I'm still not 100% sure about this, but I'm fairly sure you've been waiting long enough for this... Sorry it took so long. I hope it's worth the wait!

Calais, 1522

"Put yourself in his way. The family is counting on you," With that, Jane's older brother Edward whisked past her, shoving her just hard enough as he went that, though it looked like an accident to any onlookers, she knew he meant what he said.

Her heart stopped. What was Edward thinking? She couldn't seduce the King! She couldn't! Oh, she knew that was what Edward had been hoping for when he'd managed to secure her a place in the young Duchess of Beja's household, at this, the most glittering event of the decade. He wanted her to find her way into the King's heart, as Lady Catherine Howard had done a few years earlier, and thereby redeem the Seymours from the ignominy his wife's affair with their father had thrust the family into.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it. Indeed, she felt sick at the very thought. Her mother had raised her a good Christian woman. Christian women didn't throw themselves at young eligible men like hussies, despite the actions of most of her fellow maids-of-honour.

Besides, she reminded herself, the King's marriage to the Lady Anne had barely been annulled a few months earlier and the King was a good man. He wouldn't respond to her overtures, even if she was to make them. He wouldn't want to risk anyone suggesting that he'd annulled his marriage to the Lady Anne purely because his affections had transferred themselves elsewhere.

Her thoughts in turmoil, Jane followed her mistress into the stands that overlooked the lists and sank on to a padded stool thankfully. She closed her eyes for a moment, seeking to calm her fearful heart.

"His Majesty King Henry challenges the Constable of France!" Jane opened her eyes as the herald's trumpet blared. Despite herself, she couldn't take her eyes off the 31-year-old king. With his red-gold hair seeming to glow in the sunlight and his gilt armour sparkling, Henry of England appeared like Adonis to many a young maiden at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and, though she'd never have admitted it, Jane was no exception.

Henry, on the other hand, had eyes only for the two young girls sitting in the centre of the royal box, surrounded by French Princesses of the Blood in a living symbol of Anglo-French unity. Bowing before them, he stretched out his lance.

"My darling daughters, you would make your old father the proudest man in Christendom if you granted me the honour of jousting under your favours today. Might I be so lucky?"

Mary, eight and a half years old and attending her first joust, flushed and giggled at being treated like a woman, "Of course, Papa!"

Bounding to her feet, she stretched up on tiptoe to tie a fluttering blue ribbon around the tip of his lance, before blowing him a smacking kiss which melted the hearts of all the women around her. Henry was hard-pressed to keep himself grave as he thanked her with all the seriousness the occasion demanded. After all, it was her betrothal to the French Dauphin that these jousts were celebrating. It wouldn't do to make his little girl look ridiculous.

As Mary, satisfied, went back to her seat, he glanced up at his eldest.

"And you, my Lady Beja?" he asked softly.

Try as he might, he couldn't help the way his voice caught on the words. Kathie was sixteen now, the same age her mother had been when they'd started sharing a household, and she looked just like her, save for the red tints in her hair. Indeed, when she'd stood up in answer to his question, he'd thought, just for a fraction of a second, that she was her mother. That she was his Kate. He couldn't believe that she was of age, that, once these festivities for her younger sister's betrothal were over, she'd be sailing for Lisbon to take her place as the second woman at the Portuguese Court. He couldn't believe he'd never see her again, that she'd never step into what he'd come to think of as her rightful place as his hostess again.

Kathie seemed to realise he was struggling, bless her. Taking her sister's place before him, she reached up and tied her ribbon, not to his lance, but to his horse's bridle.

"You will always have my favour, Papa," she breathed, so that no one else could hear, "Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, you will always have my favour. I will always be your white rose, as I was when I was little."

Unable to reach his hand, she settled for resting a palm on the rippling neck of his horse, just for a moment, before she returned to her seat.

Like the rest of the Anglo-French court, Jane watched the tender moment between father and daughter in silence, not wanting to ruin it by uttering so much as a syllable. She was watching the pair so intently, in fact, that she didn't even hear her brother Thomas come up behind her. She jumped about a mile into the air when he pressed a wine-skin into her hand.

"I overheard Edward giving you your orders earlier, so I brought you this. You can take it to the King when he's finished the joust. His Majesty will be grateful for the drink. It's hot work riding out there today."

Jane whirled round on Thomas, relief filling her. "Oh, Tom, thank you! Now I won't feel like such a fool hanging around His Majesty's tent!"

She hugged her brother delightedly, and Tom ruffled her hair, chuckling, before they settled back to watch the joust together.

When it was over, Tom nudged Jane towards the King's tent, "Go on, do as you're told. I'll make your excuses to the Duchess if you're missed."

Obediently, Jane slipped away into the crowd. Tom watched her go, smirking. He'd handled that masterfully, if he did say so himself. The ambergris, rose and musk he'd mixed into the wine was so potent that he wagered it wouldn't take more than a few swallows out of that skin before Jane had the King eating out of her hand and allowing her to lead him around by the cock.

Riding back into the pavilion after the tournament, Henry's throat felt as though he'd swallowed a bunch of nettles, it was that raw. The dust had really got to him…or at least, that's what he told himself.

Suddenly, a wineskin appeared in his hand, "Drink this, Your Majesty," a voice whispered.

He tipped it to his lips, too grateful to question its provenance. He'd almost drained it before he looked up to see where it had come from.

He gasped. The young woman before him was the prettiest he'd ever seen. She was even prettier than his Kate. Her eyes were the clearest chips of jade and her hair, spilling down her back in a cloud, seemed to be made of liquid gold that rippled as she shifted under his gaze.

"Thank you, Mistress," he sighed, as he handed it back to her and swung down off his horse, "That was as welcome as the message brought by the Angel Gabriel. Might I ask the name of my angel of mercy?"

She curtsied, colour staining her cheeks, "Jane, Sire. Jane Seymour, of Wolfhall."

Brandon was utterly nonplussed by his friend's behaviour. He'd expected him to come back from Calais mourning the loss of his beloved eldest daughter, now that she'd sailed for Portugal. Yet he hadn't. He'd come back besotted with a young blonde minx instead.

And that was the other strange thing. Having grown up with Henry, he'd always thought he knew him fairly well. He'd certainly thought he knew his taste in women. Spirited, pretty and above all, intelligent; a match for him in the way the late Duchess of York had always been. Mistress Seymour was none of those things. Oh, she was attractive enough, in a winsome sort of way, but she could barely muster up the courage to say boo to a goose, never mind challenge his friend when he needed it. Nor could she be said to be intelligent, by any stretch of the imagination. Her Latin covered only the basic prayers of the catechism – and even those were learnt by rote - and she could write little more than her name.

Yet Henry would hear no word against her, could barely bear to be out of her sight for more than an hour. He was acting like a schoolboy with his first mistress, for all he was a twice-married man in his early thirties. If Brandon didn't know better, he'd fear the King was under some sort of malign influence, possibly even bewitched. But that couldn't be right. Harry was loved by his people; ten times more so than his old father had ever been. No one would dream of casting a spell over their adored King, surely? Surely?

"Things are going just as we'd hoped," Edward smiled, as the Seymour siblings gathered in Tom's private chamber for a conference, "I don't know how you've done it, Jane, but the King is besotted with you. He's even more in love than I dared hope he would be."

Jane glanced at Tom. Her throat seized. Over the past few months, she'd become only too aware of the fact that the King's passion for her was caused primarily by the drugged wine and food Tom kept giving her to give the King.

Tom returned her glance with a warning look. Not that Jane needed any warning. If Edward didn't know about the potions, she wasn't about to tell him. Jane had no false impressions of her own intelligence, but even she knew that witchcraft was a dangerous game to be playing and she loved Edward too much to risk him being enmeshed in their tangles, as she'd been enmeshed in Tom's, back in Calais.

Edward, fortunately, was too caught up in his scheming to notice the glance his siblings had shared, "His Grace even stopped me after Mass today to ask if I'd be amenable to your sharing a particular relationship with him, Jane."

Horror shot through Jane at Edward's words. Returning the King's affections, however feigned, was one thing. Letting him deepen their relationship meant crossing a line she could never return from. Her reputation would be ruined!

"Edward, no! What did you say?"

"What did you expect me to say?" Edward snapped impatiently, "I told His Grace that, however light the morals of some other families at England's Court may be, the Seymours are good Christians. I said that, as our eldest daughter, we regarded you as the flower of the family and there would be no bedding before you were wed, whoever asked."

Relief coursed through Jane at her older brother's words. Before she could stop herself, she slumped against Tom, who caught her to him, "Thank you, Edward," she breathed.

Edward harrumphed and strode to the door. On the threshold, he paused.

"I didn't do it for you, Jane. I did it for the family. After all, why should we be satisfied with having one of our girls act as the King's light-o-love, when the greatest prize of all is ours for the taking? When, if we play our cards right, we could make you the greatest woman in all of England?"

Jane lost her breath at his words. He wanted to make her King Henry's Queen?

Edward vanished before she'd had a chance to even begin to process the thought.

"Jane, listen. If this goes ahead, if the King marries you and makes you his Queen, I won't be able to supply you with what you need anymore. My appearing in your rooms on a nearly daily basis would be far too suspicious," Tom gripped his sister's arms tightly, grateful that her voluminous sleeves would hide any bruises he might leave on her skin, "People would begin to talk."

"What?"

"We don't want anyone – any man – around you too much. England hasn't forgotten Margaret of Anjou. If you're seen to favour me too much, rumours might start that you're seeking to cast me in the role of your Somerset."

Jane's eyes went wide at the implication, "But that's preposterous! You're my brother!"

"It doesn't matter. Caesar's wife must be above suspicion. I can't be in your rooms any more than Edward is. Everyone knows how fond of he is of Nan. They'd never dream of suggesting he'd betray her."

"But… then, what am I to do? You know full well Henry only looks at me as he does because…" Jane trailed off. Tom nodded.

"I've thought of that." Disengaging himself, he went to the door and signed for someone behind it to come in. A portly matron with ragged clothing and greying hair entered. Startled, Jane almost shrank back from her piercing grey eyes, but Tom beamed as though he was giving her a glittering present.

"This is Ankarette, dearest sister. Ankarette Haute. If her reputation is to be believed, she's the finest cunning woman and midwife in England. And what's more, she's mine. Utterly and completely mine. And now I'm giving her to you. With Ankarette at your side, you'll never have to fear for anything. I promise."

September 1523

"But Father, I want to go with Uncle Charles. I'm nearly sixteen, I should be taking my place in your army by now!" William spread his hands, pleading with his father. For an instant, Henry saw Kate in their son, strong-willed and handsome as he was. His breath caught and he had to turn away lest he betray himself.

"You're my only son. I can't risk you coming to harm, you must understand that!"

"What harm could come to me? We're only raiding French territory. The Emperor's men will do the main work and besides, wouldn't it be good for the men's morale to have their Prince fighting beside them?"

"I can't deny the truth of that, but until you have a brother, there is no question of you going with Lord Suffolk," Henry snapped, before looking up in relief as Brandon himself entered the room, "Ah, Charles. Help me explain to this young hothead why I can't allow him to ride with you when you leave tomorrow."

Brandon's eyes widened, "I was just about to ask you to let His Highness come."

"What?!" Henry bellowed. Had Charles run mad? Did he want to risk the Succession by risking the only life that stood between England and a return to civil war?

Seeing the panic in his old friend's eyes, Brandon abandoned protocol and took Henry by the arm, taking him to the other side of the tent.

"Henry," he said in an undertone, "You can't stop the lad. He's got his heart set on it and it would do the men good to see their Prince bloodying himself in battle. You've taught him to rule in times of peace, now let him see what it's like to lead a war."

"He's my only heir! I can't risk him!"

"If that were true, I'd agree with you. But it's not, is it? There's Mary, and Kathy and her little boy in Portugal as well as the Queen's unborn child. If you ask me, the dynasty's never been so secure. Let His Highness come."

"The Queen's unborn child". The words reverberated in Henry's head, echoing eerily. He'd forgotten Jane was pregnant. He'd forgotten the reason she wasn't in Calais with them now was because she was at Richmond, preparing for her lying-in. Indeed, now that he thought about it, he realised he'd barely thought of Jane at all since they'd left England. That was odd. He'd been busy, true, but he'd never forgotten about Kate or Anna when they were apart, particularly not when they were with child. Why had he forgotten his current Queen so easily?

Henry was so busy thinking that he scarcely heard Brandon's next words. "You hated it when your father wrapped you in swaddling bands as a lad, Henry. When he wouldn't let you learn to joust and fight like a man, like the warrior you always dreamed of being. Don't do the same to Will. You always swore you wouldn't play the chafing nursemaid with your own children, so don't. Let the boy come with me."

If there was any argument that could have swayed Henry to allow his son to go to war, it was an appeal to the memory of his own restrictive adolescence. He hesitated. His fists clenched, just briefly, as he came to a decision. He glanced up at Brandon.

"I'm entrusting you with his safety. Personally. If harm comes to a hair on his head, it will be your head rotting on a spike. Is that clear, my Lord Suffolk?"

His words were granite. Brandon bowed from the waist.

"Crystal, Sire."

"Good," With that, Henry waved his son and best friend away. He barely noticed their retreat. He was too caught up in trying to work out how on Earth he'd forgotten that his wife was pregnant.

Jane lay back on the bed, skirts loosened to show the mound of her belly. Ankarette hovered over her, a garnet and moonstone pendant in her hand. Humming softly, she let the necklace swing over Jane's belly, not trying to direct it, but letting it go where it would.

It took a little time, but eventually the necklace showed a decided sideways movement. Both women sighed with relief.

"A boy. A boy to be my husband's Duke of York," Jane breathed. Ankarette nodded, "Indeed, Madam."

Jane's eyes shone with delight for a moment, before clouding over, "A pity my son will never be his father's heir. My brothers… they'd be so proud if I were carrying the Prince of Wales. But a Duke of York, well, he's nowhere near as valuable."

Ankarette hesitated. She glanced around to ensure they were truly alone before dropping her voice, "And what if we were to make His Highness that valuable?"

Fifteen months as Henry's favourite and Queen had stripped Jane of her innocence. Her eyes widened as she realised the import of Ankarette's words.

"Ankarette! You can't seriously be thinking of… That's treason! Anyway, His Highness the Prince is in France with Lord Suffolk. Even if I were to say yes, we couldn't possibly reach…"

"There are ways to harm someone from a distance. Poppets made of clay, pricked with pins." Ankarette's voice was mysterious, and held a bitter undertone. Jane almost shrank back from her, but the thought of her brother's faces, alight with glee at the thought of there being a Seymour King on the throne of England, stopped her.

Instead, she simply sat up and arranged her skirts over her bulging belly. Ankarette watched her with an expression that bordered on insolence.

"Do I have Your Majesty's permission?" she asked at last.

Jane sighed. "You were my brother's servant before you were mine, Mistress Haute. Do whatever you think my brother would consider best in order to serve the family cause."

November 1523

The tent stank of disease. Disease and death.

The sixteen-year-old Prince of Wales lay on a bed of sumptuous fabric, his pulse ragged and fever high. The cause of the agony, a jagged wound to the underside of his upper arm sustained while on patrol in the countryside around Amiens, wept blood and pus through scores of linen bandages.

As he tossed, calling feverishly for his father, his sisters, his childhood nurse, even the mother he'd never known, the Duke of Suffolk held a whispered conference with the physicians at the mouth of the tent.

"Is there any hope at all, Dr Butts?"

Dr Butts, one of the best doctors in the royal household, shook his head, "If we'd been able to bring the fever down, perhaps. But even a body as young and strong as His Highness's can't resist a fever this virulent for long. It's only a matter of time. I dread to say this, my Lord Suffolk, but I fear Your Grace had best find a priest and make haste about it."

The colour drained from Brandon's cheeks, but, by biting the inside of his cheek, he managed to keep control of himself. He inclined his head stiffly. "I'll see to it at once, Sir."

He turned on his heel, fighting to keep his tears under control, but Dr Butts called after him.

"Your Grace?"

"Yes?"

"Given how well the wound seemed to be healing at first, before it turned bad, I hesitate to say that His Highness's illness is entirely natural."

Dr Butts dared not say more, surrounded as the two men were by a camp full of superstitious gentry and yeomen soldiers. Morale was bad enough in the camp with the Prince like to die without wilder suspicions going around as well. Educated as he was, however, Brandon heard what the physician did not say. He inhaled sharply.

Before he could push the doctor any further, however, the Prince cried out behind them, "Tell Papa I'm sorry! Tell him I never meant it to end like this! Tell him! And Catalina! Tell her I'm sorry I'll never make her a husband after all!"

Panic sparked in the doctor's eyes, "His Highness is lucid!"

Brandon was about to question the doctor's panic – surely William being lucid was a good thing? – when he heard the unmistakeable sound of the death rattle in his nephew's throat. It resounded through the suddenly silent tent.

His heart stopped. He whirled on his heel and sprinted away, shouting for a priest.

Henry thought his world had collapsed in on itself. His boy – his precious boy, his only reminder of Kate – was gone. Gone! Ripped away from him, and not even by nature, but by the wicked malevolence of witches!

A howl – a guttural, animalistic howl of grief tore itself from his throat as he sank to his knees. The royal veneer of control he had always striven to maintain vanished in a heartbeat as he mourned, mourned the only child he had ever truly lost. The only child he had ever known and loved and lost.

It took several hours, but when he finally rose again, it was with only one thought burning in his mind. He'd avenge his boy if it was the last thing he ever did. He'd root these witches out and he'd burn them at the stake, as they had burned the heart out of England when they murdered his son.

Henry stared down at the crude clay poppets Norfolk had tossed in his lap.

"Who found them? Where were they?" His voice was hollow.

"The Cardinal's secretary, Master Cromwell found them, Sire. He believes they were used to ill-wish the Prince and bring about His Highness's death. After all, they do have pins stuck through them in precisely the place His Highness was injured and there is a hole where the heart and lungs should be, as though the witch wished to stop His Highness's life and breath." Norfolk replied. Henry waited, but the Duke said no more. Indeed, when Henry glanced up at him, he shuffled from foot to foot, avoiding Henry's gaze. Alarm welled in Henry's breast.

"Norfolk. I asked you a question. Where were these poppets?"

Norfolk closed his eyes. His chest heaved. He visibly steeled himself.

"Your Grace… Your Majesty. I'm so sorry. They were found in the Queen's rooms."

Henry went absolutely still, as though he were made of ice. Norfolk, devastated at having to impart such awful news, rushed on, "When questioned, the maids said they doubted the Queen had owned them herself, but that Her Grace had connived at her principal lady-in-waiting, Mistress Haute, having them."

Though neither of the men knew it, the timing of the discovery was ideal. Jane had retreated into her confinement the week before, and, with Ankarette forced to remain with her in her post as midwife, neither of them had been near Henry. Neither of them had had the chance to dose him with the potions that bound his heart to Jane's so thoroughly. Indeed, Jane had decided not to dose him as much as she once had, not once she'd known her baby was to be a boy. She'd assumed that, once she'd birthed a Duke of York, Henry would be so grateful that he'd love her without the need of potions. As such, Henry was truly free of her malign influences for the first time in over a year.

Anger and betrayal swept him, discarding all the softer emotions he had ever felt towards his wife in one split-second.

He sprang to his feet, stalking from the room before he lost his temper in front of the Duke. It wasn't his fault after all. He was just carrying the message, unwelcome as it was.

"Sire?" Norfolk called after him.

This time, Henry couldn't restrain himself. "I want her dead," he bellowed, "Do you hear me? I want her dead!"

Jane couldn't breathe. Her mind was whirling, blank with terror. How had she come to this? It had seemed to come out of nowhere. One day, she'd been the King's beloved wife, pregnant with his son and so cherished that every single one of her whims was met almost the moment it entered her head. The next, she'd been ripped away from her household and thrown into the Tower to await her child's birth in the closest of confinement. She'd never even been so much as told what the charges against her were. She'd had to gather that from the scraps of gossip her unfriendly maids had let slip when they'd thought she hadn't been listening.

She was to die as a witch. Burned at the stake. Burned at the stake as soon as she could stand after her child – her son – had entered the world.

Another woman might have fought and railed against her fate, protested her innocence, but not Jane. She knew the evidence was overwhelming. Without intending to, she'd allowed herself to be caught up in the dangerous game of magic and witchcraft, lured to it by the shining of power and allure it offered. Like a moth to a flame. And now, like a month to a flame, she was to be burned for her folly.

All she could hope was that, if she yielded without a fuss, then her husband might find it in himself, not to forgive her, but to remember their son's innocence. To be kind to her son, once she had departed the world.

At the thought of her tiny son, growing up to be told she was a witch and that he was to forget her, to call another woman 'mother', tears came to Jane's eyes. Her throat caught and she had to bury her face in her pillow to stifle her sobs.

"We've had word from the Tower. It seems the Lady Jane has given birth to a boy. She's named him John, for her father," The Duchess of Suffolk glanced between her husband, newly returned from France, and the Cardinal, who nodded, stony-faced.

"Not the most auspicious name she could have chosen, but I suppose it could be worse. At least she had the sense not to name him after the King."

There was a pause. The Cardinal sighed and heaved his not inconsiderable bulk to his feet.

"I suppose I'd best get this distasteful duty over with. Good day to you, My Lady. My Lord Suffolk."

He went to the door, but the Duchess – Henry's favourite sister – called after him.

"My brother intends to go ahead with this then? He hasn't had a change of heart?"

The Cardinal paused, and turned back. His face was grave and his voice heavy as he answered.

"I'm afraid not, my Lady Duchess. His Majesty is determined that his former wife must die, even now that I have annulled their marriage in the Pope's stead. The most clemency I could persuade His Majesty to grant the Lady Jane was to allow her son to bear the courtesy title of Lord and name of Fitzroy. He has also agreed that, in order not to alarm the people by bringing the old prophecy of a Queen burning to life, the Lady's traditional sentence of burning may be commuted to beheading in the privacy of Tower Green."

The Cardinal swirled out of the room and the Duke and Duchess looked at each other. The same question was in both their minds.

Their brother had gone through three wives in eighteen years. And yet he still had no son to succeed him. How many more Queens would he have to go through to get one?