A/N: To save confusion, I made the names a bit more easy to distinguish. The usual 'Catherine of Aragon' is 'Katharine'; she signed herself by that name often. Instead of 'Anne of Cleves' it is 'Anna', since she was referred by that name back at Cleves. 'Catherine Howard' is 'Kathryn', as she was sometimes called, and how she signed herself in her one surviving letter.
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May 22, 1524
-MARY TUDOR looked up lovingly to Katharine of Aragon. "Will I see you soon, Mother?" "Yes, my dear. Now, go along with Lady Margaret; she'll take good care of you," Katharine forced herself to say. Lady Margaret stepped forward and took Mary's hand. After meeting Katharine's eyes and giving her a quick, hopeful smile, she led the little girl to the awaiting carriages, and Katharine looked on gravely, lying to them all by smiling graciously.
Henry had not come again, last night. Many nights, now, Katharine of Aragon found she slept alone. No more lying next to that handsome, golden-haired youth who was King. In fact, she hardly ever saw him nowadays. Sometimes Henry dined with her, but Katharine felt it was simply out of courtesy, and he always spoke coolly to her.
Her husband was suddenly distancing himself from her, she was grieved by her amount of miscarriages, she was hearing rumours about the King taking a lover and laying with different women each night instead of with his Queen; and now this. Katharine's only child; her and Henry's only child, is sent away to her own household. "To learn the ways of a Princess," others had said, but deep inside Katharine suspected darkness ahead.
She remembered, fondly, that day, years ago but seeming to her like only a day before, the day of her wedding...not her wedding to Arthur, Henry's elder brother; it was also a grand event, with high hopes in the air, but it ended with Arthur's death, God bless his soul. Katharine was thinking back to her wedding to Henry.
It was a big, glittering event; and she had a tiara on her fair head, jewels around her neck, a golden cloak draped around her shoulders. Katharine was at her best at that time; she had long, lustrous hair, beautiful features, and a slender, if rather small, frame. She was the daughter of the great rulers of Spain; she had royal blood. She was kind-hearted, gracious, religious, devoted and warm to the people. Katharine was every inch the perfect Queen. And Henry was every inch the perfect King.
He was tall, broad and muscular and dashingly good-looking, golden-haired and loud; every lady swooned when he passed by. Whenever the King laughed, everyone else laughed with him. To speak to him made you feel special; he loved being the centre of attention. He wasn't yet a man, but a boy; a fun-loving young boy who was no work and all play.
Katharine, like a good Queen, took no notice of his boyishness and arrogance. She had prayed fervently on her knees for God, for Jesus, for the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph, for anyone to save her from her belligerence. After her dear Arthur died so suddenly, before he could even consummate the marriage, Katharine found herself stuck in England, living in poverty. Henry was her saviour, her romantic visitor. She thanked God profusely for sending her beloved Henry to save her from her plight. She had stayed strong; and she was duly awarded.
And now it seemed her dreams were coming true. She was getting married, she was to be Queen of England. Katharine was joyful, thankful, and oh so happy. She would be a good and gracious Queen, be devoted to her husband, to her God, to her people. She would bear a healthy son, and more after him, even daughters. She would reign beside her happy husband, and live out her life happily.
Perhaps such things would have come true, perhaps they still could. Katharine watched her daughter board the carriage and tried to stay positive. She was still not too old; she could still bear a son. But somewhere inside her doubt sprouted. Katharine had so many stillborns and miscarriages; so many children dead, that she couldn't bear taking another chance and see yet another lifeless bundle of flesh.
But if it would please Henry, and make him love her as he once did, then she might have to take the chance, and she gladly would.
Katharine remembered bearing her son, and how happy Henry was, how happy everyone was. Then he had died, just like the others; another life snuffed out like a candle. Henry was growing apprehensive, he wanted a male heir, he didn't want to leave his kingdom to a woman.
The future had looked so bright, when Katharine had married Henry. But so many things had happened.
There were the miscarriages, how Katharine couldn't seem to get a son; there was her dear, great mother Isabella dying in Spain, then her father a while after, told only to Katharine after she gave birth to yet another stillborn child, for fear of her miscarrying; Katharine thought back to that day with a small, sad smile. They needn't have bothered. The baby ended up dead anyway.
There was her sister Juana descending into sheer paranoia and insanity, mocked by her peers and shut away in a convent; then, heartbreakingly, the Holy Roman Emperor who was Juana's son and Katharine's nephew met her endearing letters with stony silence and indifference; there was the court talk about the Boleyn girls, Katharine's new ladies; talk about the King being enchanted by them and falling into their enchanting, alluring web of seduction and sin.
Katharine refused to listen to such venomous gossip, and refused to lose faith. She had her healthy, beautiful daughter Mary. She had her God, she had hope and she had faith.
The trees surrounding the castle were brown and gold, clashing with the dull grey of the sky. Katharine stayed until her daughter's carriage was out of sight.
Gracefully, and not looking back, Katharine walked back to her chambers, through the long halls of the castle. Her ladies followed her...one of them being Anne Boleyn.
Katharine carefully glanced upon the girl in walking across the courtyard. Anne's eyes were dark, as was her hair, and she walked about with a sort of confidence in her step; as if she had no care what others thought of her, they had to take her for who she was, or leave her completely. She was devastatingly attractive, and Katharine felt no love for her, yet she refused to speak out.
Perhaps it was one of the King's brief affairs. Katharine knew anyone, especially a girl, was powerless when a King would come and ask for them; there was no answer but 'yes', especially to a King like Henry. Nevertheless, Katharine made sure to keep an eye on Anne from then on. The girl looked up, and, instead of looking down gracefully and humbly, Anne met the Queen's gaze fiercely, a fire in her dark eyes.
Katharine hastily looked away. She told herself she would pray again tonight, pray the rosary and then read the daily Gospel, then to bed, and hope Henry would arrive and hug her and kiss her and smile at her again, and ask about Mary. She hoped things would be alright, and that God would send her a son.
She could feel Anne's eyes on her, so Katharine the Queen strode on hastily, her full dress swirling around her feet, around her rather stout figure.
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The Six
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