Evermore

Chapter I

A FUTURE KING OF ENGLAND

Tower of London, May 20, 1536

At the brink of dawn, the Tower of London lay shrouded in a mist that softened the edges of its imposing walls and echoed with the distant calls of waking birds. Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk, arrived under King Henry's directive, guided through the labyrinthine corridors by Sir William Kingston. The somber air of the Tower was pierced by the faint sound of footsteps as they approached the young Queen's chambers.

Inside, she stood by the bed, cradling her newborn son close to her chest. "Forgive me, little one, for I have condemned you to a fate not worthy of your potential glory," she murmured softly, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty that had plagued her since her arrival. She couldn't shake the words of King Francis I, spoken to her before she ascended the throne: "This station you will be asked to occupy is not an easy one, especially for those not born to it. It is much harder to have everything than to have nothing."

Yet, despite her misgivings, she knew it was time to return to court, to reclaim her position as Queen of England, and for her son to begin his journey as the future King.

"Majesty," Charles Brandon began, his voice strained as he entered her presence.

The young Queen turned to face him, a faint smirk playing at her lips. "My lord," she responded, her gaze steady. "Have you come to escort me back to court, or to take my son away from me?"

"The King has ordered me to accompany you and the prince back to court, Your Majesty," Charles replied with a slight bow. "There, hundreds of courtiers eagerly await the prince's arrival."

"And mine?" she asked, her eyes drifting to her son, his cheeks flushed like the Tudor rose. "Is he to be christened today?"

Charles nodded solemnly. "Yes, a lavish ceremony has been planned by His Majesty himself."

The young Queen let out a small scoff, still incredulous at how swiftly fortunes had turned. "And where will this ceremony take place?" she inquired coolly.

"At the Royal chapel," Charles answered promptly.

"And who are to be his godparents?" she pressed further.

The Duke of Suffolk lowered his gaze briefly, sensing the weight of her scrutiny. "My wife, Lady Mary, and your sister are to be his godmothers. Archbishop Cranmer, Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, and myself will serve as his godfathers."

There was neither a smile nor a frown on the young Queen's face; all that mattered to her was that her son be acknowledged as the King's legitimate heir. "And my ladies," she inquired, her tone betraying a lack of concern for those who had betrayed her, "what has become of them?"

"They are at court, preparing your chambers for your return," Charles replied evenly.

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, the Queen continued, "Hypocrites. I suppose I am to remain secluded until my churching?" she asked, her curiosity masking a deeper disdain.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Charles affirmed.

"And what of Lady Seymour?" she questioned sharply, her tone sharpening as she contemplated the woman who had unwittingly become a target for her displaced anger. "Does she remain at court, or has she been sent away?"

"We should depart soon, Your Majesty," Charles interjected, gesturing towards the door. "The people await the prince's arrival, especially His Majesty the King."

With measured steps, the young Queen approached the door. "Indeed," she replied calmly, then turned to her maids with a kind smile. "Come."

Charles hesitated, then spoke with gentle insistence, "Madam, with all due respect, these maids cannot accompany you to court."

"These women brought my son, the future King of England, into the world," she retorted sharply, her voice rising with fervor. "They deserve a place at court more than anyone who awaits me there. They shall be my ladies-in-waiting—not the traitors who linger in expectation!" Her command was issued with unwavering authority. "Lead the way. My son has a christening to attend and a crown to reclaim."

Sir William Kingston nodded solemnly, leading the procession out of the Tower. The young Queen cradled her son protectively, ensuring no one could separate them as they descended the steps. Outside, a cheering crowd had gathered, their jubilant cries mingling with prayers of thanksgiving for her deliverance and for the long-awaited heir sent through her by divine providence.

The Duke of Suffolk watched in astonishment as the people's adoration washed over the young Queen, reminiscent of the love once reserved for the Spanish Queen, Katherine.

"Long live the Queen!" echoed through the air, punctuated by cheers and applause.

Surrounded by the swell of joy and praise, the young Queen felt as though she were caught in a splendid dream—one she had long envisioned but dared not hope to realize. She lingered at the carriage awaiting her, savoring each moment of adulation and affirmation from her people.

The Duke of Suffolk considered briefly pulling her into the carriage to hasten their departure, but thought better of it. He could not lay hands on the Queen of England, especially not in the midst of adoring subjects. Instead, he stood back, allowing her the rare luxury of reveling in her newfound acclaim.

Inside the carriage, the young Queen reflected on the stark contrast her life as Queen would assume henceforth. She offered prayers of gratitude to God for delivering her from peril, for blessing her with a healthy son, and for the unwavering support of her people, whose loyalty now buoyed her spirits.