The Other Henry VIII

Flights of Fancy

27 September 1530
As a girl, Marianne Westover dreamt of a lavish, vibrant future; a cavalcade of boundless riches and perpetual leisure. She dreamt of dancing for hours every night and drinking fine wine until she could no longer string a sentence together. She dreamt of being the most admired lady of court, a figure of beauty and high fashion, who could draw the eyes of every gentleman in the room with a single smile. She dreamt of being Queen of England.

Even as a grown woman, her dreams did not fade. She lost her innocence at fourteen, her mother at sixteen, her maidenhead at twenty-one, and her freedom the day she was wed. However, after six years of misery in Scotland, she was yet to lose her tenacity. While her son by the King remained alive and well, she saw no reason to admit defeat. Leia only had one boy, and a sickly, simple one by all accounts. In Marianne's view, her Henry was one harsh winter away from becoming sole heir to the throne. That small candle of hope alone had sustained her all these years. Memories of the lively English court, of dancing with dozens of nimble young men and catching whispers for her scheming uncle, only filled her with regret. They reminded her of how close she had come to fulfilling her childhood fantasies. She had reached the King's bed, but failed to infiltrate his heart.

One of the many drawbacks to exile in a bleak Scottish castle was reliance on her husband for news of the outside world. William spent the majority of his time attending on King James, so visits home were sporadic and brief. When she was not writing to Princess Margaret for news of her son or embroidering to keep her hands busy, the hours between meals were spent gazing out of a window, envisioning the day when her son could take his rightful place on the throne of England.

"My Lady."
Marianne did not turn around. Her eyes were fixed on the vast landscape stretched out before her.
"Lady Montrose asked not to be disturbed," replied Janet, her haughty lady-in-waiting.
"Wouldn't Lady Montrose like to see her daughter?"
Janet sighed irritably. "Lady Montrose?"

Marianne could feel their eyes at her back. How she loathed this wretched place and its constant desire to disturb her thoughts. The servants were like a flock of hens, forever pecking at her heels and squawking when she did not respond. She very much doubted that lords and ladies of the English court were badgered daily to see their children. The nursemaid was the worst of all, determined to make a fuss of anything for the sake of disrupting Marianne's peace.

"Very well," she snapped, "But next time I ask to be left alone, I'd advise you to do so." Grudgingly, she tore herself away from the window. "Annabel. How are you?"
Her daughter bobbed a shy curtsy. "Lady Mother."
"Lady Montrose asked you a question," said Janet caustically, glowering at the young girl as if she had insulted Christ himself.
"She's very tired, My Lady," explained the nursemaid.
Marianne scoffed. "Then why on earth did you drag her here?"

Neither of the women could offer any form of reply. Janet resumed her embroidery with a quiet 'hmph!', while the nursemaid crouched beside Annabel to avoid her lady's poisonous glare. Marianne could tell they were both terrified of her; the latter was not even attempting to hide it.
"Leave!" she barked abruptly. "I'd like to be alone with my daughter, if you please." It was a false but effective statement.

Fortunately, Annabel was not the sort of child who felt inclined to fill silence. She stood perfectly still, even as her mother drifted back to the window and re-entered her dream world. Marianne, intoxicated by her own imagination, would not have taken notice either way. An apparition seemed to fill the grey clouded sky: she saw her own return to the English court, hand-in-hand with her beloved son, welcomed and applauded by all; she saw the King embracing her and little Henry, grinning with pure joy; she saw Leia, shamed and scorned, stepping aside to allow the ascension of a new Queen and Prince of Wales.