1541
Regret was a funny old feeling, and it sure as hell wasn't one Henry was akin to experiencing. His entire life he had been sure of all of his decisions - even executing his good friend Thomas More - and never thinking back and wondering if maybe, if possibly, he could have been wrong. Kings were never wrong. Henry was never wrong.
Yet as his wife left his bed and he opened his eyes, he was momentarily shocked to find a curtain of light brown hair rather than dark auburn. He was surprised to look into the face of Catherine Howard instead of Anne Boleyn. Shaking it off, he cleared his throat and kissed his wife's hand before she left. Once she had gone, he lay back on his pillows, staring at the ceiling, where now the H's were entwined with C's. But when he looked closely, he could see the shadows and the carvings where once there was a K. Where once there was a J. But most importantly, where there once was an A.
"I wish to send a letter to mistress Boleyn." Henry said the next morning. His scribe nearly dropped his pot of ink in shock.
"Bolyen, your highness?" He asked shyly. Henry rolled his eyes.
"I apologise, I believe she is known as Mary Stafford these days. My mind escapes me, forgive my mistake." Henry corrected. Of course he had intended to say the name of Mary Stafford, but his mind was firmly on the other sister. He shook off his mistake. "I received a letter from her a week ago, regarding the nature of the child she claims is my son. I would like to invite her to court; she claims he is ill. My child or no, I swore long ago that I would look after her interests. Ask her to visit the court and we shall come to some... arrangement." Henry said, keeping his eyes focussed straight ahead as Culpepper tied the laces on his cloth of silver doublet. He would give no indication that his mind was running through his memories of Mary, most of them occurring in this very bedchamber...
He couldn't with any feasibility invite Anne back to court, though his dreams of late lingered and created a feeling curiously like longing within his heart. He put it down to the dreams, that longing and the desire to hold her in his arms again, to be on the receiving end of one of her quick smiles, to have her dancing in his halls, stopping only to meet his eyes and give him an almost unnoticeable wink. He couldn't have Anne, but Mary was the closest thing. Mary would do.
"I will see it done, sire." The scribe said with a bow. Henry nodded in approval, his eyes unblinking.
Mary had arrived unannounced. Anne was surprised to see her, and even more surprised to see that she had chests loaded on the back of her carriage. As she went outside to meet her sister, she noted Mary's air of excitement and dread.
"Anne, I apologise for coming upon you without notice. Henry has asked me back to court. The letter I sent worked; he says that whether my Henry is his son or not, he wants to 'protect my interests'!" Mary said, her eyes lighting up with the distinct aura of success.
Anne clutched her sister's hands and smiled softly.
"You can do this Mary." She said gently. "Remind him who he is... who he was. Remind him of a time when we were all younger and more free. In time he'll come to look more favourably on Elizabeth for it."
"Do you really think it will restore her to the succession?" Mary asked. Anne shrugged.
"Who knows?" She asked. "We can only hope. But I think I knew Henry better than he thinks I do. Once he remembers how things were between the two of you, I suspect he shall start to miss me too. But he can't accept me back at court... our daughter is the next best thing." She said with a sly grin.
Mary scoffed. She brushed a stray hair away from her cheek and studied her sister.
"You really think he'll long for you still? After all he's done, after all these years?" She asked incredulously.
"I had him wrapped around my little finger, Mary." Anne said wryly. "That's not something that's just forgotten."
Mary shrugged, and said her goodbyes to her sister. Time was ticking on, and she wanted to be back in London before tomorrow evening. With a parting hug from Anne, Mary climbed back inside the carriage, settling in for the long journey that stretched ahead of her.
It was early morning when she arrived at Hampton Court. It was Henry's favourite palace, and Mary could see why. Its charming red brick and twisted chimneys gave it a sense of warm and comfort, and as Mary looked up at the windows from the courtyard, deep inside her she gave a sigh of happiness. She pictured the interior, and remembered it as clearly as if she had last beheld it only a week ago. The dark wood paneling and the multi-coloured tapestries of the great hall, all running around the great fire pits that stood in the middle. Of all the things she remembered feeling here in her youth, she remembered feeling comfortable.
But she hadn't expected to feel this way returning to court. She had expected to be thrilled by the gossips, dazzled by the jewels and stuffed by the feasts. She had expected to fall into step easily, to learn the latest dances and songs as quickly as she had the first time she arrived. She had expected to feel the king's eyes on her, she had even expected to take up his bed again.
What she hadn't expected was that she'd feel home.
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