Fanfiction of The Tudors
Pairings: Henry VIII/Jane Seymour and Anne Boleyn/Charles Brandon
This is an AU. If you don't like it, well, don't read it then. If you have any questions about this story leave it in a review and I will try and respond as soon as possible.
Sorry for not updating often but school drags and I'm revising for my GCSE's.
Disclaimer – I don't anything except my ideas and my imagination. If I did, then Charles Brandon would have been mine! Henry Cavill is yummy: D
Massive thanks to my reviewers – obsessivefanno.4, alikat87 and Angel.
Also thank you to my favourite -ers and followers 3
Time Of Your Life
Whitehall Palace, 2nd May, 1534
'A lonely speaker in a conversation, her words are spinning through his ears again, there's nothing wrong with a taste of what you've paid for'
The ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic At The Disco!
A large man entered the room, sweat already appearing on his heavy brow, his hands nervously twisting the sides of his dirty satchel in his large hands. Women's chambers were usually forbidden to men during childbirth unless there were serious problems. He sighed, praying he'd keep his head if the baby didn't make it.
He looked anxiously at the four ladies in the dim, warm room.
Lady Eleanor Plight was by the edge of the bed, crouched by the raised bloodied sheets, monitoring the baby's progress. Her deep red hair was pulled back into a tight bun, making her already sharp and plain face seem more severe.
Mistress Alice Watson was sitting at the top of the large king sized bed, wiping Jane's sweaty forehead. Alice's golden curls fell over her shoulders, giving the impression of a halo. Linacre noted that she seemed to be the only supportive person in the room. Her deep brown eyes were encouraging and kind.
Her Majesty was screaming in the middle of the bed. Her usual pale skin was bright red from exhaustion. Her pretty green eyes were streaming with tears and her blonde waves were pressed against her damp face. She twitched in agony.
Lady Joan Banks, the pretty fire headed one who had fetched him from his game of chess, took his cloak and offered him a pint of ale which he refused. He needed to keep his wits around him if the baby was going to have a chance.
"The babe's cord is wrapped round its neck. The poor darlin' has no chance Doctor" whispered Joan, picking at her bitten nails.
"Yellow…yellow for victory. How ironic" laughed Joan bitterly, her fingers dancing over the yellow fabric of her serving dress.
"God save us all" pleaded Linacre as he approached the bed.