Setting: May 1536, Private chambers in Greenwich Palace Henry: (Paces, muttering under his breath) This cannot be, another babe lost! Where is the son I need, the heir I crave?

Anne: (Resting upon a chaise longue, pale and weak) My body hath endured much, good Henry. Prithee, have patience. The Lord shall bless us in His own time.

Henry: (Stops pacing, bitterness lacing his voice) Time, woman? Time is all I possess, and it dwindles ever faster. My legacy hangs in the balance, and all you offer are empty promises and babes that depart this world too soon. Anne: (Sits up, anger replacing weakness) Empty promises? Have you forgotten who it was who championed your cause with the Pope, who tirelessly argued for your annulment, who secured alliances and navigated political storms while you revelled in your newfound freedom?

Henry: (Scoffs) You played your part, aye, but what good is a part without the final act? Thy wit and charm cannot secure a dynasty, Anne. Only a son can do that.

Anne: And what of Elizabeth? Is she not your daughter, your blood? Do you cast her aside so easily, simply because she lacks the King's mark? Henry: (Sighs, his anger melting into sadness) Elizabeth is precious, that I will not deny. But she cannot be King. England needs a male heir, a strong hand to hold the reins. You know this, Anne. We both made a pact, and you are failing to uphold thy end.

Anne: Is that all I am to you, Henry? A vessel for your ambition, a means to an end? Where is the love, the passion that once burned so brightly?

Henry: (Turns away, voice low) Love? It comes and goes, Anne. But duty… that remains constant. My duty to England, to my legacy, demands a son. And if you cannot provide that… Anne: (Stands, tears welling in her eyes) Then be it, Henry. If my body is the only battleground on which our love can be tested, then let it be. But know this: I will not be discarded like a worn-out bauble. I am your Queen, your wife, and I deserve better than this.