wasn't sure what exactly was wrong with this picture. It seemed rather sweet, to be honest, for a man like him to be so loving and fatherly.

"He was never like that with Henry,"Margaret sighed, "Not once. His own son and barely a second glance; however, his darling sister dies and suddenly the little nephew is the most precious thing in the world." Rebecca still couldn't see the problem for Margaret's sadness. Perhaps it was a little cruel for John Westerly to love his nephew more than his own son, but he wasn't actually cheating like usual. Margaret turned away from the door, wincing as if the sight was physically blinding her, and walked back to her four-poster bed.
"So this baby will be for me and me alone."
Rebecca, not being the sharpest girl, tilted her head and wrinkled her brow. "What baby?"
There was silence for a minute, as Margaret stared at her lady-in-waiting. Finally, Rebecca understood.

"Ohhhh. My Lady, I—"
"Don't,"was all the Princess could reply. She seemed so hesitant to talk about anything, so weary and unexcited that Rebecca almost did go and fetch a doctor. However, something told her not to.
"You can leave now,"whispered Margaret, falling back into her bed limply like a rag doll. "But don't tell anyone."

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"Very good, Anne. These are very neat stitches," said Lady Bryan, carefully studying the handkerchief embroidered with tiny red roses. She was very impressed, much to her surprise, that little Anne Starling was better at sewing than Princess Clara herself. The latter looked up, her face sweaty and bored, with a touch of contempt.

"Thank you, Lady Bryan," simpered Anne, her voice bittersweet. She shot a triumphant look at Clara and took the handkerchief back. "Perhaps I should treat Her Grace how to stitch like me?"

Lady Bryan narrowed her eyes and swapped her gaze to Clara. The Princess had her eyes wide open, pleading for the sweet release of playing with her sisters. Maybe that was enough sewing for today. "What a nice suggestion. However, it is 3 o'clock: Her Grace's playtime with her sisters. Your cousins, may I remind you." Anne nodded, a sickening smile spread wide on her face.

Clara jumped up, curtsied to her carer, and hurried off. Lady Bryan followed suit: it was time for her daily book reading. Finally Anne was alone in the Princess's chamber and her smile turned instantly to a smirk. How much this household trusted her! A normal young girl would probably have been jealous that she wasn't allowed to play with her own cousins, but Anne Starling had already decided that she wasn't normal. The reason for her father's execution had been covered up; her mother had discarded her to the Princess's residence in favour of kissing up to the King; and her family were basically non-existent in her life.

Anne stood up slowly and crept towards the chest sitting at the end of Clara's bed. She glanced around to make sure no-one was watching her, then carefully lifted the heavy lid up to rest upon the end posters of the bed. Anne's eyes lit up at she beheld the contents of the chest: piles and piles of expensive gowns in every colour she could imagine. There were so many... who would notice if a couple from the bottom went missing? She could say her mother had sent them to her from court; who would bother to look into that?

So Anne Starling began digging in the chest, her heart thumping faster and faster as she felt her hands caress rich fabrics and encrusted jewels, until she had reached the bottom. There was a pretty green dress that Anne had never seen Clara wear, with an excess of gold trimmings and sumptuous pearls stitched to the bodice. She pulled it out without a moments hesitation, then slammed the chest shut. Now she just needed the sleeves...
Blood pumped fast through Anne's veins; she was enjoying this, the adrenaline of stealing the spoilt princess's unused gowns. Her body seemed to move faster. Suddenly, somehow, the little Starling girl ended up holding all the parts of the dress in her arms. This was going well, she decided. Clara would never notice.

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Meanwhile, Clara had wondered her way into the doorway of a small servants' door. Her ornate yellow gown had been stuffed into a cupboard, swapped for a brown maid's one. She had to stay in disguise somehow. The Princess bent over to tie the laces of the old leather boots she had found, her clean white fingers struggling to tie the laces. Those poor servants, having to wear shoes like these!
Suddenly, the door opened and someone stepped out. Clara hardly had time to get out of the way before that someone walked right into her.
"Out of my way, wench!"shouted a deep voice, and trudged past. Clara fell into the mud, her face flat against the cold wet ground. The Princess picked herself carefully, spitting out dirt and rubbing her muddy hands together. She couldn't quite believe that the man, whoever he was, had been that rude. To kick her in the mud!
Well, at least he didn't recognise her.

Clara stood up, brushed her now soil-stained skirts and hurried off. It wasn't before she reached the woods, unnoticed and unrecognised by anyone who had passed by her. It was a nice feeling, actually, to not have people staring and curtseying wherever she went. The Princess smiled joyfully as the stableboy came into view, waiting under the impressive crown of a large oak tree. He raised an eyebrow at her outfit, but Clara didn't really care. This meeting was the highlight of her day; it always was. In the past month, she had grown closer to James the stablehand. They met four times a week, if possible, and always in the same place: under the oak tree. Clara wasn't sure how she always managed to find it, but somehow her heart always knew the way.
"Nice new look,"James greeted, grinning. "Suits you."
"Shut up, I don't want to talk about it,"replied Clara. She wrapped her arms around him briefly, shrugged off the woollen cloak (feeling sure her shoulders sighed with relief from its itchiness)and they sat down at the roots of the tree together. The rays of sunlight seemed through the gaps in the leaves, littered golden light upon the pair's hair and faces. For a pure, comforting moment, there was complete stillness.

And then they began to talk.
After all, rank didn't matter so much. Did it?