The Other Henry VIII

Middle of Nowhere

Margaret had always wanted a daughter. After so long tethered to John, she had all but given up hope. But now here she was two years on, sat upon the throne of France, and here, like a miracle, was Charlotte. Plump, fair and topped with a cloud of copper curls, she bewitched French court the very day she was born, and they had been under her spell ever since.
These days she could sit up on her own, blue eyes flickering around inquisitively as if to understand the world around her with a single look. Everyone doted on her, her parents most of all, and even her well-behaved elder brothers and sisters hurried back from their lessons just to play.

All was not completely well, of course. Word of war on English soil had distressed Margaret a great deal, especially rumours that her own son William might have the crown forced upon his head. She may have been born a royal and done her duty by it, but she had hoped he at least would be spared such a fate. How useless she felt, trapped here in France! What sort of a mother settled for an ocean apart from her only son? Yet still Francis refused his crossing and still Margaret dreamed of him as she lay beside her cooing daughter, pondering if she would ever see that darling, dark-haired, solemn little boy again.

"Yes, Isabel?" she greeted as her friend came barraging through the nursery door in her usual abrupt fashion. Charlotte, who was perched contentedly upon her mother's lap, appeared quite unfazed by the racket.
Isabel opened her mouth then, taking stock of the four other ladies strewn about the room, sat smoothly beside her mistress and pronounced, "What a delightful child! I do believe she grows bigger every day."
"What news?" whispered Margaret, before adding in a louder voice for the others, "Yes, indeed. She will be six feet tall before we know it."
"There is talk of marriage. Or perhaps seven? And with so great a father, she will be renowned throughout Europe! For your daughter."

Shuddering, Margaret scooped Charlotte closer to her chest as if to defy anyone who dared to take her. "Quite so, she shall be a beauty! I thought we would have more time. Did you see Madame Deneuve's gown last night? To whom, did you hear?"
"I did! We must ask her for the needlework pattern of those sleeves, they were simply marvellous! No, I'm afraid not. The options are more limited by the month."
"So many nations are reforming?"
"Leaning closer, at least. Do you suppose she will tell us who spun that glorious fabric? After England, who knows how many will follow? Francis is restless. Some lords demand he make an example of them by invading —"

One of the French ladies was creeping in closer, and Isabel paused as soon as she came into earshot. Margaret gulped. Sometimes she wondered if this was all her own doing. Henry had torn his kingdom apart for her, forsaken his religion and stability for love of her. If only she had kept her mouth shut, kept John's trespasses to herself, then perhaps thousands of lives might not have been wasted. She planted a kiss on Charlotte's soft head and allowed the nursemaid to take her with only a moment of resistance. Isabel, was who balanced at the very edge of her chair in a yellow gown that clashed rather outrageously with her flaxen hair, gave a small sigh, and Margaret knew at once.

"What else?" she prompted softly.
Her friend looked somewhat sheepish. "Outrage, at your brother's victory."
"And?" Rising suddenly to her feet, Isabel shot one of the most scathing glares Margaret had ever beheld across the chamber. Two ladies scuttled out immediately and, after a gentle, "Leave us," from the Queen, the others joined them.
"Anne is back at court," blurted out Isabel at once. "Or she will be shortly. The hens likely know already, but I had to send them out just in case. My Lady, what are we going to do?"
"Remain calm," advised Margaret, although she herself was feeling somewhat unsteady. "Are you quite, quite certain?"
"Have I ever been falsely informed?"
"Well —"

"How are we to be rid of her this time? It is not as though you can deliver a child each time she sets her claws in him!"
"No, indeed," agreed Margaret.
"And there is no chance of Francis banishing her again!" continued Isabel, who was growing more frantic by the second, "I heard she has been writing to him since she left!"
"Well, perhaps he could do with the company," she replied levelly. While she did not particularly like her husband, they had in part come to an understanding. That, she could live with. Her friend's frustration increased threefold.
"Rest assured, she will not spare us! Do you forget the havoc she wreaked upon my sister's marriage?"
"Of course not," exhaled Margaret. She should have savoured the peace when she had the chance.
"She has had months to scheme against us, My Lady, she will be primed and ready to pounce."