It's been far too long, I know. I can only apologise for the long delay, and hope that it has not been so long that people have grown tired of the story.

Chapter Twenty

16th July 1533

After over three years serving as lady governess to the Prince of Wales, Lady Bryan was well accustomed to her duty and governed the household at Hatfield with calm authority. She had taken the addition of the infant Duke of York to her charge in her stride and continued to run the household efficiently, with the assistance of Sir John Shelton. She devoted herself to the care of her little charges, ensuring that the nursery was always orderly and spotless, that the princes' meals were wholesome and tasted for poison, and that everything needed for their health and comfort was provided for them. It also fell to her to give the Prince of Wales his elementary lessons, and he was progressing rapidly under her tutelage. He could already recognize the letters and numbers on his hornbook, and could repeat the prayers he was taught without a mistake.

While some of the members of the household were flustered when the royal standard was spotted in the distance, making haste to ensure that all was as it should be so that the King could find no possible fault with the running of his sons' household, Lady Bryan remained calm and dignified. She gave orders that the princes be dressed in some of their finest clothes and brought to the presence chamber to receive their guest, and that the cooks be notified that there might be important guests dining with the household and that they should plan the dishes to be served at dinner accordingly. She paused before a mirror only long enough to smooth a stray hair beneath her austere black hood, and then she was ready.

She held Prince Arthur by the hand, flanked by Sir John on one side and a nurse who cradled the little Duke of York in her arms on the other, with the highest ranking members of the household assembled behind them.

"His Majesty the King!"

No sooner was the announcement made than the King strode into the room, several of his gentlemen following. As one, the household bowed low or sank into billowing curtsies.

A year ago, Prince Arthur would have run to his father, eager to be swept up in his strong arms, and swung in the air but at three years old, he was already well-trained in etiquette. His bow was not as deep as those of the gentlemen of his household but it was as graceful as could possibly be expected from one of his tender years.

"We are honoured by Your Majesty's visit," he said in his high, clear voice, a solemn expression on his little face as he greeted his guest.

"Your Highness' gracious hospitality is greatly appreciated." The King inclined his head regally, replying to his little son with equal solemnity. After a moment, a broad smile cut through his mask. He knelt, opening his arms to Arthur, who needed no further promoting to run into his embrace, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek. When he rose, he lifted Arthur with him, settling the little boy comfortably in his arms. "How are you, my son? Have you been a good boy for Lady Bryan?"

"Yes, sir," Arthur answered. "Very, very good."

Lady Bryan dipped another curtsey when the King's gaze fell on her. "His Highness does you and the Princess Consort great credit, Your Majesty. He is a worthy and gracious Prince in every way."

The King beamed at her words. "I would expect no less." He had waited a long time for his son but Arthur was well worth the wait. He was healthy in body and quick of mind, and would be a handsome man once he was grown. One day, he would be as great a ruler as the King Arthur of legend, one who would continue the Tudor legacy and make England a force to be reckoned with. Every time he laid eyes on his son, he knew that God had surely guided him to Anne, knowing that their love would bring forth a son that no father could fail to be proud of.

A squealed greeting let it be known that the infant Duke of York believed that he had been ignored quite long enough, and did not intend to tolerate it any longer. He wriggled in his nurse's arms, stretching out plump arms towards his father, determined to claim his share of the attention.

Shifting his grip on Arthur so that he was holding the boy securely in one arm, Henry reached out with his free arm to relieve the nurse of her squirming burden before he tried to dive out of her arms. Once in his father's arms, his younger son stilled his wriggling, gurgling at his father and giving him a wide smile, revealing his small collection of teeth, to which another had been added since the last visit. With a boy in each arm, he made his way over to the chair nearest to the fire, sitting down and perching one son on each knee.

"Hello, Edmund." The baby on his knee bounced a little in response, recognising his own name.

"Papapapapa!" Edmund chanted, kicking his short, fat legs and reaching out to grasp the heavy gold chain around Henry's neck. His first word, spoken during one of his father's visits a couple of months ago, had so delighted those who heard it, Henry in particular, that he repeated it often to impress them. It was just as effective today, earning a wide, proud smile from his father.

"What a clever boy you are! As clever as your brother," Henry enthused, wrapping both of his arms around his sons.

Arthur was tall for his age, growing so quickly that he was losing his infant chubbiness. His blond hair and blue eyes were no darker now than they were during his infancy. There was a hint of Anne in his features, and he had Henry's chin but, as he grew older, he began to favour his uncle and namesake more and more. Thankfully, he was sturdier than the first Prince Arthur, scarcely ailing a day in his life and delighting in outdoor play, his riding lessons in particular. Though he would not be breeched until his sixth birthday, he was no longer a baby but every inch a young Prince.

Edmund was as chubby as a cherub, with rosy, dimpled cheeks. His skin was as fair as Arthur's but his eyes were a darker blue, almost as dark as the midnight sky, always watching the people and activities around him with an intent gaze. Unruly copper curls escaped from beneath his white cap. He was bigger than Arthur was at that age, his long limbs hinting that, once he was a man grown, he might be as tall a man as his great-grandfather, King Edward the Fourth. When Edmund was born, Henry had appointed the proper age for him to be weaned but, if his size and the rate at which his teeth were coming in were any indication, he had overestimated how long Edmund would need his wet nurse.

Henry took in every change in his sons, knowing that Anne would want a full report from him the moment he returned. She had entered her eighth month of carrying their third child and had therefore been unable to make the journey to Hatfield for the past half year, since Edmund was sent to join his brother in the nursery. She suffered badly from sickness in the early months, leaving her far too queasy to travel in the early months and, as her pregnancy progressed, she could not undertake the journey for fear of harming the child she carried. As much as he hated to deny her anything, Henry had had to refuse her request to bring the boys to court so that she might see them. As the weather grew warmer, sickness could spread rapidly among the courtiers and their sons were far too precious to risk.

He had sent Master Holbein to Hatfield a few weeks previously, with orders to sketch the princes for a portrait that he intended to gift to Anne in celebration of the birth of their third son. At least then she would have a glimpse at their boys during the months that she could not see them and, even when they were grown, she would always have an image of them during their early childhood to cherish.

"Edmund can walk now, sir," Arthur announced, reaching out to pat his brother. "I showed him."'

Henry glanced up at Lady Bryan for confirmation and she nodded, dipping a curtsey.

"Prince Edmund took his first steps three days past, Your Majesty," she reported. Her proud smile made it plain that she was just as pleased as he was by how advanced her younger charge was to have begun to walk at just nine months old. He was walking even earlier than Arthur had.

"He fell but he didn't cry, not even a little bit, and I helped him stand up again."

"Edmund is very fortunate to have such a loving older brother," Henry told Arthur.

He had never enjoyed a particularly close relationship with his older brother. Arthur was almost five years his senior, too old to be much of a playmate when they were in the nursery and, if Henry was to be honest with himself, he had to admit that, as a child, he was often jealous of the fact that the lion's share of the attention was so often devoted to Arthur. As heir to the throne, Arthur was given the best of everything while Henry, as a mere second son, had to make do with second best, and even that had to be shared with his sisters too often for his tastes. When told of his brother's death, his grief was mingled with joy at the thought that that he was to exchange the dull future in the Church that his father and grandmother had decreed for him for a glorious destiny as King of England. He was sure that God had taken Arthur into His keeping because He knew that, of the two of them, Henry was the one best suited to the task of government. He was even pleased to think that he was to have Arthur's wife as well as the kingdom that he was to have ruled, confident that he would prove to be a better husband to her than his poor brother could have hoped to be.

Perhaps, if he and his brother had shared a closer bond, Arthur would have told him of the consummation of his marriage, thereby preventing Katherine from taking advantage of the ignorance of worldly matters forced on him by his father's stifling protection, duping him into believing that she was still a virgin and entrapping him in the sinful union from which he was unable to escape.

His sons would grow up as close companions, loving one another as brothers ought to.

He would make sure that Edmund was never given cause for jealousy. He would never be given any reason to doubt that he was just as precious and beloved as his older brother, never be regarded as a mere afterthought where his household and education were concerned. Arthur would grow up loving his little brother and, when they were men, he would repay Edmund's loyalty and love and treat him with the honour he was due, as first among the lords of England.

"Will you stay to eat dinner with us? Please, Papa?" Arthur wheedled, forgetting Lady Bryan's instructions about the formality with which the King should be addressed. Although it was always wonderful to see his father, too many of his visits were far too short for his liking.

Henry hesitated before answering, wishing that he could answer in the affirmative. In truth, he had not intended to stay long, finding time for the visit largely so that he might update Anne on the boys' progress. Since Wolsey's death the previous year, he was busier than ever, and much more appreciative of the work his friend did and the burden he had borne, uncomplainingly. He had been able to snatch an afternoon away from his duties today, and used it to visit his sons but he could not stay long. Even if he said that he would be happy to share whatever fare was planned for the household, the cooks were sure to invest extra time and effort to be able to present their King with a variety of rich dishes, then by the time the meal was concluded, it would be late afternoon.

"Not this time, my son," he said gently. "Forgive me but I cannot stay long. There are things that I must attend to this evening." He chucked Arthur under the chin when his son lowered his head, not wanting to let anybody see his disappointment. "I have a little while longer before I must leave. Perhaps you would be so kind as to favour us with a demonstration of your riding skills."

It did not surprise him in the least when Arthur sprang down from his lap, tugging at his hand with scant regard for ceremony. "I'm a very good rider now!" he announced, waiting until his father stood, cradling Edmund with one arm, before he began to run outside.

Smiling indulgently and indicating to Lady Bryan that she need not follow them, Henry followed Arthur outside, listening to his son's imperious demands that his pony be saddled for him.

If he had to be a little late in returning to the palace, so be it.

Moments like this with his sons were to be cherished.

Queen Katherine was the kindest and gentlest of ladies.

Mistress Jane Seymour had formed that opinion within days of entering the Queen's service as a lady-in-waiting and, after a year in her household, she had not been given cause to alter her view.

She was aware that one or two of the ladies regretted that they were not allowed to share in the pastimes enjoyed by the ladies of the Princess Consort's household. It was known that Lady Anne provided music and dance masters to instruct her attendants, and they often performed in masques to entertain the court. While the Queen often had musicians play to her ladies while they sewed, and while they might amuse themselves with card games and the like when they were not attending their mistress, they were excluded from the masques as none of them would dream of hurting the Queen by accepting an invitation to appear in a masque staged by the Princess Consort. Any lady of the Queen's household who was willing to betray her mistress thus would be shunned by those loyal to her, and rightly so.

The young gentlemen of the court rarely, if ever, set foot in the Queen's apartments to pay their respects to her, preferring to join the King in his visits to his second wife and taking full advantage of the opportunity to pay court to the ladies who attended her.

It was for this reason that her brother Edward was disappointed to learn that she had been offered a place in the Queen's service rather than that of the Princess Consort. He told her quite plainly that it was to be hoped that her time in royal service would give her the chance to make an advantageous marriage and, as the Queen was out of favour, it was unlikely that an eligible young gentleman of the court would waste his time in attending her, or that he would look to the ladies of her household when the time came for him to take a wife. It would be the Princess Consort's ladies who would have the first chance at the best matches on offer.

Edward deemed this a great blow for Jane's future and had suggested that they make suit to the Earl of Wiltshire to see if he could intervene to ensure that Jane would be offered a place in his daughter's household. However, she was certain that her father must have been relieved, and that he would far rather that he needed to supply her with a more generous dowry in order to secure her a good match than that his eldest daughter should have to attend a woman who owed her present royal status to her willingness to seduce a married man and force a good and godly wife and mother to endure the humiliation of being forced to share her husband with another.

Even the Princess Mary was not immune from the malice of the Princess Consort who, jealous of the King's love for his dear daughter, had coaxed him into banishing the poor girl from court, though nobody at court would dare to allude to this, for fear of offending her or angering the King.

For her part, Jane was far happier to be in the Queen's service.

She had no skill for music or singing, and the elaborate courtly dances made her feel clumsy and awkward. There had been no music or dance masters to instruct the Seymour girls, whose education had focused on preparing them for their future roles as mistresses of their husbands' households rather than for a life of frivolity at court, leaving them better able to manage servants and to oversee a still room than to perform for the amusement of others. She was, however, a skilled needlewoman, equally adept at sewing plain garments for the poor as she was at embroidering in fine silks. She could make herself useful to the Queen, and give her every reason to be pleased that she had offered Jane a place among her ladies.

As she and the Queen's other ladies sat with their mistress around a huge frame on which a partially completed altar cloth was stretched, each of them assigned her own part of a larger whole to complete, Jane occasionally lifted her eyes from her stitching to look at her mistress.

Her mother had served in the Queen's household when she was a young woman, newly wed to the King. When Jane was a child, her mother told her stories of the lovely Princess of Spain, who was brought to England to be the wife of one prince but who was widowed before five months had passed, and kept in England on the strength of a promise that she would be wife to the new heir to the throne, a promise that the old King Henry seemed very reluctant to keep, even after his younger son reached marriageable age. For a time, it seemed as though Princess Katherine might never marry again or, if she did, it would not be until after the Prince was married to another princess and she, rejected, was left with no choice but to return to Spain and hope that her father could make a new match for her. One might have expected her to look careworn and old before her time as a result of the penury and hardship she had endured during her years of widowhood but she was as beautiful as she had been the day she married Prince Arthur, and radiant with joy.

Nobody could doubt that the King was as charmed with his bride as the people of England were.

Nobody could doubt that he was delighted to finally be able to fulfil his promise to wed her.

No matter what others might pretend, especially in these days, it had been a marriage of love.

Now, the loss of so many of her babies and her grief over the King's desertion had etched deep lines in her face and streaked her hair with grey. Her eyes were sorrowful and her expression was almost always sombre, with only an occasional smile to light up her face and remind those around her of the beautiful princess she once was. She dressed soberly and modestly, though the fabrics were always rich, as befitted her status as Queen. She usually wore only a few pieces of jewellery but the pieces she wore were finely wrought and suited her well. She often went out among the common people, dispensing charity, but only occasionally joined the court for revels.

The King rarely dined with her in public, and they never shared a meal in private, as Jane's mother had told her was once their custom all those years ago, when they took advantage of the time alone to discuss matters of state, the King always heeding his Queen's sage counsel.

It would undoubtedly have cheered her to have the Princess Mary with her but her daughter had not come to court for over a year. She was not even invited to share in the Christmas revels, a snub that had scandalised the ladies of the Queen's household and, Jane was certain, the common people who had been allowed to watch the court festivities. Nor was the Queen allowed to pay a visit to Princess Mary, the King refusing permission even when she pleaded with him to be allowed to spend a few days in their daughter's company.

Jane pitied the Queen but knew that she could never tell her so. The Queen never allowed her ladies to see her weep. She would not have thanked her for any words of pity she might utter, and would have been quick to reprimand anybody who spoke a word against the Princess Consort in her hearing. She was a great and courageous lady, one that Jane was proud to serve.

The ladies worked in silence until one of the grooms of the Queen's chamber entered her Privy chamber, bowing low before her.

"Your Majesty, Ambassador Chapuys begs leave to attend you."

Katherine looked up from her embroidery. She did not smile but her expression lightened as she nodded acknowledgement of the groom's words. "Send him in," she commanded. With a gesture, she indicated that her ladies should retire to the next room, allowing her and Chapuys privacy. They rose from their chairs, almost in unison, making low curtseys before they withdrew. Once they were gone, she stood, extending her hand to the approaching Chapuys.

"Your Majesty." Chapuys bowed low over her hand, brushing it with his lips.

"Welcome, my friend." Outside of her ladies, there were few at court that Katherine could truly trust to stand her friends but she did not doubt that Chapuys wished her well, or that he would not do anything in his power to assist her. She knew that he wrote to the Emperor on her behalf, that he was appalled by Henry's increased coldness and harshness towards her this past year and more, and that he was indignant over Henry's continuing refusal to allow Mary to come to court. "Please," she gestured towards one of the other chairs by the fire. "Join me."

"I am to petition the King for permission to pay a visit to Princess Mary," he told her as soon as he was seated. "The Emperor is most concerned for the welfare of his dear cousin … and he is eager to ensure that the King does not forget this."

"I would be grateful for any news that you can bring me of my daughter, if it should please His Majesty to grant you permission to visit her household," Katherine said steadily, deeming it best not to acknowledge Chapuys' words about the Emperor's concern for Mary.

As grateful as she was for her nephew's kindness, for his support and help when Henry first sought to set her aside, and for his continuing efforts to defend her interests and those of her daughter, she was all too aware that it might prove to be a double-edged sword.

On one hand, reminding Henry of Mary's blood ties to the most powerful ruler in Christendom might help him see how wrong he was to exile their daughter from court, and how it must look to the outside world to see a division within the royal family of England. Mary was no longer a child who needed to be kept mostly to a country palace for the sake of her health, she was of an age to take her rightful place in court as befitted a Princess of England. It was also long past time for a husband to be found for her, and she could imagine that other rulers must think it very strange that the King of England should not take advantage of a marriageable daughter to bind an ally to him. On the other hand, if Henry felt that he was being rebuked for his treatment of Mary, he could take umbrage at the thought that anybody, even the Holy Roman Emperor, should presume to criticise his treatment of her. He was too proud a man to take a rebuke with good grace, no matter who it came from and, if he became angry, it would do Mary's cause no good.

"There is another matter," Chapuys continued. "The Duke of Orleans is betrothed to the Medici girl. I understand that the wedding is to take place in the autumn."

"I believe so." As little as she had liked the idea of her beloved daughter marrying into the Valois family, Katherine was still unhappy to learn of the boy's betrothal.

King Francis was once very eager to see Mary marry one of his sons, offering her the Dauphin when she looked set to be heir to the throne and then later proposing that she be married to the Duke of Orleans when her future on the throne was less certain. However, years of Henry delaying the marriage, repeatedly revisiting negotiations for Mary's dowry and jointure and, worse still, refusing to commit to recognising her status as his legitimate daughter and a Princess of England, had led him to give up on the match as one that would never be realised. Instead, he had pledged his son to Catherine de Medici, the Holy Father's niece, the huge dowry promised with the girl serving as adequate compensation for her lack of royal blood.

"The Emperor has charged me with the grave responsibility of negotiating, with His Majesty the King, a suitable marriage for Princess Mary."

"Who does my nephew propose?"

Once, she had cherished the dream that Mary might marry Charles, a union that would have protected her from any attempt that might have been made to deny her her rightful inheritance, and that would have forever sealed the bond between the country of Katherine's birth and the country that had become her home. With hindsight, she could see that the betrothal was one that was destined to be broken; Mary was just a little girl at the time, while Charles was a grown man who could not afford to delay marriage and the fathering of heirs while he waited for his young future bride to grow up. She bore no ill will towards him for jilting her daughter, feeling certain that he would not have broken his word had he not been obliged to do so by the urgent need for an heir. At the same time, however, she could not help but wonder if Henry would have gone through with his plan to take Anne as his second wife had the betrothal not been broken. Surely the prospect of their grandson ruling over England and the vast territories Charles had inherited from both sides of his family would have reconciled him to the idea of having no son to whom he could leave his throne.

"His Highness Don Luis, heir to the throne of Portugal and the brother of the Emperor's wife, Isabella."

"A splendid offer indeed," Katherine said, a slight smile brightening her face.

"A match worthy of Princess Mary," Chapuys assured her. "Don Luis is close in age to the princess, only twenty, and is, in truth, one of the handsomest princes in Christendom." While it was often the case that ladies of royal birth found themselves wed to men who were ill-favoured, many years their senior, or both, Chapuys had had the honour of meeting Don Luis, when he attended the wedding of his sister to the Emperor, and could truthfully call him a handsome man. Princess Mary was a pretty child, and reportedly growing into a lovely young woman, so Don Luis was certain to be pleased with her. "He is in every way a paragon. A man of great integrity and virtue. A man who has fought military campaigns and won. A man with a profound knowledge of the world."

"You need not extol Don Luis' virtues for my benefit," Katherine cut in gently. It was enough for her that the Emperor considered the match a good one for Mary. She trusted that he would do his best for her, and was grateful that he was willing to take such an interest, given that Henry was showing himself so unwilling to secure their daughter's future. "It is His Majesty who will decide who our daughter is to marry, and it is he whom you must convince of the worthiness of a suitor."

"Of course, Your Majesty. But will Your Majesty speak in favour of the match?"

"It is my sincere and dear hope that the King will consent to a match between Princess Mary and Don Luis. That will not happen if he believes that I wish for it." The admission pained Katherine but she did not allow herself to shed a tear as she spoke, both out of concern for her dignity and because there was a small part of her that feared that, were she to begin to weep, she might never be able to stop. There was once a time when Henry looked to her for advice before all others, even Cardinal Wolsey, when he insisted that she should always be kept aware of matters of state and when she could speak her mind freely, knowing that her husband respected her counsel. Even Anne was not as trusted as she once was. That her marriage, which had begun with such love and such promise for future happiness, should have come to this was painful beyond belief.

Chapuys would have liked to be able to offer her some consolation but he had too much respect for the lady before him to offer her false platitudes. "I will do all I can to encourage the King to accept this betrothal," he vowed. "Princess Mary deserves no less than to be a Queen one day."

The Duke of York was in an ill temper and he was not shy about expressing it.

As one of the lowest-ranking servants in the nursery, Meg Hartnett, who had been given the job of one of the royal infant's rockers when he was no more than a few weeks old, was left to take charge of Prince Edmund while the rest of the nursemaids and rockers had their dinner. Her own meal would have to wait until one of the others returned to relieve her of her duties. Lady Bryan would never tolerate it if one of the royal children was left alone, even for a moment.

Nothing she did could quiet the little Prince. No lullaby or soft words could soothe him, no face she pulled or silly voice she adopted could distract him. When she tried to set him in his cradle and rock him, in the hope that the gentle motion would lull him to sleep for a little while, he just wailed even more loudly, his piercing cries diminishing only a little in volume when she picked him up.

He knew what he wanted and he meant to have it, if he had to shout the palace down to get it.

Meg cradled him close, pacing the floors with him, praying that Mistress Irwin would be back soon, before the meal was over and Lady Bryan visited the nursery to check that all was well with her younger charge. Everybody who tended to the young princes, from the gently-born maids in waiting to the menial servants, had a healthy fear of Lady Bryan, who was not so ladylike that she would not deal a stinging slap if she was angry over some carelessness or failure on their part. If she walked into the nursery and saw that Mistress Irwin was missing, a slap would be the least of any of their worries. She would send them both packing without a moment's pause; Mistress Irwin for absenting herself without first obtaining Lady Bryan's leave, and Meg for failing to report her absence as soon as she noticed that she was not there.

"Hush now, she'll be back soon," she pleaded, pacing back and forth and praying that Mistress Irwin would not make a liar of her. Her reassurances did nothing to soothe the infant in her arms. If anything, his wails increased in volume until Meg feared that he would bring half the household running up from the dining hall to find out what was ailing him.

She had never been as glad to hear the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor as she was at that moment and, when Mistress Irwin half-ran into the room, hastily unfastening her thick wool cloak, Meg's relief at her return before Lady Bryan's evening inspection made it difficult for her to keep a smile from her face so that she might greet the other woman with the scowl she deserved.

"His Highness has been crying for an age! Where have you been?" she demanded, gratefully relinquishing her charge into Mistress Irwin's arms. Under other circumstances, she would not have dared to speak so to one who enjoyed a senior position in the household, knowing that a complaint from Mistress Irwin could see her dismissed without anybody troubling to ask her her side of the matter but, this time, she could not hold her tongue.

"Are you hungry, little prince?" Mistress Irwin crooned at the infant, whose cries died down to soft whines of discontent now that he was confident that he would soon have what he wanted.

After taking a seat on a cushioned chair by the fire and settling him into a more comfortable position in the crook of one arm, she used her free hand to unlace her gown, baring her breast. Prince Edmund latched on eagerly, his eyes half-closing and his chubby legs kicking gently as he suckled. Once at the breast, he was as serene as an angel, as if he had not been squalling loudly enough to awaken the dead just moments before.

"The King paid a visit to the princes this afternoon." Mistress Irwin's face, which had been flushed pink when she returned to the nursery, paled at this announcement. Meg said nothing more for a few moments, allowing her to imagine the worst. On many of his previous visits, the King singled his younger son's wet nurse out for special attention, quizzing her about Prince Edmund's feeding habits and even about her own diet, to ensure that the little Duke of York was well nourished. She had his express permission to order whatever she wished from the kitchen, at any hour of the day or night. On his most recent visit, he had even gifted her with a small purse of money to thank her for her diligent care of his little son. Had he asked to see her, only to discover that she had absented herself without permission, his anger would have been terrible. "He didn't ask for you," she said at last, putting the other woman out of her misery. "You were very lucky that it was only a quick visit. Imagine if he had asked for you and you weren't there!"

"But he didn't," Mistress Irwin said, too calmly for Meg's liking.

"I was afraid that Lady Bryan would come back while you were gone. His Highness cried so loudly, she would have thought that he was being killed. We'd both have been dismissed! Where were you? Why did you go out without asking leave from Lady Bryan?"

"Well, I'm back now, and she's none the wiser, is she?" Mistress Irwin countered, avoiding Meg's question about where she was or why she had left.

Meg flung up her hands in a gesture of disgust. "I'll not be as quick to shield you next time," she warned in a grim tone.

When even that failed to impress upon Mistress Irwin the seriousness of what she had done, or the gratitude she should feel towards Meg, who had forgone the prospect of a place in Lady Bryan's good books for making her aware of the illicit absence in order to shield her, Meg gave up on her. She stalked out of the room in disgust and hurried down to the dining hall for her dinner, hoping that she was not too late to make a good meal of it. It was all very well for Mistress Irwin, who had the privilege of dining alone. By order of the King, she was sent a huge platter of food for every meal, with cuts of meat as fine as those served to Lady Bryan, loaves of soft manchet bread, and all the small beer she could want. Meg would have to shift for herself, and hope that the others had left her more than the scrag end of a joint and the heels of the loaves of bread.

Once she was gone, Mistress Irwin turned her attention back to the infant in her arms. He sucked strongly, his teeth gently scraping against her skin.

It would not be much longer before he outgrew his need of her.

Although she had grown fond of Prince Edmund during her time in his service, she would not be sorry to return to her old life. The wages she received were generous, to be sure; she earned far more as wet nurse than her husband did as a farm labourer, even without additional gifts of money from the King or Princess Consort, but the rules that governed the royal nursery were strict, and she could not visit her husband or their children except by special permission from Lady Bryan, permission that was granted far too infrequently for Mistress Irwin's liking.

If Lady Bryan knew that her eldest had slipped into the palace to see her, she would be livid, never mind if she knew that she had left herself, but what choice had she had? Her children were too young to shoulder the work of the house and farm while their father's leg healed, so she had had no alternative but to go home to make arrangements, paying their neighbours for their aid.

Perhaps she really did owe young Meg Hartnett her thanks, she mused, resolving to express her gratitude to the girl for keeping her absence a secret as soon as they had a chance to speak alone. It was as well to make friends of her fellow servants rather than earning their enmity.

By the time he was sated, Prince Edmund was limp in her arms and all but asleep.

Taking great care not to wake him, Mistress Irwin rose to her feet, carrying him the short distance to his cradle and gently setting him down. He yawned widely, his eyelids fluttering briefly before closing, his breathing soft and even. She smoothed a rumpled curl from his forehead before drawing the blue silk coverlet, embroidered in gold thread by the Princess Consort, over him.

"Goodnight, sweet prince," she whispered, before stealing out of the nursery.

Henry could hear music as he walked the length of the gallery that connected his apartment to Anne's. As he drew near, the two grooms stationed outside the door to Anne's Privy chamber bowed low, one of them moving to open the door for him. Holding a finger to his lips to signal that they should be silent rather than announcing his arrival with the usual ceremony, Henry slipped into the room, taking a few moments to survey the scene before him.

Four of the ladies of Anne's household were seated around a table, engrossed in a game of cards, while the others were scattered about the opulent chamber, sitting on cushioned chairs by the fire or on chaises by the window, occupying themselves with books or needlework until such a time as their mistress might call upon their service.

Anne sat at her virginal, her fingers moving gracefully across the keys as she played a soft melody, one Henry recognised as one of her own compositions.

He would have been content to watch and listen in silence until she finished playing before he made his presence known but she stopped abruptly, a soft cry escaping her lips as her hand moved to cradle the swell of her belly.

"Anne! Sweetheart, what is it?" he demanded of her, moving swiftly to her side and crouching in front of her. "Is it the baby? Should I send for Doctor Linacre?"

Her ladies rose to their feet in haste, bobbing quick curtseys and hovering anxiously, unsure what they ought to do. Henry was ready to order one of them to fetch his physician, and feeling rather irritated that none of them had had the sense to fetch help without waiting for an order before they did what needed to be done, when Anne shook her head, giving him a reassuring smile.

"I'm very well, my lord, and so is the baby." She reached out, taking her hand in his and guiding it to lie flat against the curve of her belly, holding it in place with one hand and using her free hand to play a few notes on the virginals. Henry could feel quick, gentle movement beneath the silk of her gown as the baby kicked, as if in time to the music. "She is dancing."

A broad smile spread across Henry's face as the movements stilled when Anne stopped playing, only to resume when she began to play again. Keeping his hand on Anne's belly, he reached out to play the opening notes of one of his own songs, and was rewarded by a series of strong kicks.

"Our son dances to his father's music as well as his mother's!" he declared gleefully.

Reassured that there was nothing to worry about, Anne's ladies resumed their activities, though some of them watched the royal couple out of the corners of their eyes or over the top of their books, charmed by their closeness and by their obvious joy over their coming child.

"We must find him the best musician in England to tutor him," Henry suggested, only half in jest. His music brought him great joy and he liked the idea of sharing that joy with one of his children. He refused to allow himself to think of Mary, or to regret that it had been so long since his eldest child had played the virginals or danced for him. "He already has an ear for music."

"Or she does."

"Or she does," he agreed, making sure to smile as he spoke the words. He remembered her fear of disappointing him when she was carrying Arthur, and did not want her to give her any reason to worry herself over the child's sex.

"You won't be unhappy if it's a girl, will you?"

"Of course not, sweetheart. A princess would be a blessing, and a very welcome one."

He was somewhat surprised to find that he was speaking the truth.

He badly wanted to be able to welcome a third son into the world, a little prince who would be ennobled with the title of Duke of Somerset, and who, along with his brothers, would serve as living proof that his parents' marriage was blessed by God, no matter how unorthodox their union might be. He had not yet decided on a name for him, favouring Henry or Edward but not dismissing the possibility of naming him Thomas or George for Anne's kin, but he could already imagine his three boys playing together at Hatfield. Perhaps his third son would be dark-haired, like him and Anne, a contrast with Arthur's blond hair and Edmund's copper curls, but there was no doubt in his mind that he would be just as handsome as his brothers. Unlike the his grandfather and his brothers, the sons of York, the three sons of the House of Tudor would be inseparable, united by the strongest bonds of loyalty against all those who stood against them.

However, if Anne bore him a daughter, he would welcome her, speaking no word of reproach to his wife and welcoming their princess as warmly and as enthusiastically as he had her brothers.

A little daughter with her mother's beauty would be a welcome addition to his family. Her presence at Hatfield would give her brothers a tiny lady to protect and cherish, allowing them to learn chivalry from the sweetest and most precious of teachers. In time, he would make a splendid match for her, securing a powerful and valuable ally for Arthur, and perhaps even making her a Queen one day.

God had already blessed them with a Prince of Wales and a Duke of York.

If He saw fit to send them a Princess this time... a true Princess of England, not a bastard in all but name... Henry would trust that He had His reasons for doing so.

TBC.

How do you all like the baby Duke of York?