A/N: Welcome to my new story! Firstly, I'd like to thank AllegoriesInMediasRes for challenging me to write this, as I was wondering where to go next in story terms. This one's for you, Ally.

The title is inspired by John Donne's haunting poem 'The Funeral'.

As always, I own nothing other than that which has emerged from my imagination...

To the outside world, Anne Boleyn - and all about her - seem to be a fading star in the night skies: she has lost the heir to the throne, and her King is courting one of her own ladies in waiting. It is not so much a case of if she falls - but when.

But then, a shocking turn of events leaves her a widow - and the mother of a Queen less than three years old. With few friends, and many enemies, she must turn to a man that she despises in order to survive, and hold a Kingdom together for England's first true Queen Regnant.

'The Funeral'

John Donne

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm

Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;

The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,

For 'tis my outward soul,

Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,

Will leave this to control

And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall

Through every part

Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,

Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art

Have from a better brain,

Can better do'it; except she meant that I

By this should know my pain,

As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,

For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,

If into other hands these relics came;

As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a soul can do,

So, 'tis some bravery,

That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

PART ONE

WIDOW

CHAPTER ONE

Empty Arms

The chamber is quiet, the only sound a soft crackling of the large fire that keeps the January chill at bay. The thick hangings over the wainscoting are still present, while the great curtains that cover the windows remain closed - shrouding the room in darkness but for the gentle illumination from the fireplace.

The need to enclose a woman in her confinement would be stifling in the heat of summer; but now it is winter, and she is grateful for the sense of being cocooned from the world outside, as she smiles softly into the face of her son. Her boy. Her prince.

He is perfect - eyes closed as he sleeps softly beside her, the faintest hints of that glorious red-gold hair of his father's line, rather than the darker brown of her own lineage. Tiny fingers clenched around her forefinger, and - were she to unwrap the swaddling cloth - equally perfect toes. Unnamed as yet - for it shall be the privilege of the King to name him - but soon to be introduced to all who gathered as vultures in hopes of her failure, as she emerges from her chambers triumphant to witness the great joust that was cancelled when she granted her King a daughter, not a son.

Now that she has borne a boy, there shall be none who can bring her down - for she has done what her predecessor failed to do…she has given her King the son she promised…

"Majesty?"

The voice interrupts her train of thought, and she shifts slightly in the bed. No - that is not the right thing to do…

And the moment of bliss is lost.

Slowly, painfully, Queen Anne turns to face the one who shattered the illusion and forced her to return to reality. Had she the energy, she would address the woman with sharp words - but she has none. Not even her most beloved friend, Margery Horsman, is immune from the storms of her temper when it is unleashed to its fullest. Today, however, the storm is dulled.

Her arms are empty. All that remains of the boy that she was carrying is the slightly emerging dome of her belly as the babe within reached his third month. Worse - that hideous abortion had occurred on the very day that her predecessor had been interred; finally dead and gone - no longer a shadow over her head. Imagine what the spite-mongers of the Court shall be making of that. That poor little one: she had not yet even felt his first kick…

"Margery…" she says, quietly; dully. What point is there in emotion? She has used all that she thought that she had - hurling wild rage at the man who brought her to this.

That Seymour strumpet is no longer here - bundled away in the night, all hugger-mugger in the hopes of freeing her from the taint of scandal; but Anne is not blind to the movement of gossip within the Court of Henry the Eighth, she knows that the word will be out.

She found them herself! Queen Anne came upon the King with the Lady Seymour upon his lap, kissing her like a new-wed wife!

Her eyes dead, she gazes at the hand whose fingers - in her dream - were grasped tightly by her son. All that is there now is the remains of the gash that was cut into her palm by the chain of that damned locket that Seymour had about her neck.

How dared he? How dared he? She knows that men do not consider the marriage vows they make before God to be binding - not, at least, the vow to remain faithful - and Henry was no exception. That women must abide by those same vows is unjust - but she has done so; and without complaint, for she had given him her love. And her reward for her constancy? Humiliation at the hands of the Seymour wench, and an empty womb that once held a Prince.

She feels the mattress sink slightly as Margery sits alongside her, "Majesty, are you hungry? Might I send to the kitchens for a dish of broth and some wine?"

"No. I am not hungry." She answers, shortly. No - that is unfair; Margery has been her closest friend in all of her times of triumph, and her times of trial, "Forgive me, Madge, I meant no harm. I am very tired."

Margery takes her hand, gently, "I am truly sorry, Majesty." She knows - all do - that this babe was her best chance of regaining her husband's waning faith. What does her Queen have now to salvage the wreckage of her dying marriage? The King is hardly likely to agree to try again. He has another woman in his sights. Queen Anne might think the Seymour chit banished from Court by the scandal of her being caught in the arms of another woman's husband - but that could not be further from the truth. She does not dare to tell Anne that the King is already making plans to return to Wiltshire to visit the trollop's father on the pretext of maintaining a long-held friendship. None at court are blind, however. It could not be more obvious that their King is set upon courting Lady Jane - and that Queen Anne's star is beginning to falter in the midst of the Courtly firmament. Whether the Queen, and her ambitious family, can turn that about and restore themselves to favour remains to be seen.

But what does that matter to Anne now? Her mind is not set upon fading fortunes - it is instead shadowed by grief. Mourning for the loss of the babe for which she longed not as a Queen, but as a mother. Oh, holy Father - if only Elizabeth were here now, vital, alive…but no, she is far away at Hatfield, and there is no way to retrieve her without the consent of the King. Consent that he is far from likely to grant. He has not come back to her since she struck out at him in her grief and rage.

You have no one to blame for this but yourself!

How can he not see that his infidelity caused her anguish? And that anguish caused the loss of her child? No - he has never accepted the blame for anything; not even when he was willing to all-but abase himself before her when he was so eager to claim her hand. In all matters of procreation, any failure is solely the fault of the woman - supposedly the curse of Eve when she plucked the fruit from the forbidden tree.

Seated beside her, Margery sighs, "Majesty - forgive me if I am too forward, but should you not rise from your bed? The doctors are content that there shall be no harm to you if you do so - and…and the longer that you remain here, the harder it shall be for you to return to the Court."

She pauses, waiting for the flash of temper that always follows an exhortation that Anne do something she does not wish to. But it does not come.

"Call my women." Anne says, still quietly, "I shall rise."

Margery nods, relieved. The first hurdle is crossed - now to see if it is possible to salvage the marriage.

The atmosphere in the Presence Chamber is vastly different to that of the Queen's Apartments. The storm of the King's rage has passed - replaced now by a determination to eradicate all remembrance of the horrible tempest that exploded a mere three days back. If he grieves for the loss of his son, then he does not show it. Perhaps he does - but the roar of laughter he emits at a courtier's crude joke suggests otherwise.

There is but one man in that rowdy space that sees deeper. Thomas Cromwell has served his King from the first days of that upheaval that is referred to even now as 'the King's Great Matter', and has done so diligently and well. His seemingly endless capacity for hard work, a sharp contrast to the taint of his low birth and obscure origins, has ensured that Cromwell has risen from little more than a lawyer and clerk to the most trusted politician in the Court. He may not hold one of the five great Offices of State, but all know that he is the King's Chief Minister and one of his most trusted officials, regardless of whether or not he wears a collar of esses.

To his entirely more experienced eye, there is an edge of forced gaiety about Henry's laughter and jesting. He is sore over the loss of his son, and angry at the woman who robbed him of that desperately wanted heir. Most seem to have forgotten the rumours that escaped when the King attempted to end his marriage to Anne barely two years ago - though his intention was to abandon his second wife without being obliged to return to his first. She overcame that near disaster - but Cromwell knows well that the chances of her overcoming this disaster are vanishingly small. Not while there is a pliant, fair-haired woman in the picture. Jane is all that Anne is not: lightly educated, retiring, soft-voiced and unhesitating to bend to Henry's will. Traits that are hardly welcome in a mistress, but ideal in a wife. Anne, on the other hand, is all fire and intelligence - and she could not be the Queen that Henry, and convention, demands.

Despite his own arguments with the woman, he has never failed to admire her for her intelligence and political acumen. A Queen as capable as she could have ruled at her husband's side almost as an equal - and she would not have been the first to do so: an Isabella to his Ferdinand. Even another Katherine in at least some measure. For Henry is not a man willing to share power, and that refusal has been demonstrated over and over again in the midst of heated confrontations with a wife who cannot bring herself to be brought to heel.

Guarded as ever, Cromwell's eyes sweep back and forth across the chamber, taking in all and marking it. Norfolk is near the throne, of course, though his expression is tense - held in the dilemma of waiting to see if his relatives can rescue themselves from the yawning abyss that lies ahead of them, whether he should abandon them as they fall into it, or whether he should step behind them and push them in. He may well be the highest ranked Peer in England, but Thomas Howard is no more immune from the consequences of displeasing his King than any other in the room.

Nearer still, however, is Charles Brandon of Suffolk, who guards his proximity to the King jealously; though the greatest threat to his presence at Court is the King's temper - which is largely the same for all who stand in this chamber. Their friendship is the strongest that Henry has, though that has not prevented him from banishing Suffolk from Court on occasion.

Over there, by one of the wide windows that look out of the hall towards the river, are Wiltshire and Rochford, father and brother of the Queen. They, too, look tense; and with good reason, for much of their power and prestige is tied to that of Anne. If she falls, then they must act quickly to disentangle themselves from the bonds that hold them to her. Cromwell frowns to himself; what is familial loyalty in comparison to keeping hold of an Earldom?

The King shouts with laughter again - a strange, barking sound utterly unlike that which would normally display amusement. There is no doubting that he would repudiate her here and now if he could - but his pride will not permit it. After the enormous upheaval of his determination to secure Anne's hand in marriage, to admit that he had erred in doing so would be all but unendurable to him. No - he can't repudiate her, nor can the marriage be easily annulled given the effort to make it valid. Even though there is no longer any possibility of his being forced back to Katherine, there is still the opinion of the other Kings of Christendom - who shall see his misfortune as just punishment for banishing his brother's widow.

Cromwell sighs inwardly. He knows that a means to end the marriage will be required sooner or later - and that it shall be his task to secure it. And he shall do it, too - for he has reasons of his own to send that woman packing from court.

That woman.

God, her mind is remarkable - and her determination to be more than a mere decoration with a crown upon her head. But that is not the role of Henry's Queen; he will not permit her any greater one than to be an adjunct to his glory. If only she could see that.

He smiles to himself, remembering her threat to have him executed. At the time, he had felt a slight chill in the pit of his stomach - and had had to convince himself for nearly an hour afterwards that she could not have it done. Such spirit - such temper. Had he been ten years younger…

But he is not. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he redirects his thoughts to speculating upon what might follow the end of that pregnancy. While it sets him in a stronger position than hers, he would not have wanted it to be like this. No - not at the cost of a babe's life. Henry does not see Anne's intelligence as an asset to his Government. At the moment, he does not see her as an asset, either.

But until someone can find a means to remove her, she remains his wife. Until death do they part.

"Play on, Mr Smeaton!" the Queen's voice is bright, but brittle - and none in her Presence Chamber truly know where they stand in the face of her increasingly erratic temper.

His expression nervous, the young lutenist returns to his instrument and begins to pluck out a cheerful dance tune that seems so utterly at odds with the oppressive atmosphere around them. Sitting near the fire, embroidery in hand, Jane Rochford looks about the room with a tired, jaded eye.

She would rather be anywhere but here - one of her other homes would be infinitely preferable - but George is insistent that they must remain at Court, and thus she must dance attendance upon his sister. He is rarely in her company these days, as he must now do all that he can to ensure that the Queen's failure does not impact unduly upon his own Court career.

It is a failure, all right: one does not promise sons to a King lightly - and if one does so, one had better deliver. That Queen Anne has committed such a foolish error is of little interest to Lady Rochford. Her marriage is as close to the edge as that of the Queen - bound by vows to a man who wishes she was not. That George enjoys carnal knowledge with other women is hardly unknown to her - he has done so almost from the day they wed. He has no fear of flaunting his affairs about the Court, and seems not even to notice the humiliation she must endure as those about her look upon her with pity. Forced to attend his sister while he tups any woman who takes his fancy. God forbid that she should do the same in return.

Before she returns her eyes to her work, she looks up towards the Queen, to see that Anne is looking back at her. Oddly, there is no hostility there now - for once she had viewed her sister-in-law with great dislike. Instead, there is something else - a sense of sympathy, or perhaps understanding?

No - the Queen's loyalty to her brother would never permit her to do such a thing. It must be her imagination. Briskly, Jane takes up her needle again, and carefully inserts stitches into the motif that she is embroidering upon a handkerchief. How ironic that it is a gift for the father-in-law who cares so little about her that he has spoken not a word to her since the day she stood beside his son at the altar.

Seated beneath her canopy of estate, Anne watches her sister-in-law avoid her gaze. She is not offended by it - after all, how many of her ladies can look her in the eye? In the days since her loss, the King has not once requested her presence, and she dare not demand to enter his. Not until she can be certain that the ground upon which she stands is firm, and will not shift beneath her feet.

But she must do it - she must return to his presence. If she does not, then she is lost. What use is a wife who has not borne a King a son? He removed one wife who could not do so from his presence to install another who claimed that she could - what is to stop him doing the same again? She cannot even turn to the man with whom she once hoped to bring about the greatest of religious reforms. That door was slammed shut, and locked, the moment that she saw where the monies from the closure of the smaller monastic houses were being spent.

But who can speak for her now? Not her uncle - nor her father. They have their own interests to defend, and she has no doubt that they now see her as a threat to those interests. They know, as she does, that their riches and honours were earned for them by the King's slavish love for her.

A love that may not even still live.

No, she tells herself, it must live, for mine still lives. In spite of all, she loves him - she has always loved him. Even now, she longs to give him the son that he desires above all. The son that she promised him in the dark of the night when she finally set down her barriers, and they lay together for the first time. It is not the first time that she has been obliged to engineer a reconciliation, after all. No - she will do it again. Now that the Seymour slut is gone from her presence, and gone under a cloud of scandal, too, what is to stand in her way?

Other than his anger, of course.

Her helplessness frustrates her endlessly - for until she is summoned into his presence, she can do nothing; but he has not summoned her. Sooner or later, of course, he shall have to - for if he does not, then tongues shall wag even more freely than they do now. His pride shall force him to do it - even if through gritted teeth.

Her expression benign, but her stomach a churning maelstrom, she reaches for her own embroidery hoop, and returns her attention to the elaborate satin stitch being worked upon the cuff of a glove. The pounce lines that remain are a little smudged, but that shall eventually be covered by the stitching…

Her needle comes through the silk ground too quickly, and she pricks her finger. Startled, she curses under her breath, and looks up sharply, in case her profanity has been overheard. Oh God - look at them all; it is as though they are waiting for her to die…

"Mr Smeaton!" she calls again, startling everyone, "An Almain, if you please." She rises to her feet, and looks across to Lady Shelton, who quickly ushers the ladies to their feet and supervises the pushing of the chairs back to the walls to make room for the dance. There are no men present - but there do not need to be. Nor does she care if any pass and wonder why she is dancing at such a time: anything to break this ghastly silence. Perhaps they should be dancing something more sober, like a Saraband or a Pavane - but they are quite downcast enough as it is.

Somehow, despite all, she is able to lose herself in the intricacies of the steps; and, for the first time in days, is able to smile at least a little. Yes - sooner or later he shall call her to his presence, and she shall flatter and charm him until they are reconciled. She has done so before, and she shall do so again.

Sitting at his desk in his small suite of offices, Cromwell sighs and wonders how much longer the Royal couple can continue to avoid each other. He looks across his miniature domain at the various clerks who are undertaking their weekly inventory of papers to ascertain which should be held here at Placentia, and which should be transported to the primary offices at Whitehall for archiving. If they did not do so, then they would all be drowning in paper.

Over the last two weeks, Henry has hunted, hawked, hunted again, shouted abuse at those who attempt to play tennis in his presence, hawked again and is only here in the Palace now because the weather has broken and there is no prey to be found in the heavy drifts of snow that have fallen over the last few days. God knows where they found prey as it is at this time of the year.

Shaking his head over such wanton carnage, Cromwell reaches for his quill again and continues setting down figures for the report he is compiling. In spite of the sums that are coming in from the smaller religious houses as they are closed, the King seems endlessly keen upon exceeding them in his quest to acquire the finest garments, arms and God-knows-what-else. The Queen's household is hardly better. If her Majesty is truly so keen to use the income from the religious houses to ease the hardships of the poor, then her most worthwhile and useful act might be to curtail the ridiculous degree of expenditure required to maintain the enormous staff retained to see to her each and every need. He looks across at the latest requests for payment that have been received - God above, how many more ostrich feather fans does she need? What does she do with them all - eat them?

The thought of Queen Anne actually attempting to consume a feathered fan is so ridiculous to him that he snorts with amusement, which causes the clerks to look up in surprise. The sound of footsteps sends them straight back to work as the owner of those footsteps makes his way past them towards the Minister's desk.

"Mr Rich." Cromwell says, without looking up. He dislikes the man in front of him, and knows that the feeling is entirely mutual.

"Mr Cromwell." Sir Richard Rich ignores the mild rudeness, "I have just completed the work to destroy all papers pertaining to the possible outcome of the King's accident at the joust last month." Without being invited, he seats himself, and gratefully accepts a cup of wine from a steward from which he takes a rather hasty gulp.

Rather than answer, Cromwell grunts slightly - a vague harrumph that serves as an acknowledgement. The amount of paperwork that incident caused led to the wastage of a great deal of paper and ink. Thank God they didn't get as far as making fair copies on vellum. But then, all praises to the Highest, the King did not die. Had he done so, then they would be under the heel of Lord Protector Norfolk by now, for certain. Either that or some ghastly war akin to the great anarchy, or the dread war of the Plantagenet cousins that only ended at the hands of Henry's father.

"He needs a son. And soon." Rich observes, unnecessarily. As if Cromwell didn't know that.

"He has one. Of sorts."

"What, Fitzroy?" Rich scoffs, "And you think England would accept a bastard on the throne?" he is not fool enough to say that too loudly.

"If there is no alternative, then yes." Cromwell looks up at the Solicitor General, "You know as well as I that no woman has ever ruled this realm in her own right."

"There is no law that forbids it. This is not France."

And again, something that he does not need to be told. Even in the absence of the Salic Law in England, if the alternative to Henry's bastard boy is a mere girl, then England shall accept him. Besides, the reason that they have done nothing to have him legitimised was washed out of the Queen's womb two weeks ago. If that bastard son is the only son that he has, then so be it.

"They may reconcile." Cromwell reminds Rich.

"And you truly believe that?"

"I should rather believe that than deal with the paperwork required to effect an alternative."

"Even after she threatened to shorten you by a head?"

Cromwell glares at him. Does he not appreciate the damage that the first 'Great Matter' wrought upon the Crown? After all the effort to get Henry married to his brother's widow, only for him to turn to the very argument they'd been obliged to circumvent in order to get rid of her? Not only did it leave Henry in a weak position with his fellow princes, it damaged his standing with the people of England, for Queen Katherine had been much loved. Queen Anne has never been able to overturn that antipathy. The letters from the Imperial Ambassador that he has had intercepted by his spies have never ceased to refer to her as 'the Concubine', and there are far worse insults spoken outside the confines of the Palace. If she is to survive this setback, then she must act quickly - but until the King permits her to enter his presence, she is helpless.

Should he risk it? Attempt to find some way to persuade his Majesty to at least make some pretence at reconciling with his Queen? Things cannot continue as they are; the longer that they do so, the more likely it is that he shall be asked to find some means to end a marriage that cannot easily be dissolved.

Oh, the actual dissolving of the marriage would be easy enough - it would be a simple matter for Cranmer to declare it null and void - but how to do it without causing a scandal across Europe - nay, all of Christendom? That is the sticking point.

Sighing to himself, he sets his papers into a coffer and locks it. Besides, it is time to sup, and he is hungry. To his dismay, Rich rises too - clearly intending to follow. Hopefully he shall find someone else to sit with in the Hall.

He is still wrestling with the intractable problem of ending the King's marriage as he enters the Hall. To his surprise, however, there is a large consort of musicians tuning their viols and warming up their cornetts in the gallery, and the degree to which people have over-dressed themselves suggests an unexpected air of festivity. Yes - he can see Wiltshire lurking near the dais, and most of the ambassadors are present in the crowd. It seems that the King has decided to sup with his Queen after all. Either he has indeed decided to reconcile with her, or he is acting to quell rumours that serve only to damage his reputation.

To his relief, Rich has wandered off to talk to someone else, and he is free to observe as he prefers to do. Rochford is across the hall, altogether too close to a young woman who seems quite charmed by his attentions, while Norfolk is looking far less insecure than he did last week. If Norfolk feels safe, then it seems likely that the King is indeed intending to observe his marriage vows.

A steward clatters the foot of his staff upon the floor, "My Lords! His Majesty the King, and Her Majesty the Queen!"

All turn to the doorway that leads from the King's Apartments, and bow formally as the door opens to admit Henry and Anne. Cromwell knows his King's moods well - and he can see even from his position amidst the crowd that the reconciliation is superficial. Anne is here to stem rumours that she is dead, or that he has had her confined illegally. No more, no less. His expression is cold and set, his movements stiff.

She knows it, too. The Queen is pale, her eyes flitting back and forth as she looks at all around her. Tonight, she must grovel and pander to her husband - for her very future is now at stake. Dear Christ - does Wiltshire truly think that he is secure? His expression is smug and proud, for the King and Queen are together in public again. Can he not see that they stand only as close together as they must in order to avoid comments? If he cannot, then he is a fool - and a blind one, at that.

To be fair to him, Henry plays his part well: bowing to his Queen and inviting her to sit before he does. But as the trumpets brazenly fanfare in the first remove, his conversation is largely with others, and he rarely seems to look at her.

Taking a seat at the table reserved for the Privy Councillors, Cromwell sighs and turns his attention to the dishes set there. It is a show - an artifice that they are portraying. Unless she can turn all about, and win him back, she is lost.

And he shall be her executioner.