The Other Henry VIII

Petrichor

Palms face down on the polished oak surface, angular shoulders jutting forward contentiously, Marianne Westover stared across the table at her husband, and he stared back. His kind eyes pierced her soul.
In all their years of marriage, he never failed to be kind. That was what infuriated her so. Even when she railed against him like a woman possessed, hurling his belongings from corner to corner of his childhood home, William was nothing but gentle and kind; until the day of her arrest. Only then had she witnessed the sheen of trust leave his affable face. And somehow... somehow that glimpse had troubled her more than any imprisonment.

During recent months, before they came to court, Marianne had started to test him. Quite without meaning to, at first — living in that wizened old castle, there was always a surplus of matters about which to complain — but soon it became her obsession. Shattering mirrors, toppling tables, starving herself for days on end, once going so far as to fling herself from her horse, yet still nothing could arouse her husband's temper. On each occasion, he would carry her back to bed like a peasant bride and whisper comforts in her ear as she fell asleep. On each occasion, he understood completely and took great pains to ensure it would not happen again. And still, she would persist.

Perhaps she wanted to measure just how far his tolerance extended. Perhaps she was simply bored. Or perhaps, as Marianne was only coming to realise now, she enjoyed it. Savouring the apple-and-pine scent of his doublet as she lay against his neck, the caress of his beard as it danced a lively jig against her skin... Of course, in the moment she had been repelled. How could she, a genteel courtier who had once shared the bed of the King of England, find solace in the arms of an inconsequential Scottish aristocrat with appalling manners and facial hair like an overgrown bush? She was too good for him, and they both knew it.

But they had not spoken since her arrest. Over three weeks of silence, feeling his gaze pass over her in agonising disappointment. It was worse than rage, worse than broken mirrors and dented crockery, worse than anything she had inflicted upon him. He had consumed her by doing nothing at all.

"William." She never spoke first — it was one of her principles. But now she was desperate, pathetically so. Even if it took all night, she would make him reply. "William. I shan't... I shan't beg." Nothing. "You are my husband. You cannot ignore me forever." Nothing again. "Frankly, this rather childish of you." Still no response. Nostrils flaring, Marianne shoved her plate onto the floor. "Answer me, damn you!"
"What would you like me to say?" returned William.
"Anything. Conversation never seemed to be your weak point before."
"It was different before."
"Why?" she demanded brazenly. He hesitated, avoiding her eye. "For the final time, I did not poison my —"
"Is it true you lay with Suffolk?"

Marianne froze. Despite knowing full well there was no way he had not found out by now, the question still threw her. "You heard."
"As did most of England. Scotland too, I'd imagine." He set his cutlery down neatly and leaned towards her, the bitterness in his tone diluted somewhat. "Why did you do it? I knew you were unhappy. I tried my best to make you more comfortable. Contrary to your belief, I did want our marriage to work. Fool that I am, I thought a visit to England might bring you peace... but the very week, the very day we arrived, you jumped into bed with the Duke of Suffolk. Oh, I heard rumours. Whispers. Telling me of your shortcomings, your scandals — you seem to have alienated every Englishman and woman under the sun — but I... I tried, Marianne, I tried to see the best in you. I accepted you, endured your endless gripes and insults, gave you more freedom than any wife in Scotland, loved you even when you were callous and hostile towards me. I never... I didn't expect anything back, I only hoped for a little respect, a little kindness from time to time. But perhaps I should have listened to my stepmother. Perhaps marrying you drew a stake through both our lives. " He rose to his feet. "I've made arrangements to leave three days from now. Whether you'll accompany me or not is your decision."