Prologue

On January 1st, 1511, a great cry could be heard coming from the lying-in chamber of Queen Katharine of England, formerly of Aragon. Though few in the castle could hear it over the sounds of bells and fireworks ringing in the New Year, those whose lives the birth would most directly affect were listening intently for any sound of a baby’s wail.

The lying-in chamber was covered in tapestries, covering up all light from the fireworks outside. The inside of the chamber smelled distinctly of dust and incense. There was only the dim light of candles shining upon the queen’s sweat-stained face as she cried out, making a final effort.

Suddenly, the first scream of a newborn filled the room. The queen slumped back onto her pillows in relief, a soft smile on her face. Not a stillborn then, like the last two, she thought briefly.

“My lady, it’s a boy!” cried a maid, the one with the privilege of catching the child in a small blanket.

“Your Majesty, you have given the king a fine, strong son for England,” said the midwife, as proud as if she had been the one in labor for eleven hours. After briefly checking the child for defects, she reluctantly handed him to the queen.

Katharine glowed as her son was placed in her arms. She looked down at the boy, smoothing back a small tuft of fine, red hair with her fingertips. “Has His Majesty been told yet?” she asked her ladies, not even glancing away for a moment from her son.

“He is being told as we speak, Your Maj—“ a maid began to reply, when suddenly a tall man adorned in gold and jewels swung open the door to the chamber. All of the women in the room, except for the queen of course, fell in simultaneous curtsies.

“Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison.

King Henry VIII paid them no mind, looking immediately to his wife and son on the four poster bed. “The child...our son...he lives?” he asked in a whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

Katharine finally looked away from her son, gazing up at her husband with similar adoration. Tears filled her eyes. “He lives and thrives, Your Majesty.”

“Praise God,” Henry prayed, directing his eyes at the ceiling. He approached his wife slowly and cautiously, as if the very power of his presence could harm her or the child. “Have you named him yet?”

“I give you that right, my lord,” Katharine replied. “He shall be your heir, after all.” She sat up straighter and reluctantly held out the boy to the king.

Henry saw her reluctance and chuckled. “You would not be parted from him already, I see,” he teased her, nevertheless taking his son into his arms. He beamed when he already saw a resemblance to him in the child’s red hair and blue eyes. “He is certainly a Tudor,” he said, filled with wonder. “He is to be named Henry.”

Katharine was filled with pride to see her husband’s obvious pleasure with both her and the child. “A fine name, my lord, after a fine king, no less.”

Henry grinned proudly, a grin so wide he looked almost foolish. He handed their son back to Katharine to be cradled in her arms, and kissed her lightly upon her brow. “The entire kingdom will celebrate the birth of their future king. We shall hold a joust and a feast in your honor, my lady wife. I will compete as your Sir Loyal Heart,” he eagerly told her, wishing at that moment only to please his queen.

“You do me great honor, Your Majesty,” Katharine said bashfully, though her eyes shone with joy.

“I can think of no one who deserves more honor than you, Katharine,” he said warmly, taking her free hand in his. “You are the perfect wife, and all of England is proud to call you their Queen.” He brushed her hand gently with his lips.

“My lord is too kind,” she said shyly, lowering her eyes.

“I’m afraid I must now take my leave from you, my lady,” Henry murmured, through he looked pained to do so. “There are celebrations to take part in. Celebrations in your name,” he added, as though to justify himself.

Katharine squeezed his hand tenderly. “Go and make merry, my lord. I shall sleep and regain my strength.” She reluctantly allowed a wet-nurse to take the baby from her arms for his first feeding.

Nodding gratefully to his wife, the king kissed her hand once more before relinquishing it, walking almost unwillingly out of the room. As he entered the outer chamber, a cheer rose up from all those who had gathered, “Long live the King and Queen!”

Listening to the shouts for herself and the king, thinking only of her beautiful son, the future King of England, Katharine fell quickly into a blissful sleep.

…..

Fifty-two days later, on February 21st, 1511, a great cry could be heard coming from the inner chambers of King Henry and Queen Katharine.

The queen fell to her knees, sobbing piteously after her initial scream. The king stood in shock, staring blankly at the wall, barely aware of his wife. The messenger who had been unlucky enough to deliver the message was in tears, unable to even look at his sovereigns.

“My son, my son! My precious son!” Katharine cried, holding her head in her hands.

After what seemed like an age, the king came back to himself. Kneeling down beside his wife, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We are young yet,” he tried to soothe her. “Though it has pleased God to take our son to His kingdom, He will bless us with more children, and if He chooses, there will be sons.”

Unfortunately, it was not to be.