17 March 1493

An infant's piercing shriek filled the air as the mother slumped back on to the pillows of the birthing bed, her usually shining honey curls dark with sweat and her creamy skin waxy with exhaustion.

"What is it?" she croaked, throat raw from screaming out her pain, "What is it?"

The midwife paused in her ministrations to beam up at the new mother.

"A beautiful healthy girl, Madam. Your Grace has given birth to a healthy baby girl."

"A Princess," the woman breathed, eyes lighting with relief, "God be thanked, a Princess."

She went to hold out her arms, but a fierce undertow of exhaustion was already pulling her under. Eyelids flickering, she shook her head at the maid who made to hand her the child.

"No, Sarah. Put her in the cradle. Put her in the cradle and fetch His Grace. Tell him we have a sister for George."

As the maid scurried to do her bidding, Elizabeth Howard, Queen Regnant of England, slid into the blessed peace of sleep, secure in the knowledge that she had done her duty at last.

When she woke, her Prince Consort, Sir Thomas, Duke of Ormonde, sat beside her. She murmured groggily as she came to and felt his hand brush her cheek.

"You did it, love," he whispered, "We have a girl. And a feisty one at that. She's a true Howard, you may be sure of that."

Letting his lack of propriety slip in this, their most joyous moment as husband and wife, Elizabeth struggled to sit up.

"Bring her to me," she ordered, "Bring her to me."

Slipping an arm around her waist to help her, Thomas nodded to the nearest maid to comply, so Elizabeth was no more than a few moments without her daughter in her arms.

Cradling her, she gazed rapturously down at every tiny digit, every dark wisp of down clinging to the baby's scalp, every minute whorl or crease of her rosy skin.

"She's perfect," she exhaled, "Absolutely perfect."

Thomas nodded, knowing better than to interrupt his wife in that moment.

"She has my eyes," he ventured at last.

"And your hair, it looks like," Elizabeth answered, stroking the top of her newborn daughter's head with a fingertip.

"We'll call her Anne, for my aunt," she decided, and Thomas, however much he might have wished to call the child Margaret, for his mother, or Elizabeth for his wife, or any other name from his own branch of the family, had no choice but to agree.

"As you wish," he whispered. Elizabeth glanced at him.

"Well, go on then," she snapped, only half-playfully, "Go and announce the birth of our Princess Anne. Go and ring the bells. Let the whole of England know the Howards are safe on her throne at last."