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1422
The chapel at Westminster Abbey was silent and somber. Each person there was consumed with grief and on the verge of tears, if not already crying, at the sight of their beloved King Henry's corpse lying before them. He had won them France, but in the process, they lost him, which broke each of them.
The Bishop spoke in Latin as each of them prayed. Thomas was kneeling beside his stepmother, the Dowager Queen Catherine, in front of his father's body. He didn't cry. No. After all, his mother had only died the year before and the year before that, his sister Isabella had passed as well. He had lost both his older sister and his mother in the span of two years and now, he had lost his father as well. He had no tears left to cry.
His stepmother wasn't crying, either. She had cried when she first learned of his death, but not any longer. They had only been married two years, after all, and most of that time, his father had spent that time in the arms of his mistress, Thomas' mother, and not his wife. It was why Catherine only seemed to have fallen pregnant after Johanna had died. And because of that, by the time Catherine had fallen pregnant, Henry had already traveled back to France, where he wouldn't return alive and have the opportunity to ever meet his son and heir, Prince Henry.
Catherine didn't all that much care, though, for the fact that King Henry had his Johanna. Catherine was a girl of 18, after all. King Henry had been fifteen years her senior. He was a kind man to her and both understood there would be no love in their marriage. For they both loved another.
For Henry it was Johanna and for Catherine it was a man of her own household when she came to England. A Welshmen by the name of Owen Tudor.
Only Thomas seemed to know that though. For if anyone found out, little Henry's parentage would be called into question.
Thomas turned his head, sighing at the sight of a nursemaid wearing black as he held Prince Henry in her arms. He was nine-months-old, born six months after his father had left for France. There, King Henry had died of dysentery, which broke the hearts of everyone in England, Thomas most of all.
He had no one left now. He lost his mother. He lost his sister and best friend. And now, he lost his father as well. He had even heard that his Uncle Richard, his mother's brother, was now dead. Of course, he hadn't seen his uncle since his mother's death, but he still loved that man like a second father. He had also drifted from his uncle's only son, Richard, who Thomas and his sister grew up with.
He was utterly alone now. A twelve-year-old bastard son of an English King, living at Westminster, surrounded by ambitious men who ached to quench their thirsts for power. And he knew. He knew they'd seek to use him to their own gain. After all, he might have been a bastard, but there were rumors that his father had the pope legitimize him a month after he had become king, in case he died in France without a legitimate heir. The rumors were true and it meant he was the rightful heir.
