Author's Note: So, this is the "surprise" story. The idea may be a little cliche, but I'm still playing with the plot in my mind. Several famous (and infamous) Tudor ladies will take center stage in a few chapters. I wasn't sure how this chapter would turn out until I was finished, or even if it would become more than one chapter, but I'm pretty happy with it thus far. Please keep in mind that this is a fanfiction for the TV show, and thus not everything will be strictly based around historical dates and facts. I'll probably alter ages somewhat as the story continues. Please R&R and tell me what you think! =]

Rating: PG-13

Plot Summary: English history, as well as the history of Protestantism and the Catholic Church, takes a dramatic turn when Prince Henry, the firstborn of Henry VIII and Queen Katherine of Aragon, lives beyond his infancy.

Disclaimer: All of this belongs to Showtime. I'm making no money off of this.

New Year's Day, 1511
Whitehall Palace, London

King Henry the Eighth was the richest and most influential man in England. His father, who had literally lifted his crown out of the mud of a battlefield, had been miserly and left him a large fortune.

And through his brother, Arthur, Henry had inherited something else: the hand of a beautiful and intelligent woman in marriage. Princess Catalina of Aragon, the youngest Infanta of Spain and the favorite daughter of King Ferdinand, her marriage to the Prince of Wales had secured a powerful alliance. A fledgling dynasty could not hope to do better…and when Arthur had died of tuberculosis barely six months into their marriage, Catalina, now called Katherine, had been stranded in a foreign land whose language she hardly spoke.

But finally, after seven long years of waiting, everything had changed. Henry the Seventh had finally died, after inflicting the chance of marrying his younger son, of marrying himself, and of being shipped back to Spain upon his widowed daughter-in-law. None of the possibilities came to pass. Katherine's father refused to pay the missing half of her dowry, thus leaving her in destitution in England.

As soon as his father had died, Henry had seized the opportunity, going to his brother's pretty widow and asking her to be his bride. She had once been Arthur's wife, but she was witty and well-liked among the English people. He certainly liked her.

He had since the day she'd come into London as Princess Catalina. Henry, then Prince Harry, Duke of York, had escorted her happily to her wedding. Perhaps he'd even been a little envious of his elder brother. Not only would he become King someday, despite being weaker and less intelligent than Harry, he had the good fortune to marry an attractive, spirited girl as well. Harry would never have either, he supposed: his destiny and duty were to serve God in his Church.

Prince Harry had grown into an energetic seventeen-year-old. He had no qualms whatsoever about marrying Katherine, and, once the Pope sent his dispensation allowing the union, she had none either. The people of London celebrated the marriage raucously. God had replaced their conniving, bad-tempered King with a much handsomer, kinder one. And He had also blessed them with a devout and beautiful Queen.

None of them could be as overjoyed as Henry when Katherine informed him that she was pregnant with their first child almost immediately following their wedding. The whole court waited and held its breath, but in the beginning of 1510, Catherine delivered a stillborn girl. Henry felt only a little dismay. He comforted his wife, held jousts and masques to cheer her, and all the while paraded himself as "Sir Loyal Heart," proudly flaunting her favor as a sign of his unrelenting love. Blind to any other woman's charms, Henry continued to visit Katherine's bed, and by April she was with child again.

This time, Henry assured himself, nothing would go wrong. Plenty of women suffered stillbirths. Neither he nor Katherine was at fault. But tension ran high as Katherine approached her lying-in. Finally, as December approached, she and her ladies tucked themselves away in the Queen's chambers. Few men aside from the physicians and Henry himself were allowed to enter, but once Her Majesty went into labor, even his presence would be restricted. He spent many mornings on his knees in the royal chapel.

Please, Lord, Henry prayed, please grant me a son. Grant England a prince and a future King!

The Christmas celebrations were subdued without Queen Katherine to preside over them. Henry took it in stride, but even he seemed overly anxious. He danced only occasionally with his sister Margaret and chatted only half-heartedly with Charles Brandon.

Henry was at mass the morning of New Year's Day praying silently for a son and for Katherine's health. The priest's Latin drone washed over him, but he only heard a word here and there.

Oh Lord…

Footsteps pounded outside the chapel doors. His brows creased slightly and he wondered vaguely who could be running…

…bless us with a healthy boy…

Someone was attempting to beat down the door. Henry was startled out of his reverie, swiveling to face the chapel doors. They had been thrown open with a bang! Margaret glanced in his direction, looking scandalized. He ignored her, as he was often wont to do. Charles Brandon stood there, clutching a stitch in his side. He panted, his other hand holding onto the doorframe to support him. But no one could be blind to the look of wild joy in Brandon's eyes.

"Your Majesty! The Queen is delivered!" he gasped, grinning.

For a moment, Henry just stared at his friend. Had someone told him she was in labor? They must have done, but for the life of him, he couldn't actually remember that conversation. Or perhaps no one had bothered to seek him out. He hardly processed his anger, and instead crossed the chapel floor with several long strides, reaching out to clutch Brandon by the shoulders. He felt like shaking the news out of them.

"Well?" he demanded. "Well, Charles, what is it?!"

Brandon laughed breathlessly, "A boy, Your Majesty! Her Majesty is delivered of a healthy son!"

Henry laughed wildly himself and threw his arms around Brandon, practically strangling him. Brandon smacked him on the back heartily by way of congratulations. Finally, the King released him and started off down the corridor. He broke into a run halfway to his destination. He was already stricken speechless by this news, but by the time he arrived in the antechamber of his wife's bedchamber, he was breathing so hard and fast that he could not have uttered a word if he had tried. The ladies all curtsied, and Katherine's door was opened for him. He stepped in, feeling light-headed and weak-kneed, and there was his beautiful Queen, who looked quite tired but radiantly happy.

She held a big, pink-faced infant, wrapped securely in clean, warm blankets. He nestled further into his little nest and into his mother's arms, stretching out a perfect, tiny hand and yawning widely, making a sound Henry might have expected from a baby bird. His heart skipped several beats.

My boy, he thought delightedly. My son!

Katherine wrenched her eyes away from her baby and settled them on her husband. He smiled a brilliant smile and a moment later, he stood by her side. "Darling, you have made me the happiest man in Christendom," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She felt warm, almost feverish, but he supposed it was only a side effect of giving birth to such a large, healthy-looking child.

With a Prince finally gracing the royal nursery, the last thing Henry wanted to think of was losing his son's beloved mother.

She balanced the newborn tenderly in the crook of her arm, and with her free hand patted the bed beside her, signaling for him to sit. The ladies who were attending the Queen had been forgotten; though they remained locked in their curtsies, signs of respect and deference to the now three-person royal family, they may as well have been invisible. Henry had eyes only for Katherine and for their son. He quite willingly took a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching out and stroking some of her dark hair away from her lovely face.

"Our little Prince is in need of a name," she pointed out softly. Her thick Spanish accent, which many had considered vulgar when she'd married Prince Arthur, sounded to Henry like an angel's song. "What shall we call him?"

Henry gazed down into the face of his firstborn. He'd immediately considered naming the child Arthur in honor of Katherine's first husband and his own brother, but then dismissed the idea. It would surely be a poor omen to christen him with the name of the first, ill-fated Prince of Wales to bear the name of Tudor.

The little prince was robust and pink in the face, as he'd already observed, but with raven hair like his mother's. Henry reached out to brush the downy skin of his cheek, and the baby wrapped his miniature hand about his father's finger in a vice-like grip. He opened his eyes and gurgled quietly, and Henry was thrilled to see that the boy shared his brilliantly blue eyes. Katherine beamed fondly at the two of them. "Let us call him Henry. I think he will be as handsome as his father someday. And he will make some woman as happy as you have made me, Henry."

Touched by her words, Henry turned his head towards his wife, reaching out and cupping her face tenderly in his free hand. Then he leaned forward and kissed her gently, considerate of the fact that she had been put through quite a strain that day. "Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you."

They sat there for several minutes more. Henry thought that he had finally fulfilled his childhood wish. He was finally the chivalrous knight, with a virtuous lady to defend. He could finally be that good and godly King, like the legendary Arthur, with the perfect Queen and a Prince waiting to follow after. Finally, he thought, he was living a fairy story. No, better than any fairy story he had ever heard: for this story was true, and in that way, it was more valuable than any of the rest.

18 February, 1516
Whitehall Palace, London

Henry Tudor paced back and forth anxiously in his private chambers, wringing his hands and every so often glancing out of the window in an attempt to judge the time. Like any good husband, he wanted nothing more than to hear that his wife was delivered safely of a healthy child. One of her ladies had come to inform him that Katherine had gone into labor soon after they'd awoken that morning. Midwives, physicians, and her women were darting to and fro, coming and going from the Queen's bedside. Everyone was concerned for her health and that of the coming baby, but not without very good reason.

Three years earlier Katherine gave birth to her second son by the King. The boy had died shortly thereafter. And in November 1514, another son had been delivered stillborn. Everyone now fervently prayed that Katherine might bring forth a strong and vigorous infant. While Henry would have liked another son, his main concern was that the child did not die.

He did, after all, have little Harry, Prince of Wales. Their boy was so hale and hearty that it was impossible to understand how his brothers had failed to survive. A month and a half after Harry's birth, once he had been sent away from court to keep him safe from any illness that might spread in such an atmosphere, they'd had a scare. Henry shut his eyes tightly, rubbing his temple as he continued to run a hole in the floor.

"Your Majesties please forgive me, but I have come with news of a grave nature."

The royal physician had ridden from Richmond Palace to deliver a report on the health of Prince Harry. Henry swallowed hard. He felt Katherine entwine their fingers together, saw her, out of the corner of his eye, cross herself. In truth, he was tempted to do the same.

"Yes, doctor, please elaborate," he commanded in a strained voice. If something should happen to their boy…

Looking – and sounding – frightened, the physician cleared his throat. "His Highness is ailing, Your Majesty. It is not known whether or not he shall recover. He is so young, and sometimes childhood diseases do, tragically, deliver young souls to the Lord prematurely…" He was clearly trying to make this easier – for the King and Queen as well as for himself. And while Henry knew perfectly well that it was not the physician's fault that his son had taken ill, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the man.

Instead, he dismissed him curtly, with thanks for the news and strict orders to do everything within his power to preserve the Prince's life.

As soon as the man was gone, Katherine turned to him fearfully, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Oh Henry," she murmured thickly, "not our baby!"

Henry stood up and gathered his wife into his arms, stroking her hair and whispering that God would not take away Harry's innocent life, that they had done nothing to deserve such a punishment, that she should calm herself and not think of such things. But all the while he wondered fearfully what would happen if Prince Harry did die. He felt guilt over not keeping the boy at court longer, as Katherine had wished. She'd been reluctant to part with him, relenting regally but with a heavy heart, kissing her small son many times before delivering him into the arms of his wetnurse and watching them roll away from Whitehall.

God had indeed been gracious to them. Prince Harry had been no worse for wear after all, and Henry ordered further celebrations out of gratitude and relief that his son still lived. Now, "Little Prince Hal," as the people fondly called him, had just recently turned five. He was rambunctious and reminded Henry forcefully of himself at that age.

Now, as a favor to his wife, Harry was at Whitehall with them. He was thrilled to spend time with his father (he rarely had the opportunity to see Katherine during her lying-in) and his "Uncle Charles." Brandon was nearly as fond of Harry as Henry himself, and relished the opportunity to fight him with a wooden sword and pretend to have died at the mighty Prince's hand. Even Margaret, Henry's haughty little sister, was charmed by her small nephew. She too remarked on how much of a troublemaker he was, and how much he would torment his sister, if he was blessed with one, like her brother Prince Harry had tormented her. Of course at that time, Henry had been permitted to live with Margaret and their mother, Queen Elizabeth. He'd been the second son, merely the Duke of York. Harry already had his own household.

The resemblance between Harry and the King was striking. Henry enjoyed hearing everyone comment on how like his father the young Prince was, with his straight dark hair and mischievous blue eyes. He was already tall for his age, and Henry also relished watching him grow. Each day made him more confident that Harry would someday follow him and become the next King of England.

He was considering taking Harry with him to meet his new brother or sister once it arrived. Surely Katherine had delivered their child by now. The sun was sinking in the sky. Soon, one of his menservants or grooms would be in to light the candles and begin a fire in the hearth.

Perhaps he should send someone to ask after the progress of the Queen's labor.

The door swung open just at that moment, and Charles Brandon stepped in. His face was grim and unsmiling. "Henry, you must come quickly," he instructed. While normally the breach in etiquette would have annoyed him, Brandon's tone spoke as clearly as the words themselves, saying there was no time for formalities to be observed. Henry's stomach tied itself in knots. He nodded; following Brandon out, he wondered what could possibly have befallen Katherine this time.

The light was low in Katherine's bedchamber. They had just managed to change her sheets and dress her in a fresh nightgown when the King and his friend arrived. In a corner, the chief midwife was holding the newly-delivered child, having already made sure nothing was physically wrong with it. She attempted to stifle the cries, but Henry immediately turned to see the bundle in the woman's arms. He was somewhat mollified. The child was alive. That was better news than might have been hoped for, given Brandon's solemnity when he had come to fetch the King.

Hearing the unspoken question before Henry could form it, the midwife said, "A girl, Your Majesty. The Queen has given you a healthy baby girl."

Healthy. Henry smiled. But Brandon touched his arm, inclining his head towards Katherine. Feeling his heart sink immediately, he crossed the room to go to her. But he was taken aback at her appearance. The last time he'd seen his wife, the previous evening, she'd been glowing with health and excitement, looking forward to becoming a mother again. Her cheeks were rosy yesterday, her eyes bright.

From what he could see in the dying sunlight and the weak candlelight, everything had changed.

Katherine had a deathly pallor about her. She had dark circles about her eyes which made them look sunken and hollow. And those eyes were closed until her husband knelt at her side, taking one of her hands in both of his. "Thank you, sweetheart," he whispered, trying to steady his voice. "We have a daughter who shall be as beautiful as her mother someday."

She smiled weakly and attempted to squeeze his hand. He tightened his fingers around hers. "Henry…"

The King lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. Katherine was not going to die. She was simply ill. He disregarded her warmer than normal skin, much as he had five years ago when she'd given birth to their son. Henry could not deal well with death. He thought of his own death calmly now that he had an heir who seemed to be in good health, but he could not forget that Arthur had died in his prime, and that he had no second heir to take the throne, should Prince Harry die in his formative years as well.

"Henry," Katherine said again, "name her Mary." She dissolved into a fit of coughing that seemed to rattle her whole body.

He felt more fearful than ever, and clung to her hand more tightly as though that could keep Katherine's soul from slipping away then and there. Please Lord, he prayed fiercely, do not take her from me. She is my Queen, the mother o f my children…my love…

As her coughs subsided, she made a valiant effort to speak again. "Please do not…hold this against the child, my darling. It is not her fault."

Horrified at Katherine's words, Henry stood up and settled himself on the bed beside her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. He felt as though his wife was suddenly fragile, as though she would fall apart at the slightest touch, but he could feel her shuddering breaths and the heat of her skin against his. "Do not speak such nonsense, sweetheart. I'll not let anything happen to you."

"Promise me."

In the back of his mind, however, he began to contemplate what he would do if Katherine were to die. How would he treat this daughter of theirs, for whom she'd given her life? He would be expected to make another marriage shortly afterwards, but how could he shove aside his beloved wife's memory? How could he possibly forget her…more than forget her, replace her? No one could equal Katherine. No one could be as witty and sweet and vivacious as Princess Catalina had been from the moment she stepped off of the ship from Spain. Henry's blue eyes filled with tears as he recalled the first time they'd met.

"This is the younger son of His Majesty, my lady Princess," her escort explained, smiling faintly as someone else translated for the dark-haired Spanish beauty. "Prince Henry, the Duke of York."

Young and enthusiastic about meeting his brother's long waited-for bride, then ten-year-old Henry bowed low to her. She extended her small hand, and he took it and kissed it graciously. When he released her hand and rose, Katherine was smiling brightly. He grinned at her. He was only ten – Arthur was already fifteen – but Henry was already nearly as tall as their father, and able to look the Spanish princess directly in the eyes.

When he addressed her, he spoke in Latin. "Welcome to England, Your Highness. I am so glad you'll be my sister in a few days."

"Thank you, my lord of York. I am sure it will be a pleasure to call you my brother," she replied sweetly. Henry hoped against hope that she believed that as genuinely as he believed she would make the perfect sister…a much better one than Margaret, who was younger than him and very annoying.

Suddenly, he had an idea and grinned again. "Please, my lady Princess, I beg you to call me Harry. My brother Prince Arthur and my sister Princess Margaret do, and as you are to be my sister soon you ought to call me that as well," Henry insisted eagerly.

He had heard such good things about Katherine, and so far he believed all of them whole-heartedly. She was certainly beautiful – she had finely carved features, bright, friendly eyes, and thick waves of dark hair. Arthur was very lucky indeed. Harry had also heard that she was exceptionally intelligent and that Katherine could debate religious and political affairs as competently as any man. He wondered if he would ever find out the truth of that – as soon as she and Arthur were married, Harry didn't doubt that they would go back to Wales. It disappointed the young prince to think of his lively sister-in-law hidden away in dreary, damp Ludlow Castle, miles away from court…and from him.

Katherine graced him with another smile. Harry felt his heart race. "Then will you consent to call me Catalina…Harry?"

Henry jerked with a start. A physician stood beside the bed, brow furrowed. "Your Majesty?" he asked softly, and Henry wondered how long he'd been there. In his arms, Katherine's breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. Swallowing hard, he leaned down and kissed her brow. It felt clammy beneath his lips. He then arranged her tenderly against the pillows, and slid off the bed.

"Please alert me if Her Majesty's condition changes," he ordered sharply.

The physician bowed his head, and Henry, staring at sleeping wife for a moment more, exited the bedchamber wondering what fate the Lord had in store for her.

Little did he know that Katherine would never again wake from her deep slumber.

Three days later in the royal nursery, an infant wailed loudly, its cries echoing down the corridors at Whitehall. The day that should have been newborn Princess Mary's christening ceremony was instead a day of mourning for the court. Queen Katherine had died early that morning, the strain of childbirth coupled with a vicious case of childbed fever having defeated the daughter of Spain's warrior Queen. As the church bells tolled solemnly, as Her Majesty's cold body was being prepared to lie in state, and as Princess Margaret attended the confused, forlorn little Prince of Wales, King Henry locked himself away.

Katherine was dead. Katherine had left him. His darling was dead.

God, too, had forsaken him.

So the King himself drew heavy velvet curtains over the windows, blocking out light and life and happiness, and settling himself in a corner – to rage, to grieve, and – perhaps – to go mad.

And still Katherine's motherless daughter wept.