Tudor Rose

ix. unchallenged, unchanged

April 10, 1519

The portrait wasn't ugly, I decided. It was actually quite beautiful, and probably my favorite portrait of myself yet. My face, although pale from the lack of sun, was smooth and attractive. Rosy hues were accentuated around my cheeks, barely visible but making a shocking difference. The cream-colored paint formed an ovular face, with a focused expression that radiated a new sense of wisdom. Wisdom that was forged in pain, I thought to myself sadly, my fingers grazing the frame. My eyes and hair were dark and most regarded that as ugliness. But there was a magnificent, hooking, and almost dangerous depth to my eyes, something that those with light colored eyes lacked. The tip of my nose was sharp, resting a decent distance above my pillowy lips. It was a fair, accurate depiction and the artist's skill was impeccable. The portrait rested in a rich, golden frame, with my motto engraved in dark, curling letters on a small plate at the on the bottom edge. 'Queen Anna of England; Unchallenged, unchanged' it read.

"Your Majesty, the king wishes to speak with you in his office," a voice rang at the doorway.

I nodded, my eyes not departing from the portrait. "I'll be there in just a moment. Thank you," I replied, flinging my wrist to motion that the person could go.

When the echo of the messenger's footsteps was reduced to nothing, I finally stepped away from the piece of art, a grin painted on my face. My gown, a deep blue one with little gold details on the bodice that I absolutely adored, made a quiet swishing noise as I traveled down the corridor. Court seemed particularly drab, as the usual bustling and gossip was regrettably absent. I turned corner after corner, but the halls were deserted. It was quiet, though. It was not the deafening, sad sort sadness that I despised that filled the air, it was a serene sort of quiet that I welcomed with open arms. A singular knock filled that silence, followed by the booming voice of the king.

"Enter."

I entered the room, being sure to lock the door behind me. When I saw who was in the room, I nearly collapsed onto the ground from the shock. Isabell Alcar, known to me as the scullery-maid-turned-friend-turned-scheming-whore, who had recently forfeited her position in my household, stood beside my husband with the echo of a grin on her pale, freckled face. In her arms was a squirming newborn, wrapped in expensive fabrics as if the child were a prince or princess. The expression on her face screamed 'I won, you lost!' and I clenched my fists frustratingly in response.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, nodding her head politely rather than curtsying.

"What is this about, Henry?" I asked wearily, ignoring the brunette entirely, "Why is she here?"

"Anna, this is-"

"I know who Isabell is!" I spat, her name rolling off of my tongue distastefully, "Why is she here?"

"Anna, this is," my husband continued, "My son, Henry. Born just last week."

"He is not your son; he is a bastard!" I scoffed, "Born from some wanton whore with no real title. She has not a drop of noble blood in her. Her son- who, might I add, may not even be yours- is of no importance. So, I will ask again. Why is she here? I do not want this poisonous serpent of a girl at my court."

"You will not speak of my son or his mother like that, Anna! You will not!" Henry roared, his face turning into a fierce scowl, "And this is my court, not yours. I will have whomever I should like in it, and if you would like to keep your coveted position, then I suggest you stop challenging me!"

A resounding silence filled the humid air. Isabell stood there idly with her bastard child tightly in her arms, dumbfounded. Henry was enraged, but when he turned to the child, his face softened. He plucked the infant from Isabell's arms, making her flinch just a bit.