The Other Henry VIII

Problems Arise

25th May 1521

"I think Her Grace is gone to bed, Annie,"whispered Verity, glancing at the closed door thoughtfully. "Shall we?"

"No." Marianne smiled at Verity mysteriously and walked towards a drawer.

"I am tired, Annie. It's hard being constantly charming all day when Uncle Robert is always whispering instructions at us under his breath as we pass."

"No it is not,"replied Marianne levelly as she drew out a pack of cards. Verity raised one eyebrow, then shook her head quickly.

"Easy for you to say. You have natural charm. It is awfully unfair that you barely say anything and yet one sultry glance from you sends men into raptures." She folded her arms across her chest irritably. Marianne doled out the cards on the small table, hiding her smile carefully.

"It is not my fault. You really are trying too hard. I can't help it if you cannot successfully hold a witty conversation with the Earl of Rochford." The sisters picked up the cards, and played for a few silent minutes as Verity grew angrier and angrier.

"You are a Westover! We are not deceitful like the Starlings, nor liars like the Cavills! We do not 'charm' a man with wit, we charm them with grace and kindness!"

"You know my parentage, Verity. Yes, we grew up like sisters but you are aware of whom my father is. Besides, the King is still in love with our dear cousin Leia,"answered Marianne, her calm voice never changing.

"Leia is not here! When the King arrives, I shall reveal my hidden Ace and I shall win!"

The corner of Marianne's lip curved upwards slightly as she laid down her perfect set of cards on the table. "No, sister. I'm afraid that this time, I shall have the winning hand."

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Meanwhile...

"His Majesty returns from war in three weeks, does he not Diana?"whispered Thomas as they crept out together to the old hay barn nearby.

"Yes, I know. I dread it, Thomas. What shall I do?"replied Diana.

Her lover did not answer until they had reached the barn and locked it from the inside.

"I must say farewell here and now, Diana. His Majesty expects me to go and meet him in Oxford before he proceeds into London on horseback to greet his applauding city and-"

"Stop. Please, don't speak of it,"interrupted Diana, placing her white finger on his lips.

"Why?"

"Because tonight, I would like to pretend that I am your wife, an ordinary woman, and that we can do anything we like without anyone caring a bit."

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16th June 1521
Henry's POV
I ride through the streets on my white stallion, waving at the crowds as they cheer me. I am a victor— the Scots are held back and we shall have peace at last. I have naturally been dressed head to toe in yellow, the colour of happiness, and draped in so many jewels that my poor horse shall collapse soon with the weight. However, I feel pride pumping through my veins as the cheering people throw up their caps and clap as I pass them, my royal victory parade gleaming in the welcoming summer sun.
A few horses behind me, Thomas Cromwell rides carefully. The loyal gentleman had met me in Oxford a couple of weeks ago and I must say, I have missed him. I glance round at him now, sitting on his horse dressed in finery with his dark head looking downwards. The dear fellow, he is such a good friend and advisor to me and yet I chose to leave him with Margaret rather than take him to war.
Perhaps I shall give him an Earldom. After all, it is advisable for a monarchs to keep the people he trusts near to him.

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Thomas Cromwell, riding proudly on a horse near the front of the parade, held his false grin carefully as they proceeded down the roads. The letter he had received from Diana yesterday felt heavy in his saddle bag, almost glowing in the desire to be read.
No one would mind; would they?

Grasping the reins in one hand, Cromwell leaned down and pulled the letter out of his saddle bag quickly as they rode around a bend, and unfolded it while precariously holding the stallion at bay under one finger.

The note was short, blotted with what he presumed were tears, and contained just two brief lines of careful handwriting.

My darling Thomas,

We are in more trouble than I can say—I am with child for certain, and the King has not even returned.

As Thomas Cromwell looked up to behold the grinning monarch, it truly dawned on him just what problems there were to come.