The Other Henry VIII

Out of Our Control

New Year 1524
"To a new year for all of us and our beloved kingdom; may it be happier and more prosperous than the last!"
"To the new year," echoed the courtiers merrily. They raised their glasses in unison, then to their lips, trying to pretend it was their first drink of the night.
The King smiled proudly. He sat back down in his chair at the table. A lavishly decorated swan loomed before them, a slice of the steaming meat being placed on his plate by a cautious servant.

"Don't look so miserable, sweetheart," he said in low tones, filling his mouth with the juicy strips of meat. It seemed like eternity since he had last eaten. "At least be agreeable for the festivities."
Leia met his eyes calmly. Provoking any speech longer than two words at a time out of her mouth had proved rather difficult over the last month or so, and it certainly didn't help that she locked her chambers at night so he couldn't even visit her alone. The King truly believed he had never felt more frustrated. If he loved her any less, he would have tossed her aside as soon as she refused his company, but this was Leia. This was the woman who he had spent his life waiting for, and there was something she was hiding from him; Henry was certain.

"Leia, please," he whispered. The music was starting up and couples were gathering on the dance-floor, so there was a much smaller chance of them being overheard. "It's a new year. You know as well as I that we cannot continue like this forever." She still refused to answer, though her eyes were like malicious flames, engulfing everything in sight. The King sighed and turned to his left, aggravated. "How are you enjoying the evening, Clara dear?"
"Very well, thank you Papa," she replied politely. Henry could feel Leia's eyes scorching a hole through the back of his head, observing the conversation in her stubborn silence, but he chose to ignore it.

"Are you sure Lizzie should not have been here? It is such shame that she misses out on the festivities, especially at her age." Henry reached for his goblet, freshly topped up by that Starling he always seemed to overlook, and downed the contents in a single gulp.

"I understand, Papa," was the mild reply, "But Lizzie's young age is the reason that she should not be present. I worry what would happen once all of the courtiers are drunk." Clara's face betrayed little to no clue of her emotions, so it was difficult for the King to understand how serious she was. "Well, dear daughter," he returned, patting her arm affectionately, "I do not know what I would do without your sense to keep me in line. How foolish it was of me to send you to Westhorpe before; perhaps you would have prevented me from making some regrettable decisions." He saw Leia flinch out of the corner of his eye. "Indeed, my Clara, I cannot imagine how quickly you have grown into a perfect young lady, when you are only twelve this year!"

The Princess knew almost precisely what her father was about to say. She was well-used to her father's habit of shifting the conversation topic onto what he truly wished to speak about, because she often found herself doing the same thing. Clara watched him consume another mouthful of food, as if to prepare himself. "I think it is time that we found you a suitable husband."

Taking three deep breaths, she forced herself to nod meekly. "Of course, Papa, if that is your will." It was strange how someone's words could have such a blatant contrast to what they actually felt.
The King, taking no notice of his daughter's reluctant expression, instead gave his wife a momentary sideways glance in triumph, as if to prove to her that Clara desired  to be signed away to some foreign prince in the next five years of her life. Why couldn't Leia understand? Why did she take it upon herself to be a wedge between his daughter and her duty?

The Princess took this opportunity to leave the table, unnoticed amongst the bustle of courtiers and servants alike, and escape to a deserted anti-chamber with a pounding heart. Over-hearing that disagreement between her father and step-mother had been deeply disheartening, but it had not felt so real as it did now. She had not felt as helpless as she did now.
Clara could hear her own breath, amplified a dozen times, above the muffled noises of the joyful court behind the door. She stumbled down the adjoining corridor, towards one of the side doors that she remembered to lead outside.
At last, the cool, damp air on her sweltering skin. The starless black sky welcomed her with open arms as she raced across the lawn with her skirts crumpled in her hands. Everywhere she looked grew black and unfocused, obscured by the tears that began to flow steadily down her cheeks like the first rain after a drought. There was not a soul nearby to watch as Princess Clara of England, tossing her hood into the shadows, felt her knees buckle beneath her and then the frosty dew of the grass against her body.