The Other Henry VIII

Time to Wake

Some days, Isabel felt like she was watching another person live her life. She would hear her voice and not remember speaking, or reel around the room and realise she was dancing. She was neither the puppet nor the puppet-master, merely a passive spectator looking out through someone else's eyes.

Other days, she was over the moon. The glimmer of jewels, the sheen of glazed fruits, the silk of the King's bed against her skin – they filled her blood and suffocated her soul. People were dolls in her hands, men were card games and women chess. She swept past them in a euphoric haze, these courtiers who had turned up their noses at her for being English, for knowing her own mind, for being — God forbid — unwed at thirty-two, and thought this surely must be happiness.

But some days, it did not feel like living at all. The hens still shunned her as before, but now it was her whom the Queen asked to leave with cool dignity, as though she were as much of a stranger as the rest of them. She was an island again, but this time without obscurity to keep her warm at night.

Lady Anne was to be married off. Her betrothed was certainly no pauper, and she would remain at court at the King's expense for much of the year, but the tides were turning plain as day.
Yet Isabel felt none of it. She lived from one moment to the next, mind clouded black with fog, because seeing clearly would mean gazing upon her own betrayal for the very first time.

And she knew it might destroy her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summer ambled by that year like a forgotten lullaby, crooned once upon a time to a child long since grown, and the English court moved on, as they were so fond of doing. The marriage of Lord and Lady Lloyd proved unexpectedly inspiring to the resident unwed nobles, who flocked to Dashwood Chapel for their first, second — in one case, third — forays into matrimony. Flowers bloomed everywhere one turned, from dusky-pink roses to creamy lilies, while branches of fat red cherries gleamed tantalisingly from the burgeoning orchard. The estate was incandescent, awash with a thousand different smells and textures and colours all blending seamlessly into one, so sweet and intoxicating and teeming with life that forgetting the outside world was as easy as falling asleep. "Our very own Eden," the King was wont to call it.

But some must always stay awake. The Queen, for instance, never ceased her endless cycle of reports and appointments, in spite of a ripening belly. Cromwell worked tirelessly at her side, as ever, backed by a small group of followers the pair had amassed these past few months, and England was rehabilitating under their watchful gaze, piece by piece. Princess Agnes of Hesse would arrive for the start of September; Princess Clara would marry by the end of it.

For the ever-exuberant Princess Elizabeth, however, Dashwood was a treasured playground. After a single afternoon of badgering, she had extorted a birthday celebration from her father, which would serve as a sort of 'grand finale' for her season of relentless matchmaking before court returned to London. Fourteen-years-old, radiantly beautiful and effervescing with joy, she capered seamlessly through the dancing couples on the lawn, beamed at the minstrels as she passed, and swiped another gingerbread swan from the table. Sugared desserts had always been a weakness of hers.

Gifts were lavish and plentiful: rolls of silk for gowns, jewels and cards, needlework patterns and even a pony, were all presented in quick succession on the arms of a dozen pageboys. Each provoked such a display of gratitude from the princess that several young men cursed themselves for not having offered one. Yet none could match her reaction when the drapes were lifted from Princess Clara's to reveal a splendid, gilt-framed portrait the size of a large book. Inscribed below were the words:

Elizabeth Mary Tudor
~ Natura nihil pulchrius fecit ~

"I had Master Holbein finish it a few months past, while he was painting mine," she explained to a captivated Lizzie. "At the risk of indulging your vanity even further. Perhaps you do not remember..."
"It is the sketch you made of me. I remember."
Clara smiled fondly. "Yes. There was rather a lot to be done, in all honesty, but —"
Before she say anything more, Lizzie had thrown her arms around her sister's neck with the force of a stallion. "I love it," she whispered in her ear, "Thank you."