The Other Henry VIII

Olive Branches

Clara awoke to the sensation of cool breath upon her eyelids and silky hair tickling her cheeks, and thought of Flavia, the affectionate lapdog gifted by her father on her nineteenth birthday. An attempt at an olive branch, no doubt; he had been trying to win her over for several weeks before this quarrel with Leia began. Clara had almost been tempted to accept him. Reminiscing of her days as a young child in short skirts, skipping into her father's strong, comforting arms, made her long for such intimacy again.  But no, she reminded herself, he did not deserve her kindness. Those gifts and treats, embellished peace-tokens bound in ribbon, were offered out of desperation not repentance. If he felt no remorse then he would receive no forgiveness. Reaching out her hand for Flavia's reassuring fur coat, eyes pasted shut with dream-dust, her wandering fingers were instead met with —

"Ow!" whispered a cross voice.
Clara's eyes shot open. To her surprise, there was a lit candle flickering away upon the cabinet beside her bed, illuminating the vague form of — "Lizzie!"
"Shhh!" hissed back her sister, who somehow had climbed onto Clara's stomach in a rather awkward position without detection, "They said not to wake anyone else. You have to come."
"Come where?" yawned Clara, glancing at the window. "It is still dark outside."
"Which is why you need to be quiet and come."
Clara frowned. She tried to jerk herself into an upright position but her sister's crushing weight made such a task impossible. "I cannot come if you are sitting on me," she grumbled.

"Very well then!" said Lizzie impatiently, leaping out of bed with the agility of either a very lanky acrobat or a very overgrown rabbit. She dashed across the room on the tips of her bare toes and tore a satin robe from the chest, which she then proceeded to hurl at her sister's face. "Put that on. You need to come, quickly!"
"Alright, alright, I understand," murmured Clara, threading her arms clumsily into the robe. She was still considerably disgruntled by the situation, "Although I cannot understand why — "
"Something's happened." A slow, grave tone that did not suit Lizzie. In the dim candlelight her eyes were wide and anxious. Then, hooking her arm around the bedpost, she seized hold of her sister's hand and dragged her out of the room.

The palace was dark and deserted. Past midnight, estimated Clara, into the early hours of the morning perhaps. Her sister's grip upon her wrist was claw-like and unyielding, the creaking wooden floorboards like ice slabs beneath her soles. She had regained enough of her senses by now to wonder what on earth could be the matter. Where were they going? What could have happened to terrify Lizzie so much? And most importantly of all, could it truly not wait until sunrise?
After covering the length of several hollow corridors in frenzied pants, the two Princess' paths suddenly converged with none other than Edmund Westover, Marquess of Dorchester. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, but neither slowed their pace as they continued down the main hallway.

"Your Royal Highnesses," he greeted in a rather agitated manner, "I take it you have heard the news?"
"Edmund, of what news do you speak?" replied Clara bluntly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sister arch an eyebrow at the use of his name, but she did not care. "What could possibly necessitate prising us from our beds at such an hour?" And there it was again: the same sombre expression that her sister had worn not five minutes earlier. They came to a halt outside the Queen's apartments, and her eyes darted between the pair of them pressingly. Lizzie, with her bedraggled mane of ginger curls and restless fidgeting. Edmund, with his solemn frown and piercing blue gaze. Then, she understood. "Has something... has something happened to Leia?"

Without an answer, Edmund rapped his knuckles softly on the door. Even Lizzie was uncommonly speechless, shifting her weight between each foot as though standing on hot coals. A few seconds passed before it opened before them to reveal the round, florid face of the Duchess of Suffolk. The tendons in her neck twitched and contorted at the sight of them.
"Cousin, where is the guard?" asked Edmund in a low whisper, "I asked that a man be stationed here constantly."
"I-I-I sent him to rouse His Majesty," replied the Duchess, "C-c-come, Lumley awaits inside."