𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖, the tudors

𝟔

The midwife’s voice echoed through the chamber, breaking the tense silence with a single word:

"A boy."

Henry’s face transformed in an instant. His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a man who had finally claimed the prize he had yearned for, his long-awaited male heir. A laugh escaped his lips, an expression of triumph that made Charlotte’s heart sink. She felt her body go numb, the exhaustion of childbirth mingling with despair as she stared at the wrinkled infant in the midwife’s arms. This child—this son—had bound her fate to Henry’s inescapably.

He knelt beside her bed, eyes gleaming with pride, as he gently took the child into his arms. "Our son," he whispered, a reverent awe in his voice. "You’ve given me the heir I have longed for, Charlotte." He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. "England’s future is secure. You, my queen, have saved our legacy."

But Charlotte did not feel like a savior. She felt like a prisoner who had unwittingly forged the very chains that now bound her.

Days passed in a blur, with the entire court celebrating the birth of England’s new prince. Charlotte was barely allowed time to hold her own son before he was swept away by Henry and the courtiers, preparing him for the grandeur and expectations that would be placed upon him. She watched from a distance, each celebration a fresh reminder of the life she had never wanted, a throne that had become a prison.

Her son’s cries echoed through her chambers late one night, drawing her from the sleepless stupor that had taken hold since his birth. She stood, legs shaky, and followed the sound to the nursery where he lay, swaddled and vulnerable. He was a reminder of all she had lost, but as she gazed down at him, she felt a fierce protectiveness rise within her. She realized that though he was Henry’s son, he was also hers—a piece of her soul, her only remnant of hope.

As she held him close, she began to form a plan, an escape that had lingered in her mind since her coronation. If she stayed, her son would grow up under the influence of a tyrant, molded to fit Henry’s vision of power. But if they fled, she could raise him somewhere far from the court, where he could be free of his father’s ambition and cruelty.

She knew the risks—Henry would hunt them both if he ever discovered her plan. But in that moment, she no longer cared. She would rather face death than allow her child to grow up beneath the shadow of his father’s tyranny.

On a dark, moonless night, she gathered what little she could carry and swaddled her son close to her chest. She moved quickly and quietly, avoiding the guards and slipping through secret passageways. Her heart pounded with fear and adrenaline as she made her way to the stables, where a single horse waited, prepared by a loyal servant who had seen her plight and offered silent aid.

With her son cradled securely in her arms, she mounted the horse and rode into the night, leaving behind the life she had been forced into. As the miles stretched between her and the English court, she felt the weight on her shoulders begin to lift, replaced by a fierce determination.

In her arms, her son stirred, letting out a soft cry. She murmured soothing words, promising him a future filled with freedom—a future far from the cruelty of his father’s reach.