The Other Henry VIII

Nightwalkers

23 September 1531
The days of pretence peeled away like the rind of an orange as summer departed from the city, leaving the Queen of England jaded from her charade. It had been a season of solitude; when she was not exposed before the court, masquerading as a contented wife to silence pernicious rumours that suggested otherwise, she would sit in private, numbly staring into space. Surrounded by ladies, as always, yet feeling more alone than ever. It did not help that Marianne, alluringly beautiful and beady-eyed, was at every corner she turned. No doubt hatching some kind of scheme, thought Leia, who no longer had the strength of will to make amends as she once had planned. While the last modicum of good weather trickled away outside, she took to sleeping late in the morning and retiring to bed early enough to miss evening feasts and balls altogether. Anything, to escape one more second of agony.

Sometimes she lay in bed at night, faint music wafting into her room from downstairs, and wondered why she missed her husband so. How could she, Leia Westover, the woman who swore she would always hate him, feel his absence so deeply? The very thought perplexed her. She did not love him, of course — that would be ridiculous. Rather, she had become so accustomed to his company during their marriage that she had forgotten life without it. Their prior disputes, of which there were many, were nothing compared to this. Henry had always been the one at fault then, always lacking in some respect, always making errors, and each time he repented. Each time, he apologised, noted his mistake and never made it again. And each time, Leia glowed a little inside knowing that he was making himself better for her.

She knew now that he had truly loved her. And, perhaps unwittingly, she had taken advantage of it. She had used his devotion to bend him to her will, to press her ideas into his head like a tutor with a schoolboy, and it had worked. Her and Cromwell's reformation, every one of their ideals and opinions and goals, had become Henry's too. Together, they had become the King of England. And she had enjoyed it.

But that had faded. Now it was Leia in the wrong, and him who avoided her eye and made snide remarks with all the subtlety of a barrel of gunpowder. And now she was beginning to accept that his behaviour was justified. All those times she had chastised him cruelly and pointed out his flaws, she had never once thought that she were capable of doing the same, of being the one in their marriage who had made a blunder. Of being the one in need of forgiveness, as opposed to the one dispensing it.

That evening, she dined alone in her chambers. Morale was low, and her ladies traipsed back and forth with such a despondent air that Leia could scarcely swallow her food. After a day of feeling nothing but weariness and disorientation, she could not wait to collapse into bed and stare at the ceiling without a single pair of eyes upon her. She gazed across the table at the empty chair opposite, where Henry oft sat and shared in her wry exchanges. Those she missed most of all. However much he irked her on most occasions, it was pleasant to converse with someone of sense once in a while.

"My Lady," said Catherine Starling, emerging from the adjoining room looking vexed, "I am afraid there has been a minor issue with your next course. One of the new maids-in-waiting has dropped your goblet and created a small spillage."
Leia thought it rather proved her point. Before she could respond, Verity, who had been standing uneasily by the window, said in an unusually brisk tone, "I am sure it's a fuss over nothing. I shall set things in order, cousin, not to worry." Then, nodding at Catherine to follow, she stepped into the next chamber and closed the door behind them.

What followed was almost a minute of muffled commotion from the other side of the wall, to which Leia did not have the energy to listen. She stared into the wan, feeble fire, massaging her temples, and thought it quite aptly resembled her state of mind. All day the same stubborn, iron-fisted headache had plagued her, and the pandemonium next door was not doing much to help matters. Reaching instinctively for a drink, her hand snatched at thin air. Of course, thought Leia cynically, how could she forget — her lovely clairet was not, in fact, gracing her lips, but instead stained crimson upon the floor of the other room like dark, glistening blood.