𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖, the tudors

𝟏

The first time Charlotte Wright appeared at the English court, she was enveloped in a world more dazzling—and treacherous—than any she had ever known. She was only seventeen, a young woman on the cusp of adulthood, but with a presence that had already begun to spark whispers among the courtiers. Her mixed heritage—a blend of English nobility from her father and African heritage from her mother—was a rarity in King Henry’s court, and it drew both gazes of curiosity and resentment. Yet Charlotte held her head high, her demeanor proud and graceful as she adjusted to her role as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne Boleyn.

For Henry, it was as if a spell had been cast upon him the moment he laid eyes on Charlotte. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen—exotic and radiant, with a beauty that seemed to hold an entire world within her gaze. Where Anne had once captivated him with her wit and allure, Charlotte’s presence was softer, more mysterious, and wholly entrancing. Even her mere presence seemed to fill the room, overshadowing even the most jeweled and titled members of the court.

One evening, Charlotte found herself in close quarters with the king during a small gathering in the queen’s private chambers. She felt his gaze linger on her more than once, and though she had trained herself to look away, there was no mistaking the intensity in his eyes. She could feel the tension in the air as he made small conversation with the queen and her ladies, but his words were for formality’s sake; his attention was clearly elsewhere.

"Lady Charlotte, would you care to speak with me a moment?" Henry asked, his voice calm but laden with purpose. Anne, too occupied with entertaining another guest, did not notice as Charlotte curtsied and followed the king into a more secluded part of the room.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Charlotte answered, her voice steady despite the thrill of nerves coursing through her. She knew that a personal word from the king often carried implications, and she could see the heat in his gaze.

"I have seldom seen beauty like yours," he began, his voice lowered. "Tell me, how is it that no one has stolen you away yet?"

"Because, Your Majesty, I belong to no one but myself," Charlotte replied softly, choosing her words carefully. Henry's smile widened, captivated by her mixture of defiance and poise. Her youth, her beauty, her exotic heritage—it all made her all the more fascinating, and his desire for her intensified with every word she spoke.

"Yet surely, there must be someone you hold dear. A woman like you should be treasured," he murmured, letting his fingers graze her gloved hand. "I could offer you comfort. I could offer you my devotion."

Charlotte felt her cheeks flush, but she was no fool. She had heard rumors of how the king’s infatuations often ended in scandal and ruin. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," she replied, gently pulling her hand from his. "But I have no wish to become another conquest."

Henry’s expression darkened, a spark of frustration igniting behind his eyes. He was not accustomed to refusal, especially from one so young and innocent. He had assumed a few sweet words would have her wrapped around his finger, but Charlotte’s quiet resolve left him at a loss.

"Then tell me what you do wish for," he said, his voice laced with tension.

"Respect, Your Majesty. To be more than an object of affection," she said simply. "And I will not sacrifice my virtue for a fleeting favor, no matter how powerful the man."

Her words both stung and excited him. He was astounded by her courage, by the fire in her spirit. Here was a woman who would not bend, not even to a king. And that only made him want her more.

Days passed, and Henry found himself increasingly distracted by thoughts of Charlotte. Anne, who had once enthralled him, now seemed to fade into the background. His queen had given him a daughter, Elizabeth, who was dear to his heart but could not satisfy his most urgent need—a son and heir. Anne’s sharp wit, which he had once loved, had turned grating, and the initial thrill of their union was now overshadowed by the relentless disappointment of her repeated failures to bear a male child.

Charlotte, however, was the promise of something new, untouched, and potentially fertile ground for the son he so desperately needed. He envisioned her as a fresh beginning, an unspoiled path to ensure his legacy. Her youth and beauty, coupled with her resilience, made her irresistible to him, and in his mind, he began to see a future where she sat beside him, a queen with their son in her arms.

But Charlotte’s quiet resistance only deepened his obsession. He wanted her as he had wanted no woman before, even more than he had wanted Anne Boleyn. And as she refused him, her beauty outshone the queens, princesses, and noblewomen around her. Charlotte Wright, the proud and beautiful girl who refused to surrender, would be his—no matter the cost.

Anne was growing restless, sensing a shift in Henry's attentions. Her sharp eyes did not miss the glances exchanged between her husband and her lady-in-waiting, and whispers began to circulate that perhaps, just perhaps, the king’s eye had wandered again. But Henry had set his sights, and in his mind, there was only one way to secure his future. He needed a son, and if Charlotte would not be his mistress, then perhaps there was only one path left to take: Charlotte would be his queen.