Tudor Rose

viii. camelot

April 2, 1519

The soft grass beneath me delicately blew around, fresh droplets of morning rain resting on the individual blades. My horse, a beautiful jet-black palfrey named Eve after the hour of the night that she resembled, chased after Henry's prized Spanish Jennet. It was his current favorite horse, a strong stallion called Lancelot after the infamous lover of Guinevere and knight of the round table. The field we rode through was vast, and it seemed like no matter which direction you turned to, you could ride for an hour and never return to civilization. It was beautiful, too. The large meadow was littered with wildflowers and filled with manicured green grass. It was the perfect escape from the overwhelming pressure and stress at court, and occasionally Henry and I rode out to it. It was always good fun.

Henry was still deeply hurt by his sister's death. He even went to the extent of calling his other sister Margaret back to court. She hadn't arrived yet, or even left Scotland from what I'd overheard, but she was equally devastated by Mary's untimely death. We all were. Her funeral was one of the gloomiest days and ceremonies I'd ever seen. The days leading up to it and following it were completely silent, and they were emotionally exhausting and draining. Mary was so young and beloved- a girl of only twenty-three years- and her death was awful. No one wanted to accept that she was really gone.

Charles Brandon, upset and flustered by his wife's death, had returned to court. To my surprise, it was little Rebecca Whitewood who stepped up to comfort him. There were more than enough eligible, experienced, and age-appropriate women at court, but Charles chose to spend his time with the nineteen-year-old newcomer. I even confronted Rebecca about it, but she was completely besotted with him, despite their significant age difference. In a few weeks' time, when she turned twenty, he would be fifteen years her senior. What she saw- other than the chance to become a duchess- in him was beyond my understanding.

I pushed the thoughts of court away quickly. Finally, I'd coerced Henry into riding out to the springtime hideaway and I silently vowed that nothing would disrupt it. Since his sister's death, he'd been in a sour, sulking sort of mood, and it bothered me greatly. How could such an illustrious man and king be diminished to nearly nothing in a matter of seconds? How could the death of one woman steal all of his happiness away?

"You told me something once," I said, our horses trotting a similar, rather slow paces beside each other, "About building our own Camelot. 'Tales of King Henry VIII and Queen Anna will be told among the likes of Arthur and Guinevere. Our Camelot will rival theirs,' is what you said. Do you remember?"

"I do," he answered simply, "It was six years ago, when Katherine was born."

"What a good memory you have," I remarked, "Well, I've been thinking about it, and the comparison you made. You said that we are the modern version of Arthur and Guinevere, and though I should be flattered by the comparison, I am a bit... perplexed. Not offended, but... surprised." I carefully selected my words, catering to my husband's fickle mood.

"Why is that?" Henry asked, gazing at me with curious eyes, "Guinevere was a noble and loyal woman, and a skilled politician. Why would that surprise you? That is precisely who you are- a good and fair queen, more involved in politics than most would say is appropriate. You are the embodiment of everything Guinevere was."

"She was to be burned, Henry!" I exclaimed, stubbornly ignoring all of his valid points. Guinevere was not, at least in my opinion, an inherently bad person. "She was queen, and then she was nothing. Was that some strange, twisted way of telling me that you'd have me killed like some heretic without a second thought? A warning, perhaps?"

Henry looked over at me, his enticing blue eyes full of disappointment but his face showing nothing but anger and annoyance. Without warning, he turned sharply and sped up to a canter. I followed suit, though my poor horse was less than happy about the sudden increase in speed. The hooves of my horse were just a few feet behind Henry's, which was closer than I needed to be in order to call out to him.