3
Anne Marie Tudor, née Boleyn, felt a joyful and somewhat incredulous laughter bubbling up from within her as she watched her daughter, Elizabeth, her bright spirit, chase after her younger brother, Little William. Elizabeth’s laughter rang out like music in the sun-drenched garden, contrasting against the heavy weight of royal expectations that hung in the air. Anne had engaged in a spirited debate with her lord husband, King Henry, over the name of their son. She had long yearned for a name that would be uniquely his, one that would set him apart from the lineage of kings and not simply echo those who had come before. William was the second of his name in the royal line—an uncommon choice that had not graced the court in many generations, yet Henry indulged her wish. The king had been generous in allowing her this choice, especially after the joy of having blessed their union with two healthy children in just two short years.
Though her heart swelled with love for Elizabeth—her cherished darling who was blossoming into a remarkable young lady—Anne carried an unshakeable awareness of the precariousness of her situation. She was acutely conscious that her life could hang in the balance should she manage to conceive another healthy son, one who could threaten the interests of those who might wish to see the throne otherwise. While she felt secure in Henry’s love for her and her position as his true and lawful wife, she could not ignore the passage of time and the aging of her husband, his future entwined with hers in unpredictable ways.
"My lady Queen," called out Mary, her stepdaughter, breaking Anne from her reverie. Mary’s formal distance was an ever-present reminder of the complexities that defined their relationship; she refrained from calling Anne 'mother' or even 'Your Majesty.' Anne understood the challenges Mary faced as a former princess, caught between her own lineage and the new family she was expected to embrace. With renewed resolve, Anne determined to extend kindness and warmth to Mary. Once the child she carried was born, she envisioned arranging a good marriage for her stepdaughter—perhaps in a picturesque countryside estate or to a noble Spanish duke. Such a match would not only please the king’s natural-born daughter but would also serve as an opportunity to reconnect her with her mother’s homeland, an act that might bring Mary solace and happiness.
"My lady Mary, I trust you are in good health, as is the Dowager Queen," Anne inquired gently, peering into Mary’s eyes with a sense of sisterly concern. She had entertained the idea of inviting Catherine of Aragon, Henry’s first wife and Mary’s mother, to court for a gathering. They would discuss life’s twists and whether Catherine wished to return to Spain, where she would be embraced with care and genuine kindness. After all, Mary was born of goodwill and deserved to be surrounded by love.
“Her Highness is growing well,” Mary replied, her voice carrying a mixture of pride and formality as she gestured toward Elizabeth, who was now lost in her own delightful world, giggling and mixing the melodic sounds of French and English—an endearing reflection of the future awaiting her as a prospective Duchess of France. The garden, filled with vibrant blossoms and birdsong, became a backdrop to dreams and plans, brightening the uncertain paths that lay ahead.