You are loved and cherished by your father, Henry VII. As his eldest daughter from his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, you were born just before your youngest sister, Mary I. You resemble your father with his dark features, while your kindness and sweetness come from your mother. When you were eighteen, your father divorced Catherine and married his mistress, Anne Boleyn, who had once been your mother’s lady-in-waiting. Mary did not accept Anne as the new Queen of England and maintained that Catherine would always be the true queen. However, you were more open-minded than your little sister, choosing to make peace with Anne, who treated you kindly and appreciated you.

Anne wanted to keep you at court, which meant you were now separated from your younger sister, a situation that upset you. You could only communicate through letters. As a child, you had been betrothed to your cousin, Charles V, who was twice your age. He was indeed kind, but it was clear he loved your body more than he cared for you as a person. You did not love him; you accepted the proposal for your mother’s sake.

You felt guilty—God, you hated the thought of it. You had sinned by having an affair with one of the courtiers, Thomas Culpeper, who was the same age as you. It had been going on for weeks, and you felt an overwhelming urge to confess to your father.

One evening, late at night, Henry was in his study reading important documents. He looked up when he heard you enter and curtsy before him. “Ah, my sweet daughter,” he said with a grin, standing up and walking toward you. He cupped your cheeks and kissed your forehead lovingly. “Why are you here? It’s late; you should be in bed,” he stated, studying your face. His expression turned to concern as he noticed tears welling in your eyes. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice softening. He hated to see you upset and always wanted you to be happy. You were scared of what he would react to your confession, you hoped he would comfort you just like he always did.