The Boleyn Prince

September 1543

She spread her legs as wide as she could, desperately trying to accommodate the corpulent girth of her husband's waist. She cocked up her hips, straining to meet his manhood, concealed behind the folds of his burgeoning belly.

"How had he come to this?" Anne thought with revulsion. The golden lion her husband had once been was gone. He was nearly twice the size of what he had been in his youth. Now his weight crushed her, making it hard for her to breathe, which her husband, in his ever-increasing vanity attributed to his carnal skill.

Sweat ran off him, splashing against her skin, hitting her in the face. That athletic stamina that had made him renowned throughout England was long gone. It was hard to believe they were one and the same person.

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm and she began to fear that he would not be able to finish, as had been the case for the last few years. Henry too could sense what was approaching. He frantically pulled out his limp member and began to rub it, aggressively whining and grunting in his futile efforts.

She was not prepared to let him leave her without spilling his seed. He barely came to her bed anymore and when he did he struggled to do the deed. She was desperate for another son. She would have to take matters into her own hands. Literally.

"My lord, sometimes a woman's touch is all that is required," she murmured seductively in the old tone that had always had the power to arouse him. Taking him in her hands, she was dismayed to discover he was as soft as when he had started.

She pressed herself against him, her slender body warmed against the soft flab of his belly as she gently fondled him, willing him to stiffen

He moaned from the pleasure of her hands. She was sure Katharine had never done anything like this when she had been with him. But then she had probably never had to. She'd had him when he was young and virile. Not this pathetic, corpulent bulk. She felt her wrist beginning to ache, yet Henry was only semi-erect. Tentatively, she moved her head downwards as her sister had coached her years ago and planted a soft kiss at his tip.

His eyes widened in surprise as she opened her mouth wider and slowly enveloped him. His body trembled as her mouth engulfed him, moving up and down as he finally began to respond to her efforts, growing bigger and stiffer in her mouth. He let out a soft moan and instinctively began gently rocking his hips,

He groaned and pushed himself back inside her roughly with no hesitation. The roughness of it caused her to let out a soft whelp of pain. His thrusts became even more aggressive that she could not keep her hips raised with the force and weight of each thrust. He began to moan, breathless from his exertions. With one last grunt, she felt his climax and knew the deed was done.

"Let us just hope that was enough," she thought to herself.

As the ensuing days turned into weeks, Anne prayed for a sign, any sign that might indicate she was once again with child.
When the expected week for her courses arrived and no bleeding began, she started to hope. She scrutinized her naked figure in her mirror, desperate for signs of fullness creeping into her breasts or a thickening of her waist.
She did not feel sick in the mornings as some women did. But then she had enjoyed very robust health in all of her pregnancies up until their tragic conclusions.
With Elizabeth, she had developed a tremendous craving for apples. But no cravings came. She found herself eating more sweet treats such as marchpane than normal, but there was no furious hankering for it as there had been with Elizabeth.

After three months without bleeding, Anne was certain that she was once again carrying a child. However, her newfound joy was also tinged with sadness. It would be the first time she had been with child and not had her mother to confide in. There was only her and George left of the Boleyns now. Their mother had been gone for nearly eight years. Their father had followed only two years later. Even Mary, ostracised and exiled Mary was now gone, and Anne was forced to admit to herself that she regretted she had not done more for her sister.
She had done what she could for Mary's children. Her son was part of Prince Henry's household and her daughter was one of her maids of honour. Both were good-looking and intelligent and showed all the promise of being true Boleyns.
The children from her sister's second marriage had not fared as well as their half-siblings. Both had been lost to illness as infants. The husband still lived, yet had been pensioned off. He would never trouble them again.

She knew she should wait, that her husband should be the first to know, but George was closer to her than anyone. He was her confidant, the keeper of her secrets.

"Congratulate me, brother," she said with a triumphant smile as he walked into her Privy Chamber. "I have wonderful news."

Her smile told her brother exactly what her news was. His own smile was no less wide.

"Is it a boy?" he asked sweeping her up into his arms.

She let out an involuntary grunt and pulled away from her brother's embrace. "God's blood is that all you can say?"

"What else could I possibly ask?"

"Congratulate me on getting into such a condition. You have no idea how hard I had to work to accomplish this."
Her hand slid over her still-flat belly. Her mind shuddered at the vile memories of her husband's obese body sweating over her for his labours.

"Still lame?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

Anne indicated to her ladies to remain inside as she led her brother into the Privy Gardens.

"It is getting worse. He could barely manage it and when he does he cannot even finish, and the smell."

George wrinkled his nose in revulsion. "My poor sister," he teased, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm. "At least this news should sweeten his temper."

"If nothing else will," Anne agreed, her thin lips forming into a sulky pout.

"Sweetheart," Henry cried out in delight, snatching Anne's hand and smothering it in wet kisses. "The best news. The best."

Anne could not help but smile at his renewed enthusiasm. "I am pleased to make Your Majesty so happy."

"A Duke of York at last. I have waited so long."

"God has heard our prayers, Your Majesty," she said sweetly, reminding him that he was not the only one anxious for another son for Englands cradle.

"We will call him Edward," Henry declared, his eyes ablaze with excitement. "We shall feast and joust for a fortnight to welcome our little Prince and Duke of York and all of England will say hail to the Queen."

The thought of her former enemies hailing her once again bolstered Anne's mood.

"That would indeed be wondrous," she said suddenly demure. "But I would far rather the security of Prince Henry be attended to first before anything else."

"How do you mean?"

"My Lord, our Henry is six years old and is still to be named Prince of Wales. Do you not see? Until he is officially invested with the title there will still be those who call Mary the Princess of Wales.

"I never gave Mary the title of Princess of Wales," Henry argued sulkily.

"Even so, there are still those who support her," Anne insisted, determined to keep him on track. "I worry so much that until our son is given the true honours of his position, there may be those emboldened to do him harm."

It was the perfect motivation. She watched as the horror of losing his only son pained Henry's face, which had only moments ago been filled with delight.

"You need fear no more sweetheart," Henry said gallantly caressing her silk stomacher. "Once Christmas is over, I will see to it that our son is made Prince of Wales. And when you are safely delivered of our Prince, he will be made Duke of York."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Anne smiled sweetly, sliding into a deep curtsey.