The Other Henry VIII

Remorse

12 August 1530
Court had descended into chaos by the time Margaret, Dowager Countess of Rochford, arrived. Her husband had not received a state funeral, for the King's hatred of him had become common knowledge; instead, John's body had been returned to his father's lonely seat in West Berkshire and buried in the family cemetery near his mother with few come to mourn him. Margaret kept firm hold of her son's hand throughout, determined to remain stoic for his sake. Poor William was too young to lose a father, however distant and neglectful that father may have been.

She would never forget the pallid, melancholy face of Baron Westerly as he gazed down at his son's coffin. In the last fifteen years, he had watched his children rise high in the King's favour, only to fall so much further. Now they both lay in the cold earth alongside his wife.
Beside him stood Daniel Starling, the Duke of Norfolk's sole heir. Margaret was not familiar with the young man, but there was something in his fair complexion and angular features that reminded her of her late husband. Once the funeral had concluded, he walked along the edge of the grave to stand next to her.

"My condolences, Your Highness," he said in a low voice. The Baron was quivering now, wringing his hands as if to beg God for his son's life. 
"Thank you," replied Margaret tersely. She estimated herself to be a minute away from weeping, so it would be wise to leave swiftly. "Please excuse me."
"Of course." A pause. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but do you intend to go to court? My father has summoned me. Perhaps I could accompany you?"
William's hand was trembling in hers. She pulled him closer and whispered some words of comfort in his ear, though she herself was racked with bereavement. "I appreciate your kindness, My Lord, but I shall be heading back to Rochford shortly. If His Majesty enquires, please inform him that I shall join him at court very soon."

And now here she was, entering the palace in which she had grown up, a full month after the death of her husband. With great reluctance, she had left her son behind, in the care of his nursemaid, with his playmates John and Henry to keep him company. Those three boys were her life, and the idea of being parted from them for any more than a week filled her with sorrow. Hopefully the King did not require her presence for longer than that.

The vaulted ceiling and grand staircase of the Entrance Hall enveloped her like an old friend. Courtiers bowed and curtsied before her, whispering to one another as soon as they thought she was out of earshot. Some even mumbled 'Your Highness', uncertain of how or if they should address her. Amongst the rich, varied hues of their summer attire, Margaret felt like a foreigner in her plain mourning gown. This palace, home to so many happy memories, was no longer her home. Half the faces belonged to strangers. It was as if the world had moved on without her.

"My dear sister." The King was advancing towards her, his arms outstretched.
"Your Majesty," she replied, curtsying, and allowed him to embrace her warmly. He did not seem at all perturbed by her chilly manner.
"I cannot express my joy at seeing you again," he declared with a broad false grin plastered across his face. "I presume you have buried him?"
Margaret was taken aback by his nonchalance. Had he forgotten that it was his own brother-in-law who had died? "My husband's funeral took place three weeks ago," she forced herself to answer.

Fortunately, not a single person besides the King appeared to be in such high spirits. Their expressions were grave and rigid, like the vague features of a statue chiselled in haste. Sensing the lapse in conversation, her brother stepped to the side and gestured somewhat pretentiously to the row of children behind him.
"You remember my daughters, Princess Clara and Princess Elizabeth, of course." The two princesses curtsied elegantly. Both had transformed since she had last seen them; no doubt the King was yearning to ship them off to Europe in the near future. Clara, though still rather petite in stature, possessed a certain maturity in her countenance that her sister was yet to acquire. Lizzie — tall, lithe, and incandescently pretty — bore a striking resemblance to both her half-brother John and cousin William. It seemed the Starling features overruled all others.