Disclaimer: I don't own the Tudors.
Summary: No matter how strongly he denies it, there is a void inside his heart.
The Great Whore
He does not regret her death.
She was the one who tore his country apart.
She was the one who betrayed and humiliated him.
She was the one to blame for everything.
He does not regret her death.
His marriage to Jane is blessed by His goodwill.
After wrongly marrying the wife of his brother who was the reason England had to endure without a male heir for years and after her, he is certain that God will finally grant him the gift of a strong prince.
She is the golden ray of light that lead him through the darkest and obscurest night.
There are no coy looks, no provocative actions and no challenging words.
Jane is sweet and obedient and innocent.
She is the exact opposite of her.
There are no similarities, neither in their appearances nor their attitudes.
He reminds himself that this-to be free of her- is what he wished for; so strongly and whole-heartedly that he will not shed a single thought on the Greatest Whore of Christendom.
He keeps it hidden, a tightly locked secret he will never admit to no one no matter how favoured the person may be.
He did not know the name of the woman nor did he know with whom she was connected in court.
All he knows is that she had hair as dark as ebony and eyes as blue as the sky and skin as white and as pure as snow.
For a single moment, he thought that she had come back.
His blood coursed hotly from hatred and arousal.
It was an easy feat to bed her –unlike with her-, to sink into the wet, utterly feminine heat that welcomed him easily and to imagine that he was taking this stranger out of nothing but simple need.
It was a bit harder to deny that he screamed out her name.
He remembers in an instant the unquenchable passion, the intelligence and the stubbornness.
He decides that dark haired women are not worth his attention anymore.
The reconciliation with Mary comes swiftly and easily after her death.
Mary signs the oath after recognizing Jane's motherly love towards her and her father's unquestionable authority as the King.
He is happy to have her back, his beloved Pearl of England.
Though she is a bastard she is still his daughter.
After six months of removing any reminders of her in his life, he meets Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth with her red-gold hair like his grandmother, her sharp cheekbones like his own and her sharp blue eyes like hers.
Her fragility is high-lightened around all the courtiers with their tall frames and their unmoving, blank, clueless stares.
But she is not looking at the people who had praised and doted on her incessantly whenever she visited court, who now are not reacting to any of her movements like they used to.
No, she is looking him in the eyes.
Her head held high, her eyes serious and unwavering she approaches him, her father.
This child, so strong and bright-so obvious, the qualities she possesses in spades, oh why are you not born a boy?-is his.
She is a Tudor and although she had been her mother Henry cannot shun her.
"Je suis en famille."
He is losing his patience.
His marriage has just started, he knows, but how much longer?
How much longer for a son?
Another pregnancy, another chance.
He prays every night and every morning and sometimes in the middle of the day he addresses God.
Almighty Father, has he not waited long enough?
Has he not endured enough?
Henry longs for a son, a handsome, healthy son who will be the greatest one of Europe, who will overshadow every other prince on the continent.
Has he not deserved it?
In the time of Jane's pregnancy he has mistresses.
None of them has dark hair.
Jane is silent; she turns her head away and closes her eyes like a good, obedient wife should.
Henry remembers that she could never accept his dalliances with quiet decorum.
He remembers that he is happy that she is so unlike her.
In a few moments he will know if he can rejoice or mourn again.
A son or another daughter?
He doesn't know, all he knows is that the child will never look like her.
Jane is dying.
He begs God to let him keep her, his innocent maiden, his lovely Guinevere but he knows that she will die.
Like his mother did.
He will not leave her side until she starts to get cold and stiff.
A stray thought penetrates him unbidden and he pushes it as fast away as it appeared.
Why did she survive the childbed?
The English Court needs a palace as great as the French one if not greater.
England has a prince now, a male heir who will bring a Golden Age with him and so he needs the best of the best.
He is not insane.
He talks with the Jester because he is the King and he does what he wants and no subject has the right to question him, their lord and sovereign.
He does not tatter on the edge of insanity, close to falling into the dark abyss that wants to swallow him whole.
Jane is dead but Edward lives.
He does not wonder why he feels as if he should mourn her more thoroughly.
The whispers in his head have her voice and they are cruel and vicious:
"You will get bored with her, Henry. You always do!"
He marries Anne of Cleves because Cromwell insists on it vehemently and the man has not leaded him astray yet.
She is not beautiful, no, she reminds him of a mare with her dirty blond hair and plain brown eyes.
She is not intelligent or sly or intriguing.
He tells himself that his first interest in her did not arise because she didn't accept him like her or that her name evoked memories of another.
He tells himself that the bitter stab of disappointment did not let bile rise up his throat or constricted his heart.
He tells himself that his feelings had nothing to do with her but with the prospect of living with that thing.
Katherine Howard is petite, blond and charming.
She is his rose without thorns.
He should have known that her accursed blood would doom this marriage too.
Another betrayal, another humiliation, another trial.
Like her cousin, she ended with her head chopped of her neck.
On Kitty's execution, Henry does nothing but think about her, cursing her to the deepest pits of hell.
Henry wondered when his daughters grew into women.
Mary could have had a husband and children and Elizabeth looked like she would not be able to keep her many suitors away forever.
Sometimes he marvels how a woman like Elizabeth could come from her womb.
Such a beautiful creature; dull red hair that has darkened into a deep auburn, bright blue eyes and full lips that could entice any man.
He tries not to let his thoughts linger on that particular manner for he loves his daughter although her mother was the bane of his existence.
Elizabeth is proud and dignified and had a head on her shoulders that could rival his best advisers.
She believes that he does not notice the watchful looks, the contemplative gaze that drifts around a room before she enters it fully as if she judges the people on whether they are good enough to be graced with her presence.
He does and he knows, had she been born a boy she would have mastered the highest mountain and the roughest sea.
But alas she was a woman, destined for a fate that would befit her gender.
Why God has granted her so many gifts is a mystery to him.
Henry has never met a woman like Catherine Parr.
She looks like Jane (the same colouring, the same sweetness and obedience) but sometimes she acts like her (so very intelligent and well-read, maybe even a heretic just like her?).
Sometimes when he closes his eyes and Catherine reads something aloud, he denies that he imagines her soothing him with her voice.
Hs end is near but he has still so much to do.
The war against France will continue without him it seems.
He orders a painting of himself that will reflect Henry Tudor, Henry VIII, the King of England and the man who has served as lord and sovereign for many, many decades.
He will not be forgotten.
He refuses to.
After almost a whole decade he meets her again.
She reproaches him for his treatment of Elizabeth, just like Katherine did for Mary and even Jane did for Edward.
How dare she!
How dare either of them!
After almost a whole decade he lets her feel his anger, his aggression and his well-hidden hurt in the face of her adulterous actions.
Her words are mocking him: "I did nothing to you. I was innocent. All the accusations against me were false. I thought you knew."
"I thought you knew."
"I thought you knew."
The thoughts are reverberating through him and he does not even fully listen to her condolence towards Katherine Howard, the girl-child.
After almost a whole decade he is finally able to say her name again:
"Anne, please don't...!" leave, but she was already gone.
He is what he is.
Even if his three wives reproached him and tried to confront him with his past mistakes, he still is what he is.
Just like he will always remain.
He is no ordinary man, he is King.
He dies on his throne and he is ready to face his judgement.
The End
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Oh dear.
In the last couple of days I've been reading some fanfics from cruelangel101 and ReganX again and I was infected with the Tudor fever again.
I plan on writing a One-Shot about Brigitte Rousselot and Charles Brandon and if iI'm inspired enough I'll even write a What-If story about Henry x Anne and Elizabeth x Charles, duc d'Angloume.
I just can't stop imagining what would happen if Elizabeth would be betrothed to King Francis younger son and he would marry her and have children with her.
But we'll see.
I hope you enjoyed the little story and as usual reviews reviews reviews make the world go around xD !