The Other Henry VIII

Marianne

Another girl.

Marianne Westover gazed down at her newborn daughter with a strange emptiness in her heart. A disconcertingly quiet baby, on the whole. She had William's light brown eyes, which peered  up at her mother with the same penetrating stare as he always did. Specks of gold. Faintly amused. Judging with unabashed candor. How an infant only a few minutes old could have such wisdom in her look, Marianne did not know.

At that very moment, her husband came bursting into the chamber, ruddy-cheeked and panting from the climb, and marched across the room with his arms outstretched. She shot him down in an instant.
"It's a girl, so there's no need to waste your energy on excitement."
William flapped away her remark with the flustered ease of a man in raptures. "A girl, is she? Pretty? Healthy?"
"Take her then, if you're so curious." She thrust the baby into her husband's arms rather haphazardly and sank even further into the soft confines of her bedlinen. "Give her to the wet nurse when you're finished. I'm tired."

She meant it as a cue for him to leave, but William seemed quite content with his perch on the end of the bed, cooing over the tiny infant in his arms as though he had never seen something so beautiful. Uncertain of whether she wanted to roll her eyes or cry, Marianne dug her head forcefully into her pillow and pulled the blanket right up to her chin. Even now, she remembered that feeling. The feeling of falling in love with one's child at first sight and promising oneself that, no matter what, that child would be treasured and adored.  A feeling like no other, filling her belly like warm milk. She remembered baby Henry's mesmerising blue eyes, precisely the same shade as his royal father's, and how she worshipped him like God himself for those few weeks they were together. Now that had been love; pure, unwavering true love. And it was the only love Marianne Westover had ever known.

Her devotion to her young son, estranged as they had been for these past eight years, had never faltered. It engulfed every inch of her being, possessing her so avariciously that there had been no space left in her heart for Annabel. Sweet, compliant little Annabel. Nor this new daughter, intelligent and perceptive as she already appeared to be.
"What shall we call her?" asked William contentedly. "I named our first, so I believe it's your turn my dear."

Marianne groaned in agitation. Why could he not just leave her in peace? Perhaps if she answered, he would go away. Closing her eyes, she searched the nooks and crannies of her mind for the first name she could think of. Leia? God, no. Verity? Even worse, if that was possible.
"Ada," she replied curtly. "For my mother. Now, if you don't mind, I should like to sleep a while."
The muffled thuds of his retreating footsteps echoed in her blanketed ears. "Oh, and William. We'll leave for England as soon as I am churched."
Her husband spoke like he was trying to stifle laughter. By now, he was well accustomed to Marianne's capricious nature, not least her blunt commands. It certainly made for a more interesting marriage than those of his friends and their docile little clan wives. "Yes, my dear."

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17 August 1531
As Marianne's carriage trundled under the imposing red-brick gatehouse of Hampton Court Palace, a broad smirk spread across her lips. She had fantasised about this day for years, in vivid — and ,perhaps, quixotic — detail. How she would make a grand entrance, decked from head-to-toe in glimmering gemstones, ornate hood towering on her head like an empress' crown. How she would be welcomed back home with open arms. How Leia and Verity and all her silly cousins would gasp in awe and envy. How her uncle would see her ripened beauty and curse his mistake of sending her to the far reaches of Scotland. How the King would desire her with as much fire as he once had.

Even the air tasted crisper on her tongue, like lavender and freshly-cut grass. The blazing midday sun blinded them as they stepped out of the carriage, throwing the surrounding courtyard into harsh shadows. A gentle breeze cavorted past, rustling the hem of Marianne's maroon-silk gown. English summers truly were unrivalled.