The Other Henry VIII

A Cruel Injustice

4 July 1530
It had been another sleepless night for the King of England. For the first couple of hours, he had tried to convince himself that it was the sweltering heat keeping him awake. What was the use of leaving the windows wedged open if the air outside was just as stifling as it was inside? Not even a gentle breeze graced the royal chamber. Beside him, Leia kicked the linen sheets into a crumpled heap at the foot of their bed as she slept.

But before long, Henry's mind became too tired to pretend; the culprit of his insomnia was none other than his impatience to grant Margaret a divorce. It swelled like a inextinguishable flame within his chest, cruelly preventing his body from succumbing to exhaustion. Groaning softly, he rolled onto his side and dug his cheek into the pillow. The Privy Council congregated almost every day now, for there was so much to discuss, and yet it never seemed to accomplish anything. Factions were forming around him, dictated by faith as well as blood. While the loyalties of Cromwell, Charles, and a handful of others never wavered, there were many whom Henry knew would turn their coats at a moment's notice.

The Duke of Norfolk was among these men, but he alone failed to conceal his opposition. Since Diana's execution, Henry had witnessed the downward spiral of the Starling family with indifference. Many of them had died these past few years, and those that remained were the weakest of the bunch. The old Duke, though driven by greed and ambition, had at least been a cunning and shrewd member of court. More often that not, Henry had appreciated his wisdom and military expertise. James Starling, on the other hand, appeared determined to cause as much disunity within the Council as possible whilst simultaneously proving his own cowardice. A week ago he had gone so far as to propose the idea that they crawl back to the Pope and beg for forgiveness. The future for that loathsome family did not look particularly bright either, seeing as that layabout son of his had not been at court for years.

These thoughts tormented the King for hours on end, until dawn broke and illuminated the chamber once more. Impatience alone drew him to his feet, for fatigue still weighed heavily on his mind. There would be few courtiers about the palace so early in the morning, but he could not bear to spend another moment in that bed. Perhaps a ride across the grounds would clear his head somewhat. Suppressing a yawn, he shuffled towards the door.

"Where are you off to?" mumbled Leia drowsily. She was curled up like a cat, golden hair strewn across the pillow in which her face was buried.
"Riding," was all Henry could manage.
"At this hour? You must not have slept much."
"I didn't sleep at all. How do you feel?"
"Dreadful. Imagine if you were seasick for eighteen hours of the day despite being miles from the sea." She propped herself upon her elbows and regarded him with bleary eyes. "I should like to go with you."

The King raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?" he asked with concern. All that earned was a withering glare.
"Of course I'm sure. You and your lords may treat me like a fragile pot, but you cannot deprive me of everything that brings me joy. I shall ride regularly for another month at least. " Leia rose smoothly from the bed and pulled her abundant hair over one shoulder. "Come, if we leave now, we shan't be missed before breakfast."

As he had hoped, galloping across the grounds brought Henry some relief. The sound of thundering hooves left little space for the mind to wander, even if it did give him a raging headache. By the time they came to a halt near the stables, the palace seemed to be waking up before them and the sun already hung high in the sky. The King dismounted reluctantly, wiping the sweat from his brow, and lifted Leia down to the ground. As they parted ways, she wished him good luck, accompanied by the subtlest of winks, and strode away before she could catch the smile it brought to his face. It had been a blissful, if temporary, escape, but it was time to return to reality.

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11 July 1530
Clara swept along the corridor towards the main staircase and descended it briskly, not even endeavouring to touch the banister in her haste. Her ladies scurried after her, clutching their skirts, cheeks flushed pink from the exercise. Courtiers and servants alike dodged out of their path, not daring to voice the questions that formed upon their tongues.
The Princess had decided almost as soon as she rose that morning that she would listen in on court business. She was fed up with biting her tongue and ignoring her desperation to know what transpired each day in that dark council chamber. Last time she had asked her father, he had insisted she would find the reports dull; however, after his recent actions, Clara no longer required permission.