Chapter Text
March 9, 1507
France
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Her brother was always sickly and always seemed to be in the crossroads of life and death, he would often be seen on one path, only to suddenly serve over to the other.
Just days after his daughter’s first birthday, Edward had another episode where he couldn’t breathe. Unlike the other times, it had gone on for almost four hours before his body finally couldn’t take it anymore. No amount of prayer, screaming on her mother’s part, and medical assistance could help him.
He died gasping for air.
“King Louis moves fast, doesn’t he?” Dowager Queen Cecily grumbled, breaking her daughter out of her memories. The former York Princess was dressed in all black, and Anne doubted she would ever wear lighter colors ever again. “My son hasn’t even been buried yet and he insists on being crowned so quickly. He doesn’t even think that he should wait least Katherine is pregnant.”
“Even if she was pregnant, there is no guarantee that the baby would be a boy,” Louise noted, giving her friend and mistress a pointed look.
Cecily glowered. “He doesn’t know that,” she snapped. “He already has plans to send Marie to a nunnery and her mother back to Spain. Katherine came to me in tears, begging me to not let her be separated from her daughter.”
“Well, we can’t very well send Marie to Spain. God only knows what devious plot they would cook up to undermine the Valois rule,” Louise remarked.
“He has also suggested breaking the betrothal between Francois and Anne,” Cecily continued.
“He can’t do that, can he?!” Anne asked, startled by this sudden revelation.
“He is the King, dear. He probably thinks it would be better to marry my son with little Claude as she will be the Duchess of Brittany if the new monarchs have no male heir,” Louise explained, reaching out to pat her hand. “Don’t fret, we won’t let that happen. Your brother’s will makes it quite clear that he wishes for you to marry Francois, and the betrothal agreement was finalized years ago.”
Cecily turned her head, looking at her daughter for the first time since Anne had entered the room. “In fact, we have arranged for you and François to be married in June.”
“Don’t you think I am too young, Mother?” the twelve-year-old girl inquired, knowing full well what married couples were expected to do and it scared her a bit.
“If you mean to marry, no. If you mean consummating your marriage, you will wait until you are fifteen. But once you are ready, you must do it often as France is in dire need of a male heir,” her mother told her matter of factly.
“Yes, Mother,” Anne said obediently as her mother went back to talking with Louise, leaving her to wonder why she was invited at all since she was all but ignored. Perhaps she could chalk it up to being a young girl, but Marguerite was only two-years-older and if she were here, their mothers would never exclude her from the conversation.
Edward is dead and Mother acts if her only child was taken from her. Sometimes I wonder if she would even care if I died. Anne thought bitterly, staring at her hands that she kept tightly clasped in her lap.
Suddenly another hand appeared, gently squeezing her hands. Anne followed the arm up to the person it belonged to and smiled when she saw Louise, still talking to her mother. Despite not looking at her, the older woman had sensed the French princess’ misery and had reached out to comfort her.
Spain
King Ferdinando of Aragon, Naples and Sicily was sitting in his study, pouring over matters of the state when his son, the King of Castile threw the doors open. The herald announced each and every one of his titles as he stood regally in his silk garments, a cornet instead of a hat upon his head.
My son and his dramatics. Can’t even come into a room without fanfare, Fernando chuckled to himself.
After Isabella’s death, Juan had moved to Castile permanently and yet he seemed to find any excuse to either visit his father or invite him to Castile.
“Father, I have a demand!” Juan proclaimed, a boyish grim threatening to split his face.
Fernando blinked. “What?”
“I have a demand,” Juan repeated.
“Not many sons command their father, let alone their kings, to give them things,” Fernando drawled dryly.
“Well, I have a demand,” Juan stated, miming pounding on his father’s desk.
All right, there is dramatic and just plain childish, Fernando snorted inwardly as he fought a smile. “Yes, I know. You said that three times now. So, go on tell me: what is your demand?”
“When Catalina arrives back from France, I want her to come live with me in the Palace of Madrid,” Juan informed him.
“Very well.”
“I will not take no for an ans----you ruin everything,” Juan complained, a sulky expression on his face once he realized his father had said yes, depriving him of the joy of convincing him.
Despite himself, Fernando could not stop the chuckle from escaping his lips. However, he quickly sobered. “Your sister is most distraught over not only losing her husband, but at having to leave her baby daughter in France. Therefore, spending time with her nieces and nephews will do her some good,” he predicted, his heart clenching painfully as he thought of his youngest daughter, tearfully pleading not to be separated from her only child.
“I wish there was a way we could convince that fat old King to allow little Maria to be sent to Spain with her mother,” groused Juan, shaking his head in frustration.
“If you were married to a French princess, had only a girl before you…” the old monarch paused for a moment, trying not to think of that horrible time when he and Isabella were so afraid that their only son would die. He swallowed thickly before continuing: “I would not want my granddaughter to be in the hands of my enemies.”
“But that is different. France has Salic law. My daughter would be heir to Spain,” Juan pointed out reasonably.
“True, but that didn’t stop England, now, did it? France doesn’t want a repeat and therefore the only recourse they have is to either marry Maria off to a French Prince or send her to a nunnery,” Fernando explained.
It was perhaps a cold way to speak of his own granddaughter, but Fernando was aware that in politics, every person was a chess piece, and they were used and discarded no matter how important they were.
“Well hopefully, they will at least allow Catalina to visit her and write letters to her,” Juan said with a sigh. Then he smiled at his father. “I have some good news though. It seems that my glorious wife and queen is pregnant again. If it is a boy, we thought we’d name him Maximiliano after his other grandfather.”
Fernando could not help but smile at this, pleased at the thought that might be four sons of Trastámara. After so many years of he and his son being the only heirs of such a noble house, Alfonso, Fernando, and Juan were a very needed breath of fresh air.
“And what if you have a daughter?” he wondered, an eyebrow quirked, smirking as he could guess the answer.
“Catalina, of course,” Juan replied with a playful smile of his own. “Now if you excuse me, Father, I must go. My darling children cannot sleep without me singing to them. Of course, I am told that I have the voice of an angel.”
“Careful, my boy, you know that pride is a sin,” Fernando warned him sternly, even though there was an ounce of humor in his gruff tone.
“But I am not the one saying how magnificent I am, Father, it is everyone else who says it,” Juan protested, his chest puffed out like peacock.
Fernando only hummed before bidding his son goodbye, watching him stride off with an expression of fond exasperation.
He knew that Juan was a man who worked as hard as he played, but sometimes he wondered if he should not be a little more annoyed with his son’s antics. Hopefully, Catalina could help Margarita curb Juan’s eccentrics, just enough to keep the boy from doing anything foolish.
England
Spring had come early to England, bringing a lovely warmth to make up for those cold days of winter. Courtiers were relieved to be able to throw off their heavy furs, take a walk outside without snow crunching beneath their feet.
However, in the privy council, the air was frigid with tension as the councilors watched uncomfortably as the King and the Duke of Richmond argued. Well almost all of them, the Duke of York was rather enjoying this.
“Although we all miss Queen Eleanor very much, it has been four years since her unfortunate death and it is your duty to marry again for the safety of the realm,” Henry told him, his tone betrayed his annoyance at what he viewed as something rather obvious.
“I have four sons, my lord, I think my kingdom is quite safe,” Edward said in a clipped tone, his eyes flashing dangerously. He had stopped wearing any color other than black, refusing to stop mourning the woman he had loved.
“Fate is not always kind when it comes to our children,” Richmond reminded him, his face crumbling briefly before he returned it to an impassive mask. Of all people, he had good cause to know that the blessings that were innocent children could be taken away just as quickly as they were given. Had Jasper’s death not proven that all life was fragile? “Her Majesty would want---”
“DO NOT USE MY WIFE TO MANIPULATE ME!” bellowed Edward, slamming his fists on the table, causing a few of his councilors to jump in their seats like they were deer startled by a twig snapping. Even Richard who was staring at the scene with barely concealed glee startled a little, surprised by his brother’s sudden fury.
However, Henry was not moved, standing firm, not even flinching. “Your Majesty, I only ask that you at least consider the matter.”
“I have considered it. I have considered it each and every time you nag me about it and my answer is still no,” the King declared. “The Queen is dead and there shall be no new Queen until I have left this world. Now ceases your badgering.”
“I am only trying to look out for you,” Henry started to say.
“By God, man, my brother is a man of thirty, not a child!” Richard interjected, jumping up from his chair. “If he asks you to stop, then do so. You are the servant, and he is the king, not the other way around.”
Richmond glared daggers at the other man but before he could retort, Edward spoke up: “My brother is right, my lord, I am no longer a boy who needs your guidance. Perhaps it is time for you to retire from your post,” he suggested, causing all to stare at him in shock.
For a council member to be dismissed so publicly and abruptly, sent away like a child would be sent to their room without supper for misbehaving, was nothing short of humiliating.
“If that is your Majesty’s wish, I shall obey,” the Duke of Richmond replied, a slight quiver in his voice. When Edward nodded, he collected his papers and stalked out of the room, his dark robes fluttering behind him like the wings of a bat.
For a moment, nobody said anything or even moved a muscle, afraid that if they spoke, the monarch’s ire would turn on them instead. Not even the Duke of York spoke, although he studied his brother intently, trying to catch his eye.
“Leave,” Edward commanded at last. When no one rose, he raised his voice. “Out all of you!”
The council scrambled out of their seats, heading for the door, practically pushing each other out of the way, fleeing the room as though someone was chasing them.
Dickon lagged behind, signaling for the grooms to leave him and his brother alone.
“That order included you as well,” the monarch huffed as he stood up, walking to the window, putting his arm on the glass as he stared outside.
“I know, but I don’t care. Ned, do you remember what you said to me the day I arrived at the Tower?” Richard quizzed, shivering when he spoke of…that place. Twenty-three years have passed and yet the mere thought of the Tower of London makes me quiver in fear, knowing that we could have died there. I have not set foot there since and I will never do so again. He inhaled sharply before continuing, pushing away his dark memories and focusing on his brother: “You said we were in this together, it was us against the world.”
“Dickon, please, I just want to be left alone,” implored Edward, clenching his hand into a fist.
“I know, but I don’t care,” the Duke of York reiterated, playing with the rings on his fingers. “You can push me away, Ned, but I will always be here because it will always be us together no matter what.”
Edward smiled softly, turning to look at his brother. “Nothing I will do will get you to go away, will it?” he guessed.
“I am afraid not,” Richard replied with a smirk.
The king walked over to the younger man and hugged him, clinging to him as though he was afraid that if he let go, he would drown in the sea of his own misery. “When will it stop hurting?” he sobbed, unable to keep the emotions from spilling out of him.
Richard had no answer, he only held his brother tighter.
“We’re leaving.”
Elizabeth blinked. She had been in the sitting room, sewing a cap for her first grandchild, little Tommy Howard, when her husband stalked into their apartments, a face like thunder and made his announcement, ordering the servants to pack their things at once.
“My lord is your wife allowed to know why we are leaving so abruptly?” she inquired as she put her needlework on a table, before she got up and went over to her husband, placing her hands on his shoulders.
“His Majesty has decided it is time for me to retire,” Henry informed her. While his tone was cool, there was an edge of fury to it.
“I see,” Elizabeth prompted as she led her husband over to a chair and began to message his tense shoulders.
“It has been four years. Four years since Queen Eleanor died. Your brother is only thirty years old, young enough to continue to have heirs. England is strong now, but what if Prince Richard and his brothers die or fail to have any children of their own. That is why there must always be spares,” Richmond ranted, rubbing his temples as he leaned forward, giving his wife better access to his back.
“And what if I died? After all, we only have two sons and the Tudor dynasty could always use spares,” Elizabeth pointed out, a delicate eyebrow quirked. “Would you marry again for the sake of your house?”
“Of course, I would. She’d just have to look and act like you,” her husband muttered, reaching over his shoulders to cup her cheek. “You don’t understand, dearest. While you are right, I certainly would not be keen to marry after losing you, But Edward, since the death of his wife, he walks around like he is a shell of his former self. He looks…lost and I suppose I hoped that a new marriage would give him some direction.”
“Your heart was in the right place, my love, and I am sure my brother knows this. Perhaps we should stay at court. I am sure this will all blow over soon and everything will turn out the way it was,” opined Elizabeth, nodded her head in certainty.
Henry heaved a sigh, resting his chin on his chest, his expression pensive. “Or perhaps we should go. Retire to the country, spend the rest of our days together however long or short they are,” he mused.
Elizabeth stared at her husband as though he had grown another head. She raised her hand to fell his forehead, checking to see if he had a fever. “Are you ill?” she demanded worriedly, wondering if she should call for a physician.
“I’m not ill, dearest, just tired,” answered Richmond, giving her a wry smile.
“Tired or not, I know you, Henry, you will be bored out of your skull, not working. You’ll be going mad, wondering how the kingdom is doing without you,” his wife predicted, stroking his arm.
“And maybe that’s the problem. I do not rule England, your brother does. It is time I left him do it without any of my input,” Henry remarked, a hint of melancholy creased his tone. When he saw Elizabeth opened her mouth to refute him, he quickly elaborated. “When I first met Edward, he was twelve years old, a boy who needed me to guide him, help him govern. Even when he grew into a man, I still stood by him, whispering in his ear, giving him advice, helping him solve problems.”
“But now…” Elizabeth prompted, rubbing his shoulders again.
“But now, I realize that I have grown too used to that. So much so that when he disagrees with me, I am finding it hard to accept that, perhaps I got drunk with that power I had, or I simply enjoyed being so needed by the king. Regardless, I must let go. Let him do things without my input, act without my approval or disappointment,” Henry decided, his tone becoming more resolute with each sentence he spoke.
The former York princess walked around him before kneeling down and cupping his face, tenderly caressing his cheek. “Are you sure you are not just saying that because you and Ned had a fight?”
“No, the more I think about it, the more I know I am right,” he replied somberly.
Elizabeth grabbed his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Then I shall spend every day making you the happiest man in the world,” she gushed.
The Duke of Richmond chuckled fondly. “How could you possibly do something you already accomplished when you first agreed to be my wife over twenty years ago?” He then pulled her onto his lap, kissing her lips sweetly.
Hours later, Elizabeth had gone to oversee the servants packing and Henry had begun to peruse his papers, looking to see what could be left behind and discarded and what needed to be kept when King Edward entered the Richmonds’ apartments, looking shamefaced.
“My liege,” Henry greeted him formally, causing the young man to flinch as if Richmond had just struck him.
“I wanted to apologize for my outburst and rescinded my order for you to retire from the privy council,” Edward explained, fiddling with his livery collar.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty, but I have decided that you are correct, it is time I took my leave from court.”
Edward gaped at him for a few seconds, just as surprised as Elizabeth had been. Then his gaze hardened. “Just because I am refusing to see it your way, you are packing up and leaving. After so many years of service, the one time I don’t obey you, you decide to throw a tantrum and storm off!” he accused.
“Your---”
“And over what? I have four sons, a brother who has two sons, a cousin from the male line who has a son of his own. England is safer than it has ever been. If anything, marrying again could lead to conflict, after all, who is to say that my next wife won’t believe that her sons have more right to the throne than his half-brothers?” Edward ranted.
Henry’s eyebrow rose as he gave the monarch a skeptical look. “That is a very logical and well thought out argument, my lord. Now tell me the truth,” entreated Richmond.
“I have let my guard down in front of very few people. Eleanor was the only one, I never needed to put up a front for. She saw me vulnerable, in my worst moments and helped me through them. She never needed me to be the King of England because to her, I was always Edward whether or not I wore a crown,” Edward lamented, glancing back down at his feet, unable to look the other man in the eye.
“I feel the same way about Elizabeth,” Henry admitted as he walked off and clasped a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “She rightfully pointed out that if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be wanting to marry again either. Although in all fairness, I wouldn’t have much time as you do.”
“If you understand where I am coming from then why are you still leaving?” Edward inquired, letting the “me” hanging in the air unsaid, although by the glimmer of sympathy in Henry’s eyes that he heard it anyway.
“Because I think perhaps it is time, I let you run your kingdom without my help. It is time you stood on your own two feet without leaning on me,” the older man answered, giving Edward an encouraging smile.
“And what if I need your help?”
“Then you can write or come to Leeds, Richmond, or Pembroke. Of course, Elizabeth and I can be summoned to court whenever you wish,” avowed Henry.
“Thank you, Your Grace, for all your years of service,” Edward declared, losing control of his emotions for the second time today and throwing his arms around the man who had come to view as a father figure.
The stuffy old duke wasted no time hugging him back, his lips tugging upwards in a wrinkled smile.
Richard was having a good day. The Duke of Richmond was being sent packing, no longer able to keep his greedy claws in Edward. Perhaps the now vacant position of Lord Chancellor would go to someone more deserving, someone more loyal, more trustworthy than that whoreson Tudor. Someone like me, The Duke of York mused with a smile on his face.
“Papa! Papa! Save me! Save me!” Roland shouted, running as fast as a three-year-old could run. His pursuers seemed to be taking their time as they followed him, knowing they could catch him easily.
Richard scooped up his youngest son, named after the legendary Roland of France, and glared in mock fierceness at the two knaves who had been chasing after him. “Halt! Who dares attack the greatest knight in my realm?!” he demanded in a booming voice, although his eyes twinkled merrily.
“He is no knight! He is a thief, and we aim to steal his money and give it to the poor!” nine-year-old Robert insisted, waving his toy sword while his half-brother nodded.
Little Richard was now four years old, and he had gained the nickname Berry from Warwick who had, much like himself, chosen to call him after the place both he and his father were born in: Shrewsbury.
Dickon let out a loud gasp, glancing down at the toddler in his arms. “Is this true, Roland? Have you been stealing? Are you a naughty boy?”
“No Papa, I’m not a theeve,” Roland giggled, too young to realize that he was not doing a very good job acting innocent with that big grin on his face, showing off his adorable baby cheeks.
“Then these rapscallions are trying to slander you!” Richard exclaimed dramatically, sending a fake glare at the two boys who were trying to cover their sniggers with their hands. “Let us capture them so they may be imprisoned for their terrible lies!”
Robin and Berry quickly ran away while Dickon chased after them, keeping a tight hold on Rolly.
When he saw his older sons were now out of breath and had all, but collapsed onto the grass, he pretended to trip and fall to the ground---carefully making sure Roland wasn’t hurt---so he could wrap his arms on all three of his boys, tussling with them.
“Now I have captured you vagrants!” he thundered as bear hugged them, nearly squashing the toddler in the process. “And you shall receive a fierce tickling for your crimes.”
“Oh no, Father, please have mercy!” Robert laughed, trying to swat the threatening hand away. “We’re sorry. We will never do it again.”
“Robin’s sorry and he won’t do it again,” Berry said cheekily, causing Robert to elbow him. He just stuck his tongue out at him.
“What do you say, Rolly Polly? Shall we forgive them?” the Duke of York asked his youngest.
“I’ll give you a sweet,” Robert cajoled the toddler whose eyes lit up and he nodded vigorously.
“All right then, boys, all is forgiven!” Richard proclaimed, grabbing all three into a hug. “Now come, it will be supper soon and your Mama will want you to wash up.”
His sons grumbled but they followed him back into the castle making their way to the York apartments where their mother and sister was waiting for them. He held Roland’s hand as they walked, his other arm around the shoulders of both Robin and Berry, lightly teasing them.
Not paying attention to where he was going, he nearly collided with someone.
“Forgive me, my lord, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Francis Bryan stated, looking quite embarrassed.
“There is nothing to forgive, lad, I was a bit distracted myself,” Richard assured him as he studied the young man and noted just how much they looked alike. By God, the teenager was his spitting image. “It has been a long time since we last met. How old are you now?”
“Seventeen, Your Grace,” Francis replied, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Seventeen? Has it really been that long? It seemed like only yesterday I first laid eyes on him. He was nine the last time I saw him. The years went by so fast. Richard thought, felling a dull ache as his chest constricted with guilt.
Roland and Berry were tugging at him, not understanding why their father was stopping to talk to a random stranger, wanting to get to supper as fast as they could. Robert on the other hand looked up at Francis curiously, obviously noting how this man’s appearance was similar to his father and perhaps even realizing that there was tension in the air.
“Papa, let’s go!” Berry whined, kicking his feet.
“Just wait one moment, son,” Richard told him, flashing his natural son an indulgent smile, missing the envious and angry look on Francis’ face. He then glanced back up. “Forgive me, Master Bryan, but my boys are restless, and I fear I must get some food in their bellies before they turn into ravenous monsters.”
Francis nodded choppily before clearing his throat. “I was wondering if I might be able to speak to you in private, Your Grace. It won’t take long,” he pleaded.
His expression was so earnest and almost desperate that it made Richard’s heart crack. He wanted nothing more than to speak with his son, the boy he had left behind seventeen years ago.
I did it for a reason. I was no older than he is now, and his mother and her husband wanted to claim that his father was the man she married. I don’t deserve to be his father, not when Thomas Bryan was the one who raised him. It is too late now. Richard deliberated, feeling almost sick as he spoke.
“Forgive me, Master Bryan, but I am much too busy right now. Perhaps another time,” he apologized, keeping a friendly smile on his face.
Francis Bryan looked as though the Duke of York had just slapped him, his shoulders sagged as a dark shadow flashed across his face, his eyes flickered downwards at the three boys, lingering on the younger Richard, his lips curling and for moment, the older duke feared he would make a scene.
“Of course not, Your Grace, I wouldn’t want you to be late for supper with your family,” Francis remarked, his tone clipped and cool. “If it pleases you, I shall take my leave of you now.”
Richard swallowed before nodding, watching him go with a sense of sorrow.
“Who was that, Papa?” Berry questioned, curiously.
“No one, no one at all,” his father lied.
It wasn’t until later, did Richard wonder if it had really been a coincidence that he just happened to bump into Francis or had the teenager been trying to reach out to the man he either suspected or knew was his father, only to be rejected.