Summary: One event sealed her fate and the course of history forever, but what would happen if it was changed? If what was known as fact was changed to fiction how drastically would history be altered, or would everything remain the same?
A/N: So basically this is a story of what would happen if one moment in history was altered slightly and how it would affect our beloved Tudors and the rest of their days. Put simply this is in essence the way I wanted it to go, and since I am currently without any means of changing the past I have decided to write it down.
For this story I will mostly stick to the show (especially in things such as appearance and age), however I will also try my hardest to remain true to History as well. In saying that I am going to note a few changes:
In 'The Tudors' Henry had one sister Princess Margret who married the Duke of Suffolk, I will not be sticking to this as it essentially eliminates The Lady Jane grey and King James from existence. So like in reality, Princess Mary the dowager Queen of France married the Duke of Suffolk and together they had 3 children.
In 'The Tudors' Henry Fitzroy the Duke of Richmond died no older than the age of 5, when actually he lived to the age of 17, I have not yet decided if he is going to die as he did in history, but for the present time he is still alive and well.
This story takes place in Episode 8 of season 2, following the scene were Anne found Henry with Jane on his knee.
As one cannot own the past I own nothing.
Chapter One: The last Chance of a Queen
Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, Ireland and France knew without any doubt that her time was nearing an end.
Her husband no longer loved her. Henry had spent more than seven years pulling his country apart for her, for their love yet now he was willing to throw it away for a mere a blonde slut who would not spread her legs for him. Anne was being cast aside by the same means she had used to replace Katherine, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought.
Her pregnancy had done nothing to ease her troubled mind, Anne was not deluded enough to think that everything would return to the way it once was simply because she had found herself once again with child.
If she lost the baby she would be replaced instantly. Jane Seymour would be in her throne before the blood had even dried, filling it up with weak blonde brats. If the child that she was carrying was a girl she was as good as gone, a healthy daughter would buy her a few months, a year if Henry was feeling particularly generous. If she gave birth to a son, a healthy prince the living image of his father, she would still be replaced, not as his queen but as his love and Anne knew that she would rather die than allow that to happen….
Anne's only hope was to die. If she died in childbirth (a fear that was not unreasonable) she would be replaced son or no son, Henry would forget about her, about their love in a mere second in those pale wenches' arms. Yet, she would not have to see it, she would not have to watch as her husband loved another, she would not have to stand there and be ignored. If she died giving him a son she would be forever remembered as the mother of the future king, the woman who birthed the golden age of the Tudors….and that would never change.
Anne didn't want to die; she held no desire to leave Elizabeth in this world alone to fend for herself. Yet still she found herself wishing for death as if it were an old friend. Henry had broken her heart, broke it to a point where she didn't know if it would ever mend. How could he do that to her? Parade his slut around without a thought for his pregnant wife, how could he seduce his whore so openly with Anne in the condition that she was in?
The sight she had seen earlier that day had all but destroyed her. Jane in Henry's arms, the love in his eyes it was a look that had once been hers and hers alone and it had broke her heart to see him love another's. In all of her 28 years of life Anne had never before felt such despair…such utter hopelessness , in her heart she knew that Henry wasn't looking at a mere mistress he wanted to bed he was looking at a woman he wanted to marry.
She had almost lost herself completely in those moments after she saw them, she had felt a blinding rage, an anger so forceful she was sure she could have killed Jane Seymour with her bare hands. If Henry had not stopped her she would have lost the baby, and she cursed herself for being so weak, for letting her emotions control her to a point where she put her precious child's life in danger.
Henry had returned her to her rooms and instructed her ladies to put her to bed as if she were some naughty school girl and not his wife and queen the mother of his only heir. He had not uttered a word to her and Anne knew it was not because of any feelings of guilt.
No, Henry Tudor King of England, Ireland and France did not feel guilty. It was his divine right to take a mistress and it was her duty to ignore it, to 'grin and bear it like your betters have done before you' as her husband had so kindly put it.
She didn't know how it had come to this, they had been happy she knew they had been, they had been so in love that it had consumed their very beings, and now she thought what did they have now? He had his whore, his pale wench, and she had nothing, she was nothing…nothing more than a queen without her king's love.
No, she thought wishing her tears away; she did have something…something that could never be taken from her no matter how hard Henry tried. Elizabeth, their darling daughter, Anne's perfect princess, she would not give her up for a hundred son's. She is ours, completely and utterly ours, A Boleyn rose and a Tudor princess, Elizabeth was the one pure thing they had done in their lives, and Anne did not even want to consider what would happen to Elizabeth if she failed now, if she lost her last chance.
Would he declare her a bastard? Anne wondered thinking of Katherine, of Mary. Was this pain she was feeling justice for what had occurred to them?
No, Henry would see reason…Anne would make him see reason once she had delivered him a son all would be well, he fought so hard for me, gave so much for the love we once had, Henry wouldn't throw everything we had fought so hard to build for one pale slut, Anne had to believe it, she had to believe that eleven years were worth something, that seven years of waiting was worth more than a blonde bitch who couldn't even write her own name.
"Argh," Anne's scream tore through her silent chambers like a knife, immediately her hands fell to her stomach, her boy…No, she would not let him die. She could feel the blood pooling out of her, she could hear the gasps of her ladies entering the room, but she couldn't spare them a thought she had to stop it, this was not going to happen, she would not allow it to happen, " No, my boy…not my boy," she cried helplessly curling herself in a ball in an attempt to stop the blood that was flowing, " please stay with me, stay with me," She whispered feeling herself getting weaker, and she was sure as she slipped slowly into blackness that the blood had stopped flowing.
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