June 1519

"Mistress Blount has given birth to a healthy girl."

Henry froze. A girl. A girl. Bessie had given birth to – given him – a girl.

He hadn't planned for that. Why would have he done? He'd been so convinced that his sons' failures to thrive lay within Katherine's womb, that with any other woman he'd be bound to have a son. And it had seemed as though God was proving him right, when Bessie had confided her pregnancy to him just weeks after Katherine had been brought to bed of a stillborn girl. A stillborn girl that was looking likely to be her last. He'd been convinced that God was telling him he was right. But now? Now everything he'd built his life upon for the past seven months had been shaken to its core.

"Sire?" Wolsey leaned forward slightly, plump brows creasing in agitation, "Sire?"

Henry shook himself slightly, mind whirring as he stared absently out of the nearest window. All he could think was one thing. Bessie wasn't married. Bessie wasn't married. Which meant, even if he hadn't been so blatant in his favour of her recently, the child could be no one's but his. He didn't even have the option of sheltering his parentage behind an amenable husband's name.

In that instant, Henry knew he'd never be so foolish as to dally with an unmarried woman again. He'd never risk exposing himself to this kind of embarrassment again.

"Sire?" Wolsey pressed, astonished at the King's lack of reaction. True, the fact that Mistress Blount's child was a girl and not a boy was a disappointment, but surely, given the Queen's lamentable record in childbed, any live child was a cause for celebration.

"Mistress Blount is asking what she should name the child, if Your Majesty has any particular desire one way or the other?"

Henry paused as Wolsey's words penetrated the fog that seemed to be surrounding him. He thought for a moment, and his lips curved into a bitter smile. Why not? There was a certain grim humour to be found in giving the girl that name. His Lady Grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew.

"Margaret," he said at last, "Tell Mistress Blount it would please me greatly if she named the child Margaret, after the late Countess of Richmond."

Wolsey nodded, "Of course, Sire. As you wish. And…if I might be so bold…the child's…"

"Blount, like her mother," Henry cut Wolsey off before he could finish his question, "Simply Blount. There's no need to make her life even harder by making her a FitzBlount."

Wolsey nodded, making a quick note. He hesitated. "Then… Your Majesty does not wish…"

"What use is another girl to me?" Henry said bluntly, "I was certain Bessie's child would be a boy. Certain of it, Thomas."

And then, he was gone. All of a sudden, he was gone, spinning on his heel, almost visibly pushing himself away from Wolsey, from the entire situation.

Wolsey exhaled, watching the King's retreating back. Well. That was clearly that.

August 1519

Bessie didn't want to admit that her hold on the King was slipping, but she knew it was. Indeed, if she was honest with herself, it had slipped irretrievably the moment she'd given birth to a daughter, rather than a son. Henry had been desperate to prove that the fault in the royal nursery lay with the Queen and not with him. She'd been supposed to help him do that. But she hadn't.

She hadn't, and the King hadn't visited her since. Oh, he'd looked in briefly a day or two after Margaret was born. He'd glanced in the cradle, pronounced the child a bonny lass, and wished her a speedy recovery, but that was all. He'd been gone the moment Margaret started mewling to be fed, as though he didn't want to be reminded of the child's presence at all.

She was to be churched next week, and despite herself, Bessie was dreading the return to Court. How could she face the Queen, after all this? How could she face her detractors, knowing they would be exulting in her failure?

Bessie was pulled from her musings by the grand entrance of the Cardinal. He swept into her bedchamber, an avuncular smile plastered across his jowly face.

"Ah, Mistress Blount," he beamed, "How are you today? And little Mistress Margaret?"

"I am well, thank you, Your Eminence. And the child is lively. Thriving on her wet nurse's milk, thankfully."

"It pleases me to hear it," The Cardinal nodded, "Now. I have come with news. No doubt you're beginning to wonder what will become of you and the child once you are churched."

Bessie's mouth went dry. Her mind went blank. All she could think was that it could not be good news. Otherwise the King would have come to tell her himself, surely?

It was all she could do to nod.

"I am, Your Eminence," she croaked.

"The King has graciously arranged for you to be married. To Sir Gilbert Tailboys."

Bessie's jaw dropped. She was to be married? But… But, surely her history, her newly-born daughter, precluded that as a possibility. Who would want to marry her now, with her virtue so besmirched?

It was only about a minute later that she realised the Cardinal was still speaking, explaining how everything was going to work, now she was no longer to be the King's favourite.

"You'll marry before the Court return from progress next month. I believe the King has agreed to make Sir Gilbert a Baron, effective from the wedding day. Baron Tailboys of Kyme."

In an instant, Bessie knew. The barony was to be her dowry, her new husband's prize for agreeing to take on the King's fallen favourite.

She felt sick. This wasn't how she'd imagined her wedding would be; a rushed, clandestine affair to save face, one where, rather than being a blushing bride, she was little more than chattel, traded for a title. And then it occurred to her. The Cardinal hadn't said a word about Margaret.

"And my daughter, Your Eminence?" Bessie couldn't help but glance towards the cradle in the corner, which stood empty, her daughter having woken shortly before, demanding a feed and a change.

The Cardinal blinked. "Mistress Blount. Do you really think the King would be so heartless as to take a child away from its mother, especially at such a tender age? Have no fear, Mistress Margaret will be joining you at Kyme, at least for the foreseeable future."

The Cardinal's voice was pleasant enough, but there was a note of finality in it that was clearly not to be gainsaid. Bessie knew there was nothing to be gained by balking, especially given how distant the King had been recently.

She bowed her head meekly, "As you say, Your Eminence."

The Cardinal looked down at her bent head for a moment, and shook his own.

"How did a silly girl like you end up a Baroness?" he murmured, before sketching the sign of the cross over her and sweeping out again, leaving Bessie to her whirling thoughts.

October 1519

Henry glanced around at the energetic courtiers surrounding him, laughing as they dismounted from their horses, ready to dine out of doors in the bright autumn sunshine. They'd had a good run that morning, chasing down two impressive stags and a boar and it showed in the company's buoyant mood.

He paused. That was new. William Carey, newly returned from a diplomatic mission to France, was helping a slender blonde down off her horse as the ladies arrived. Nothing odd in the action itself, but his arm rested around her waist with a degree of possessiveness that spoke of more than just affection. As did the ring that glinted on the young woman's hand as she chuckled and pulled off her riding gloves to tuck her arm through his.

"Will! Who's your sweetheart? Are you going to introduce us?" he called, shouldering his way through the crowd that fell back before him.

William turned, dropping into a bow as he saw who had spoken.

"Your Grace. This is no mere sweetheart. This is my wife, Lady Mary. Her father was my diplomatic partner at Fontainebleu this summer."

Henry thought for a moment, racking his brain to think of the older diplomat's name.

"Sir Thomas Boleyn!" he cried at last, snapping his fingers in triumph.

"Indeed, My Lord," William nodded, "Mary is Sir Thomas's eldest child. She and I met at Fontainebleu when she was in attendance on Queen Claude. We wed in Calais a few weeks ago."

"I see. And what do you make of being home, Lady Mary?"

Mary curtsied, "I am glad of it, my Lord. The years abroad were a fascinating experience, but I'd grown tired of serving a King, Queen and Court who were not my own. I'm glad to be home and to lay my fealty at the feet of the King I was born to serve."

"Very pretty," Henry chuckled, "Well, we shall have to find you a place in my wife's ladies, shall we not, Will?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Sire," Mary murmured as William nodded, tightening his hand on her arm briefly.

"That said, Sire, Mary has some wonderful stories of her time in France. Your Grace ought to hear them."

Henry had been about to turn and walk away, but that caught his attention. He considered the young woman a second time.

"Do you, indeed?" he asked, "Well then, perhaps the two of you ought to sit with me to dine. We can hear Lady Mary's stories and you can tell me how the plans are progressing for the summit next summer, Will."

"As Your Grace wishes," William bowed. He was about to help Mary up from her second curtsy, but Henry beat him to it.

"Allow me, Lady Mary. It would be a shame to spoil that pretty gown of yours by leaving you in the mud."

He winked at her and she offered him a shy smile before he released her hand.

"Come," he beckoned, offering her his arm and escorting her to a bench at his side, "Join us when you've helped the Queen, Will," he ordered.

And William had no choice but to do as he was told, even as the whispers started up behind him, the other courtiers wondering what it meant that the King had chosen to help seat the new Lady Carey as opposed to his own wife.