A Land for Ladies

Dedicated to KatieR, who convinced me to write it down and publish it.

A/N : this fanfic takes place in the universe of the TV series The Tudors, with nevertheless some correcting. For instance, the duke of Norfolk is not going to vanish without any explanation, Henry FitzRoy is not dead at the age of three, and King Henry has indeed two sisters, Mary and Margaret.

I also took inspiration in ReganX's Queen Elizabeth I Challenge, as well as the excellent Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel.

Forgive me if I manhandle chronology a bit (and even a lot), but we are here in an alternative universe, and I tried to have my creation fit History as properly as possible.

I wish you a good reading, and all comments are more than welcome.

This being said, flames will be used to roast marshmallows, and I have a nice bastard sword at home for the would-be flamers. I'm not joking. I do have a bastard sword. :)

Prologue

On this Christmas evening of 1534, Anne Boleyn had received the most precious of gifts. She would be a mother again within seven or eight months, something she had learnt to enjoy with Elizabeth. This alone would have been enough to make her forget the daily volleys of abuse she received from the former queen Katherine of Aragon's fervent partisans, who so generously compared her to the despicable Jezabel. Just the previous day, a preacher who officiated in the royal chapel had served her those kind words, predicting she would end eaten alive by some stray dogs.

" It will be a shame for those poor dogs, Anne had retorted him, keeping her temper in check, before the man was dragged out of the castle. As you can see, they will not find much to eat on me."

But it did not matter any more ; the king had renewed her his favours and she was now sheltered from his fury. Provisionally, she knew it too well. If in August she did not give birth to a boy, to the much desired heir, Henry would look for another woman to put in her place, and she feared the consequences, as much for herself as for her beloved little Lisbeth.

She shook her head to forget those dark thoughts, and glanced at the ball room. The dancers, wearing crowns of holly, were all sat back on the benches, and Mark Smeaton had put his violin away to allow himself a well-deserved rest with a cup of wine and a nice lady. Small wonder... Mark had the reputation to lead simultaneously enough relationships to wear a whole battalion out.

Anne stifled a yawn. It was high time she went to bed. She raised from her seat and produced a deep curtsy for her husband, the king answering with a gracious smile and a small gesture. Then she left towards her chambers.

On her way, she passed several couples, some rather unseemly, kissing, either amused or embarrassed. She understood soon that one or several pranksters had hung mistletoe on every doorway, taking the tired guests unaware, and forcing them to respect tradition, in order to avoid misfortune for the coming year.

Anne agreed to conform to this little rite, as long as she did not have to kiss Charles Brandon, or even worse, his harpy of a fiancée, Catherine Willoughby. She really seemed doomed to have only troubles with women bearing that name. She would be damned, given she ever had another daughter, if she named her thus.

The goddess Fortune watched over her, and she first met her amiable cousin Madge Shelton. Certainly not the sharpest mind in the Court, but she was kind and devoted to her kin, which amply made up for her lack of wit. True friends were so scarce in such an environment.

The next one was a Mr. Sackville, who worked in the king's service. The young man, turning pink with embarrassment, barely dared give a peck on his queen's cheek, and mumbled a nearly inaudible « Thank you » when she wished him all the happiness he desired for 1535.

Anne had nearly reached her door when she noticed a lonely figure at the other end of the corridor. She knew him at once. Since the king had gotten rid of his « dear friend » More to send him rot in a cell, only one man wore this entirely black outfit,, which seemed to have become a kind of uniform for the king's secretary. .

Anne waved her and to catch his attention, and the man in black came to her.

"- Tut, tut, Master Cromwell, do not tell me I have caught you working on Christmas night, she reprimanded him with her usual lopsided grin.

- Not this time, the secretary solemnly assured. I gave all the required courtesies to the lords and ladies, and now I will come back home before my son wonders if I slipped into the Thames."

It was not the best joke Anne had ever heard – was it even a joke? - but she produced a smile to put him at ease, before she wished him a merry Christmas, and pushed him towards the exit.

She watched him go, thoughtful. She owed a lot to this quiet, hard-working man. If he had not had the brilliant idea of introducing Henry to Thomas Cranmer, God only knew where she would be on this day. He had also smuggled her forbidden books and the new ideas of the Reformation, and despite the danger she incurred, she was grateful for it.

But under this surface, it was hard to make out what he really was. Some said he had a chunk of ice instead of a heart, but knowing how devoted he was to his son, Anne did not think it likely. Others claimed he behaved this way since the sweating disease had taken his wife and their two little girls. She would rather believe this version. It had been seven years, and he had not married again, nor did he have a mistress. Anne wondered if Henry would be so faithful in remembrance if she or little Elizabeth were to die.

She could not allow herself to doubt it, and yet, and yet...