The Other Henry VIII

A Winter of Uncertainty

13 November 1524
Leia adored her son. He was a quiet, peaceful baby who rarely fussed and never cried. Even at a couple of months old, he charmed his way into the hearts of every person who laid eyes upon him. Some nights, when she was unable to sleep, she would sit by his cradle in the nursery and watch his tiny chest rise and fall. Although she was far too afraid to hold him most of the time, there was something oddly comforting in watching him slumber. His wispy hair was tawny brown, his eyes as blue as his father's. It was evident to all the realm that the Queen had fallen in love with her little prince.

That was why she was opposed to sending him to Wales. Of course Henry would insist if he were here, but he was not. Were it not for the council, and the imperious old eyes of the Duke of Norfolk, Leia would keep her son by her side until he was a man grown. A cold, bitter stone settled in the pit of her stomach as she watched his carriage drive away, followed closely with a sizeable entourage. Who did she have left in the world now? Her husband was two hundred miles away, trying to tear the crown from the French King's head; her only child would be on the other side of the country; her friends were either gone from court or keeping company with their own husbands instead. All she had were the pinched faces of the scornful lords that had been left behind.

"I do not want to inflate your ego any further," sighed Leia, "But you are the only soul in the kingdom that I dare confide in."
Edmund Westover shrugged in false humility, his lips forming a grin. "I am honoured, of course, dear sister."
"Though I do wish that you would take matters seriously, once in a while." Leia's own expression did not change. They sat together in one of her reception rooms, the fire crackling away in the hearth before them, while the sky hung grey and languid outside.

"You always were such a serious child," he remarked, "But I can be too, when it is required of me. What bothers you, Leia?"
"Wars are costly. Even you know that. God knows, I have scrimped and saved all that I can. We have not feasted since my husband's departure. My ladies spend half their time mending clothes so that we need not purchase new ones. Even the christening of my son crippled our funds, understated as it was."
Edmund frowned. England's troubles were laid out before him, etched into the lines of his sister's gaunt face. It was a considerable burden, he thought, that sat upon her shoulders. He was surprised that her knees had not yet buckled beneath it

"In short, our kingdom is penniless." Edmund could not help shuddering. "The Treasury is severely diminished. I can barely pay the servants, not to mention feeding the hundreds of mouths that live beneath this roof. I cannot tell you how I am still sane, for I do not know myself. It is my responsibility and mine alone. Dozens of young women across the country go to bed, praying to God that they will one day be Queen of England; if they knew what responsibility comes hand-in-hand with titles and status, I daresay that few would covet my position and even fewer would desire it for themselves."

This speech bewildered Edmund. He had been lazy and inattentive all his life because he knew that his father's dukedom would one day be served to him on a silver platter. Realisation collided with him like the ruthless lance of a rival knight. There were thousands of men placing bets with their lives on the fields of France, his father included. Why was he in a position of such wealth and leisure when so many deserved it more than him?

"Will Rebecca be coming to court soon?" inquired Leia, sweeping her anxieties under the rug once more. It had become a recurring habit lately. "I do miss her company. Her lively spirit would cheer up my poor ladies and I a great deal."
At this, Edmund shifted on his armchair with unease. Any thought of his wife, who presently resided alone in his childhood home, irked him so greatly that he had resolved to bury it within himself long ago. It was disconcerting how quickly two besotted lovers could grow sick of each other, not least if one was him.