THE Anne Boleyn

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Disclaimer: I do not own Tudors.

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“For ten days, he’s yours, again. Are you not happy?”

Laughing bitterly, Charles Brandon pours some ale and downs it. “I helped make you Queen. You repaid me by treating me worse than a dog.”

“After you helped, you tried to undo your work; you tried to poison him against marrying me.”

“I’ve known some whores who will be warmly welcomed into heaven; I never thought you among them, and seeing as you’re here, there’s a good chance I was right.”

“I’m no whore,” she replies, quietly. “I was simply a threat, unlike Catherine, who you politely helped destroy. Speaking of which, what did Catalina of Aragon ever do to you? If he had wanted you, she would have forgiven him even that.”

Charles has never, for all his vices, hit any woman; he bullies only those who are a threat to him or to those he loves, and he prefers to do so without laying a hand on them. However, he wonders if a ghost or a figment of his own mind truly counts as something physically weaker than him. At the moment, he wants more than anything to throw his glass at her, hopefully to see her cut.

“I begged her more than once to accept the comfort and friendship offered; if she had just accepted an annulment or abdicated, she and Mary would have still been the most loved in all of England.” He pours some more, staring into the fire. “No woman’s pride will ever be worth losing his majesty’s favour. And you, madam, are not one to talk; if you could have, you would have ordered their deaths yourself.”

“What will you do if she bears a healthy son?”

“Fall to my knees and thank God.” The ‘of course’ is unspoken but heavy and clear.

She comes over, and he winces at the sight of her. Kneeling in front of him, her hand reaches out and hovers above his cheek. “Do you truly not understand, my dear Duke? If any wife of his produces a healthy son, you had better pray to God that she is, if not fond of you, tolerant of your presence.”

“For you see,” she says, dark eyes boring into his, “a legitimate son is worth anything, even the life of his most loving and loyal friend. Oh, he’d cry; he’d light candles and beg for forgiveness from you and God; and if the son died before he did, he might take her life in vengeance. However, if a wife gave him a healthy son and asked for your life, he wouldn’t hesitate long before ordering the warrant drawn and signing it.”

Smiling serenely, she stands. “Enjoy the brief time you have no cause to fear, your grace.”

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“I imagine you miss me, now. When I was Queen, no heretics were ever put to death.”

“Cromwell will pay,” he answers, calmly, downing a shot of wine. “I gladly hung those guilty of treason; he wants people killed for no reason other than to make me suffer.”

“I think his motives a bit more complex than that.”

Scoffing, Charles refills his glass. “He also helped bring about your death; why do you not torture him with your damnable presence?”

“How do you know I do not?”

He glances at her. “The Pilgrims might have been safe under you, but what of all the lives forfeited because of you? What heinous crime was More guilty of?

“The same you are: Murdering those whose religious beliefs are different from what the law requires. Can law ever truly regulate the relationship between man and his God, gods, or goddesses? Or if he’s an atheist, can the law ever truly force him to wilfully accept religion?”

At his bitter laugh, she concedes, “He was found guilty of treason, not of unjust burning. Whether you agree it should be treason or not, he broke a promise to the King, and then, he refused to make amends by signing an oath that would have showed his loyalty and obedience.”

Ignoring that, he continues, “My servant? What of all those people killed to either see you Queen or to see you never crowned? What of those who had to die because you married, and then, displeased the King? Wasn’t your brother among them?”

She appears in front of him and curtseys. “I’ll leave you to your sorrows, your grace.”

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“I warned you that a legitimate son was worth anything.”

“Do you have no shame? This is a house of worship!”

“And you are soaked head to toe in whiskey.”

Some part of him concedes the point.

She makes a soft sound. “He’s old and fat with a never-healing leg; his young, obedient wife is dead; his first wife, who, even now, would gladly forgive all, is also dead. His first daughter will never be his pearl, again. His second daughter has the eyes of the woman who he insists on believing committed adultery against him. Many of his people despise him. But he does have a healthy son to succeed him.”

“Oh, don’t be so cross,” she says when he starts to reach for a crucifix. He doesn’t care what she is; he just wants to see her bleed and bruise. “I mean no insult; I’m simply explaining things from his eyes.”

Charles drops his hand, suddenly very tired.

“Really, what reason does he have to live?”

“Me. His childhood friend and loyal servant.”

“He places his fool above you. Do you still delude yourself into thinking his love for you can or will ever equal your love for him?”

“I’m his brother-in-law and father to his nephew and nieces.”

“He has many in-laws, many nephews and nieces. And lest you forget, he didn’t want you as a brother-in-law.”

“At first, no. But he wanted me as a brother-in-law more than he wanted you as wife at the very end.”

“Pray that the fool has enough influence to reach him. And if so, enjoy the relief tinged with jealously and feelings of worthlessness, your grace.”

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“You could have killed him.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“No, but you haven’t slept for a full week.”

“Of course,” Charles mutters. “Go away. I would have taken responsibility if he died.”

“Are only you allowed to assassinate the King?”

He throws a pillow, but his eyes are too unfocused to see if it has any effect. “He was in terrible pain and possibly dying. I had to do something other than just sit there and watch him.”

“Ever heard of prayer, darling Duke?”

“It didn’t stop your conviction, your death, the death of your brother, and the bastardisation of your daughter, did it, my dear dead lady?”

“Will he still trust you when he finds you disregarded the advice of his most trusted physician? Sleep now, your grace.”

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“I’m happy right now. You won’t ruin it.”

“Your happiness will last until he realises how smoothly Cromwell made things run. Then, he’ll begin turning on people. Will you be one of them?”

“The only good thing Cromwell ever did was help get rid of you.”

“Yes, we can both see and hear how well and truly I’m gone.”

“All the more reason he deserved what he got.”

She appears above his face. “Come now; we both know my being here has nothing to do with anyone else.”

“Then, why,” he asks, tiredly, his good cheer disappeared.

Hovering her hand over his forehead, she says, “Your Harry broke with Rome due to his love of me. He tore the nation in half for want of me. Some accuse him of even going against God Himself to marry me. If you die, your grace, he’d cry. He might visit your grave. Perhaps, even attend your funeral. However, the truth of the matter is: your love for him is and was greater than mine, but his love for me was greater than it was for you.”

Reaching up, Charles tries to touch her. “I still live. He still embraces me and calls me friend. I am still his favourite. Except for the brief time I was exiled because of speaking the truth of you, I was that while he was married to you. He spoke more honestly to me than he ever did to you.”

She nods. “Yes, but in your heart of hearts, you know that if God had granted me a son, you wouldn’t have been. I came closer than anybody except Jane Seymour to replacing you. Is it not strange, however, that she never comes? Tell me, Charles Brandon, do you soothe yourself with the delusion that orchestrating their meeting at the right time, that praying for a son for him like a dutiful servant, that all that somehow nullifies it? Does the pain of being second really abate at the thought that, at least, you chose your replacement?”

He closes his eyes. “He never betrayed me in bed. I ask the same of you, Queen Anne Boleyn of the dead: When he went riding with your cousin, Madge, did the thought that, at least, you choose your replacement, however temporary or permanent, abate your pain?”

“I’ll be back. Goodbye, your grace.”

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Author’s Notes: This is a mixture of real life (Henry being fat and old; Anne being very religiously tolerant, with several sources saying that no one was killed for heresy while she was Queen), of the show (Madge instead of her sister, who was his mistress in real life), and my interpretation of the show (I’m convinced Charles, behind-the-scenes, looked for a new wife, found Jane, and then, cunningly played matchmaker).

Whether Anne is a ghost or just a figment of Charles’s imagination is up to you. Whatever she is, she only appears when he’s in very altered state of mind and seems very real to him.

As for the love Henry doesn’t have for Charles, whether it’s romantic/sexual or simply intensely platonic/brotherly, I leave that up to the reader as well.

 

I really really like this. I can’t explain it. I just do. Charles and I had a rather complicated “friendship”.