"My people," Harry begins, and a hush immediately descends over the mass of bodies. Harry pauses, and I imagine he's just smiled, or kissed Anne, or simply waved when a wave of cheers erupts again.
"My people," he repeats, urging for them to calm with a gentle, "Please. Please."
And eventually they do quiet again, but quiet is relative. It is as quiet as they can be in such numbers. I can practically hear their excited trembling.
"What a year we have had," Harry begins, and I do not know how he does it, but his voice carries both joy and sorrow.
Some people cheer, some simple agree with a quiet "aye" - and the effect is a dramatic rumble. I step to the window and push aside the curtain just enough so that I can see him.
The crowd erupts in deafening cheers again.
But . . . he is already out there, and has not done anything new to earn a reaction.
Is this cheering for me?
I step back a bit out of shock, and hear the laugh in his voice when he says, "Please! Please! Lend me your ears!"
After several moments, they quiet again, and I peek through the curtains. Harry glances over his shoulder at the window, smiling knowingly. When he turns just slightly, I can see Anne tightly clutching his coats in her tiny fists. His hand rubs slow, calming circles on her back.
Because she is with her father, she does not cry at the noise. She is not even afraid. She is still, face calm; she is as suited for this role as is her father.
"In the past year, we have had loss," he calls out across the courtyard. "We have had joy, and sorrow. We have been betrayed, and we have come together as a people — united — and won the war."
The crowd cries out in celebration. Harry raises his free hand, palm down, urging for quiet.
"Let us not forget that I am your king through grave tragedy," he says, and the effect of his words is like a blanket thrown over the assembled masses. They still, shoulders dropping in grief.
"But I will not waste this," he promises. "I will not let my father's death be the downfall of our great kingdom. I will not let his death be the start of a dark time for us. No," he says resolutely, "we will grow. We will prosper. We will reign."
He swallows, then while they cheer some more, and glances to his daughter, hiking her higher in his arms.
"There is so much . . . " he begins, and trails off, before kissing her temple. "Too much time has passed. I have not spoken with you in far too long. The Council has overseen everything in my absence, and I've returned to find a warm home, happy, prospering subjects. For that, I am forever in their debt."
Across the courtyard, and standing on another balcony, Tomlinson, Liam, and McCullough all nod in acknowledgement.
"This tells me that a kingdom is not run by one man alone. It is run by all of us. It is run by your working hands, and your generous hearts and your backs which bend and break to keep us all fed, and warm. This contribution of yours — from all of you — does not go unnoticed." Harry shakes his head, seeming to take a moment to look at every single face standing before him. "Not ever."
Tears well in my eyes at the shocked silence, the way the village folk turn and look at each other, wondering in hushed voices if they've heard him correctly. The idea of his father thanking his subjects so baldly for their simple hard work is impossible to imagine. With this demonstration of gratitude, Harry has done exactly what he'd hoped to do. He has told his people that he is a different kind of leader.
"I was injured in the war," he continues, and the crowd grows solemn, listening intently. "I injured my leg quite badly, yes, but it was a greater injury which kept me away. A leg can heal in a castle. A mind requires healing of another sort."
Hundreds of pairs of wide eyes stare up at him, riveted. No doubt, the gossip about his condition, and about my absence, reached fever levels.
"Rest assured I have returned to you quite whole. My heart, my mind, my body. I have returned to you and I am ready for whatever we must face together."
"Together," he repeats emphatically, and a cheer begins but immediately silences as he continues, "I am one of you," he says, "in all the ways that matter. Perhaps not by blood, or by law, or by history. But my heart has always lived down there, where you stand. From the day I was born my heart has lived outside this castle." I can see his boyish smile in profile. "It is no secret."
Inside the library, I bend, cupping my face in my hands as the crowd grows absolutely wild.
"And so I would like to present to you a child you have come to know long before I have," he says with a small laugh, and it is difficult to hear him over the building enthusiasm of the crowd. "My people, please raise your hands in greeting for my daughter, Princess Anne."
I peek out the window again. Hundreds of hands have risen high into the air, flapping, waving wildly. The effect is much like a wave building across the wide sea. It is much like the curl of wind barreling across a field of grain. Beneath the movement, it is impossible to see where one person ends and another begins. The crows simply vibrates for her, but so gently, so quietly.
I watch as Harry turns to speak quietly to Anne. I cannot hear him, but his mouth forms the words, This is for you, my Peach, and he kisses her cheek.
Turning back to the crowd, he raises his free hand again, signaling for quiet. "There is one final matter I wish to discuss," he says, and they settle before him.
A hush falls over the crowd; each face seems to go ashen with understanding.
"It is the matter of the traitorous queen."
Again, the crowd erupts into noise, but this time the shouts are for her head, for her life, for justice.
"Enough!" Harry calls out, but not in anger. "As many of you know, she was responsible for my father's death, for the start of the war, and I have heard you've suffered many of her cruelties in my absence. For that, my people, I beg your forgiveness."
Before they can respond, Harry continues, his voice ringing out clear across the courtyard. "She had been held in a tower cell, awaiting my return, awaiting a decision on the matter of her life. But just one day ago, the queen gave birth to a child."
The sound of a courtyard full of people gasping is much like a screeching wind.
"I do not believe this child to have been mine, but regardless, both the queen and the child have died in childbirth."
My blood runs quiet, shocked into stillness.
But all I can feel is noise. Hysteria breaks out as the hundreds of people below react to this news. Even the guards in the room with us shuffle on their feet, looking quickly to one another in surprise.
Not only did the kingdom not know Maria was pregnant, but to hear of the birth and deaths all at once rocks them. Harry urges for quiet, and I stumble away from the window, meeting Zayn's eyes.
He is already looking at me, stunned.
Surely Harry does not mean to kill the innocent child. And we cannot keep him a secret from the village forever. Does Harry mean to take the newborn with him to Spain? How would he feed the baby? How would they manage for such a grueling trip without me accompanying him? And if he meant to take the child to Spain, why would he not simply tell the kingdom of the birth of the bastard child, and that he would be returned to the royal family?
Because if Harry has told the people that the child is dead, he cannot plan to take him from the castle, and somehow smuggle him in a large band of guards on the trip, and with a wet nurse to care for the child. There is no way a secret like this could be contained in such a large group of soldiers.
What is Harry doing?
My pulse drums in my hears as he urges for silence, finally managing, "The queen is dead, and we will pray for the soul of her child. But rest assured, her days of influence are done."
The people murmur in muted celebration, torn now between the relief of her death, the disappointment in how it happened — they were out for blood, no doubt — and the loss of an innocent child.
"Tomorrow," Harry says, "I leave for Spain to bring her body to her family." People begin to protest, no doubt concerned about Harry's safety, but he barrels on. "When I return, there will be a festival—"
"A wedding!" I hear many voices shout in jubilant interruption.
But, dutifully, Harry ignores this.
"We will celebrate the end of the war. We will celebrate the victory of our kingdom. And we will celebrate the birth of the Princess Anne."
The audience cheers wildly. And I cannot imagine the celebration they will have tonight . . . and the frantic gossip that will take over the ale house like wildfire.
"Thank you," he says, and the curtains are pulled open by guards on each side of the balcony door.
"Thank you," he calls again, waving as he walks backward. "Thank you."
Harry turns into the room, and looks directly to me. I can tell he anticipated my shock, and I try to control my expression as best I can. His eyes are wide and anxious.
With a deep breath, I smile at him as he moves toward me.
"You were wonderful," I tell him, genuinely. "You were absolutely breathtaking."
I do not want to speak of the newborn among all the people here. Instinct tells me to remain quiet.
Harry comes close, bending to kiss my jaw and I take Anne from his arms, relishing the familiar warm weight of her against me.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. "I'm doing what I must."