The Other Henry VIII

Protect the Innocent

With every drop of icy rain water that rolled off her hair, Princess Clara's heart ached a little more.

Nothing about the night-cloaked world around her felt real. The shape of James's face seemed to shift every passing moment, like a reflection in a puddle, and her arms were past numb from carrying little Esther's feeble body. Not to mention, she was completely drenched to the bone from over an hour of horseback-riding in a brewing storm. It was all Clara could do to stagger closer to the palace gates without her legs giving way.
"Mercy," she whispered huskily to her companion.
James could not help but smile faintly; even after fleeing in the pouring rain to court, the Princess still thought of the horse that had carried her here. "Be careful," he replied. Somehow, few words were required for the two to understand each other perfectly.

Attempting to withhold a cough, Clara shrugged off the hood of her cloak and tiredly eyed the fence. There were more guards than she was used to seeing in the daylight, their posts illuminated by dim candles beneath small shelters every few metres around the perimeter. Fortunately, only two shadows of men were at the gates, which meant only two shadows of men that Clara would have to convince. Surely at least one would recognise her? It was a flawed plan but Esther could only have a couple of hours more, especially without a physician's care. She had to do this.
Gulping, the Princess approached the gates with mustered determination, trembling from both fear and the cold. At first neither of the men even stirred. "Move along, waif," called out the taller one, his voice firm but fatigued. "This land is property of the Crown." His face turned to the other, revealing the silhouette of a prominent Roman nose. "We are supposed to drive away beggars, Tom?"
"I am no beggar," retorted Clara at the same time as Tom said "She is no beggar." A chill shot up her spine, though whether it was due to anxiety or the rain, she did not know. "Step closer, child." She did as she was told, impatient to find her father as soon as possible.

The Princess found herself recognising Tom's dark eyes and amiable expression: he was often posted to guard her while she rode Mercy across the grounds. Surely he must know her too?
"Please, I—"
"Your Grace?"
The tall man scoffed loudly, glaring at Clara. "Don't be stupid, that little wench ain't the Princess. Look how grubby she is! And why'd she be here in Richmond?" But thankfully, Tom seemed certain.
"Ned, I'm serious. This is Her Grace, the Princess Clara." With that, Clara saw his dark shape move in a motion that could be a bow. After a pause, Ned dropped to his knees.
"Your Grace, I—"
"Please... my sister... rode from Westhorpe... a fever..." It was all an exhausted Clara could force from her tongue before she felt James comforting arm to support her.
"I suppose you're the Dauphin of France then," drawled Ned, getting to his feet.

Despite the sound of hail on stone causing the Princess's head to ache profusely, she somehow found herself guided into the Main Entrance Hall of the palace. The warmth of the candlelight against the familiar panelled walls comforted her somehow. It must have been near midnight at least but there was still lively music drifting faintly from the ballroom, just as she had expected. Suddenly, Clara remembered her sister.
"Where is Esther? James, what have they done with Esther? James?"
"Your sister is taken care of, Your Grace, do not worry." A smooth voice pooled into her ears like honey. "Please, Your Grace, you must come upstairs and warm yourself by the fire." It was a maid, just a maid. Her dark eyes were lit by the flames of the candles.

"Please," replied Clara, breathless yet determined. "My father must know, he must. Send someone into the ballroom to tell him, anything, please..."
Exhausted, she tried to lean herself upon James but he had vanished. The only company was the two men at the doors, who were each masking looks of concern at her; everyone else must have been needed for her father's feast. Of course they will obey; am I not the Princess? But what have they done with James?
After barely a couple of minutes, though it seemed like both a second and an hour to Clara, the vast double doors before her folded away to reveal the dream-like colours of a court party and her father marching towards her with a livid expression on his face.

Henry's POV
I can barely hold myself together.

Although my body has accustomed itself to a high consumption of wine, my mind and judgement certainly have not. One moment I am holding Leia in my arms and feeling, for the first time, that she does not recoil; the next moment, a servant is whispering in my ear that my daughter, drenched in the heavy downpour outside, has ridden a horse all the way here from her own residence.

Where a warm, comforting feeling had been nestling in, fury erupts in my veins. Was Clara trying to kill herself and Esther? Has she not been given the greatest education this kingdom can offer? Have I not been a caring enough father? Why is she standing there as if she is about to collapse like a diseased peasant and looking like one too? And why am I making for her while the entire court is watching?
"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" I roar, ignoring the hundreds of eyes that are fixed upon me.
"Esther, Papa. She was... I am so... please..." Though I know that she is exhausted and part of me wants nothing more than to embrace her lovingly, I simply cannot stop. "RIDING ON HORSEBACK HERE, ALONE, IN A STORM?  ARE YOU NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THE MOST EDUCATED YOUNG WOMAN IN ENGLAND? LOOK AT YOU! SOAKED TO THE SKIN, LIKE A SERVING WENCH!"
"I am sorry... Your Majesty..." she replies, somehow retaining her composure and speaking as clearly as possible. I love my daughter. I know I do. She is my greatest achievement, is she not? I do not want to reprimand her like this, she does not deserve it, and yet here I am.

"EVEN IF YOU PLACE NO VALUE ON YOUR OWN LIFE, DO YOU AT LEAST HAVE SOME COMPASSION AND AFFECTION FOR YOUR POOR SISTER?"
"Your Majesty," comes a reasoning voice from behind me. I promptly ignore it.
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU HAVE DONE? HOW FOOLISH YOU HAVE BEHAVED? DO YOU UNDERSTAND, CLARA? DO-"
And somehow, I am barely a step away from her. Somehow, I am raising a hand to my darling daughter, my gift from God. But somehow, when my hand comes down, it lands upon the face of Leia. Leia. Leia.
How? Why is she there? Did she protect Clara? Did she leap in front of her? Was Leia who was speaking to me? I do not understand. All I can do is stare as she cries out feebly in pain and masks it with her own fingers. The courtiers are muttering, I can hear it. They were all here to witness this moment, God damn them. I meet Leia's dull, pained eyes for a brief moment and I know that I cannot remain here.

As I move slowly, numbly, towards the doors, I hear the muffled thud of my daughter falling to the ground from fatigue and the loud murmurs of the courtiers as she is attended by at least five servants.
I was so close to Leia, so close that I can still feel the imprint of her lips on mine. I have cost myself months if not years of progress.

Once I am out of view of the nobles and their poisonous gossip, I drop all pretences. I run.