The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Wendy J. Dunn

  “Where’s Harry? Where’s my brother?” Kate asked. Ever since she had come into her aunt’s chamber she had barely been able to restrain herself from bursting out with this question, heart-achingly aware of what lacked in this welcome. On her rare visits to court, Kate’s brother Harry always greeted her with her aunt.

  Aunt Nan screwed up her mouth and then sighed. “He wanted to be here. But he’s twelve now and has other obligations. I’d fail my duty as his guardian if I granted him permission to escape his tutors.” Her aunt gazed at Uncle George. “He’s not like us, is he? Harry would rather hunt all day than spend time with his books.”

  Uncle George half closed his eyes and the suggestion of a smile disappeared from his face. Disquieted, Kate wondered what was wrong. “He’s very alike to his father,” her uncle said. He turned to his sister. “There’s no question about his intelligence. Harry just has a common boyish desire to do other than read and write.”

  Aunt Nan’s mouth tightened, her face becoming falcon sharp. “Boyish desire—fiddlesticks. As a girl I relished my hours of learning; everything my tutors put before me I lapped up. Can anyone deny the worth of the tutors I’ve chosen for Harry? Is the poet Bourbon to be scoffed at? A tutor fit for a prince—and one who honours his young scholars by dedicating to them his new book. Tell me, brother, is a work like Bourbon’s Paedagogion to be quipped at? Our nephew but wastes his opportunities, and for what—boyish desires?” She sniffed in clear annoyance. “I relish the hunt, too, but I never allow my enjoyment of it to interfere with my duties.”

  Her uncle’s hand rested on his sister’s arm. “I remember well our childhood, if you do not. Mayhap the time you spent with our dogs and horses was the real cause for our lord father to send you abroad. You’re too hard on the lad.”

  To Kate’s bewilderment and embarrassment, her aunt’s eyes shone with tears. For her mother, tears came easily, but never would have Kate said the same of her sister. The change seemed more than could be simply explained by the years since she was last at court; it seemed a change in her aunt herself. Something had shifted, and cracked apart. Her aunt seemed exposed—no longer the confident woman of the past.

  Aunt Nan lowered her head, brushing her face. “Do you think I wish to be? What if I fail in my care of him?” Her aunt rubbed her temple with her palm and glanced Kate’s way. “Kate will help me with her brother.”

  Uncle George shook his head. “I’ve told you before what troubles the boy. Harry wants his mother and not his aunt to worry over him. You could give him the world, Nan, but it would mean nothing as long as his heart’s desire of seeing Mary is denied.”

  Kate stared from her uncle to her aunt. Wanting to go to court, she had never thought that her brother, perchance, wanted to come home. All his letters had spoken of his health and happiness; now she knew otherwise. Catching her aunt’s eye, she was answered by a frown. “Do not concern yourself with this, Kate.”

  “But Mother desires to see Harry, too. Why can he not come home for a time? He would want to see our little sister and brother.”

  Aunt Nan, her eyes glittering, turned away. “My sister’s other son, such is her good fortune. Mary does not know what trouble she causes me.”

  Uncle George put his arm around Nan’s thin shoulders. His face serious, her uncle glanced at her. “Nor does Kate. None of this is her fault, or, if you but think of it, our sister’s.”

  Turning a tremulous smile to her brother, Aunt Nan lifted her head, then turned to Kate again. “Forgive me. I am happy for your mother. She has the life she always wanted. But Mary must realise that it comes at a cost, and that the decision about Harry is not mine to make.”

  “Why?” Kate asked. More bewildered than ever before, Kate’s eyes fell upon another nearby tapestry that told the story of the noble Queen Esther hearing of the plot to exterminate her people. The richly garbed figures seemed drawn from the men and women of court she had seen on the way to the Queen’s chambers.

  At a loss, Kate could not take her eyes from Esther. Praying to God for salvation, the woman in the tapestry looked lost, desperate—just like her aunt had looked a moment ago. Just as lost as I feel now. She stumbled as if blindly in a dark labyrinth. Unable to discover her way out, pit holes opened at her feet.

  Kate’s question ignored, her uncle and aunt spoke briefly to one another; their words seemed to twist and twirl, offering up very little meaning she could understand. Surely it would be a simple thing for her aunt, the Queen, to send her brother home? Even just a day would mean the world to her mother.

  Her aunt and uncle considered her guardedly and met each other’s eyes. Aunt Nan tossed her head, and the tendons in her neck tightened. She muttered in an undertone, “Not yet.” She threaded her arm underneath Kate’s, then led her to a stool near the window. “Pray, child, sit,” said her aunt. Picking up her embroidery hoop, she sat back on the chair she had vacated on Kate’s arrival and studied her stitching. Vivid colours of silk threads depicted a spring knot garden hedged by purple lavender—a work of hours, days, weeks, months. Hollyhocks, daffodils, carnations, marigolds, every flower Kate could name, the garden burst into abundant, wild life. A threaded needle in her hand, Aunt Nan lifted her eyes. “Child, you do not understand, but I promise you will soon. Let’s not talk more of this until then.”

  Uncle George joined them, putting his hand on Kate’s shoulder. “One step at a time, sweetheart—first, settle in. Come tomorrow, I’ll be on my way to your mother. I think when I return you’ll find yourself less in the dark.”

  Aunt Nan lifted her eyebrows at her brother. “And Jane, George? Did you do as I asked and speak to her?” She poked the needle into her canvas as if in a gesture of impatience. “I do not wish to hear her protest in your absence that you neglect her.”

  He shrugged. “I have spoken to her, sister. I have explained the matter to her, but you know my wife. She thinks everything I do is forgetful of her presence. I am sick of her spite, and her jealousy. Believe me, I am happy to be away from her tongue for a time.”

  Aunt Nan gazed at him. “Be careful, George. I know you’re not at fault, but Jane worries me. She can no longer hide her dislike or jealousy even from me.” She turned back to Kate. “Pray, forgive us for speaking of family matters. But you, too, are family, and should know to be wary of your uncle’s wife. She has little to recommend her. All she does is speak ill of your uncle.” Aunt Nan glanced down and concentrated on threading a needle before smiling back at Kate. “While your uncle’s gone to Rochford you’ll find your place amongst us.” Her eyes suddenly became serious. “You too are of the blood of the Boleyns; when we must, we adapt. And no matter what—we always make anew.”

  3

  ON THE WAY BACK TO HER CHAMBER, Kate thought about the behaviour of her aunt and uncle. They had looked at her so strangely, and now Uncle George rode to see her mother. Why? None of it made any sense to her.

  Without taking in the return journey, or the departure of her escort, she stopped on the other side of the door of the antechamber of her bedchamber, rubbing at her cold arms. Winter and the nearness of night darkened the small room, while candlelight pulsed and flickered through the open door of the bedchamber as if a living thing.

  “Kate? Is that you?”

  The rush of slippered feet and flash of red silk announced the arrival of her cousin Madge, and she was gathered in her warm embrace.

  “Welcome, coz,” Madge said. She took Kate’s hand and led her into the bedchamber.

  A fire blazed in the hearth, adding to the light of many candles. But the dark spaces, where candle and firelight failed to reach, echoed Kate’s confusion.

  Madge’s mother was her great-aunt, the sister of her grandfather. Madge and her twin sister, Mary, had attended Aunt Nan since their twelfth year. Despite their close kinship, Kate had only met her cousins once before, at Aunt Nan’s coronation, over two years ago. Then, Madge and Mary were fifteen-year-olds and uninterested in paying any attention to their ele
ven-year-old cousin. Acting as experienced women, well-versed in court life, they had hurt Kate by shutting her out while they celebrated the Queen’s coronation. Not just shutting her out; they had made her feel invisible.

  Now Madge clasped her hand with a bright smile. Her chest tight with nerves, Kate tried to smile back at her, a smile she couldn’t anchor. She felt reprieved when Madge let go of her hand to step ahead of her. They arrived at the table where platters and a simple meal of bread, cheese and cooked fowl had been set. Going to the other side of the table, Madge sat down to pick up a half-finished chicken leg. She gnawed at it as she pointed to the empty platter and goblet on the table.

  “Sit, Kate. The fare is for you, too.”

  With another glance at Madge, Kate sat and reached for the other chicken leg before pouring ale into her goblet. The nearby night-candle lit the stream into liquid gold. Biting into the roasted, juicy flesh of the fowl, she closed her eyes, savouring the taste. At home, feasting on their young, egg-laying hens was out of the question. Only when hens stopped providing them with eggs did they have boiled fowl served as a meal. Not so at court.

  Dabbing at her mouth, Kate cleared her throat and thought again about her cousin’s greeting. She was older now. Perhaps that explained Madge’s greeting. Does Madge see the four years separating us as now bridged? Time to find out by tossing out a first rope. “Thank you for sharing your chamber with me,” she murmured.

  Her cousin smiled. “The Queen asked me to help you settle in. Having you with me will make that easier.” Madge’s large, blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You do not snore, do you? One thing I hate is a bed-companion who keeps me wide awake all night long with their trumpeting.”

  Kate shrugged. “I sleep alone most nights at home, but Grandmother has never complained when she has shared a bed with me.” She laughed a little. “Although I could complain of her. Her snoring is like a blunt saw.”

  Chuckling, Madge washed her fingers in the provided water bowl, then pushed away from the table, wooden chair legs protesting against a rush mat. Madge pulled around a heavy plait of chestnut brown hair. Light from the tall candles close to them lit her plait with a shimmer of red and gold. She lowered her gaze and played distractedly with her hair.

  Kate studied her cousin closely. Her skin was unblemished, her lips rosy and full. With a perfect oval face, she was truly beautiful, everything Kate wished for herself. She reached for the remains of the bread loaf and tore at it angrily. I am plain compared to her. I am plain compared to most of my kin. 'Tis so unfair.

  Aware that Madge now scrutinised her, Kate straightened. She chewed fast and swallowed down her bread. Does she know? Does she know why Uncle George rode out in winter to see my mother? If she didn’t know that, surely Madge could tell her why her aunt seemed so changed. Kate licked her lips, measuring her words before she spoke. “Madge,” she said, “what is wrong with the Queen?”

  Madge poured ale into her goblet and sipped. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t think it would take you long before you asked me this question—although I’m surprised to hear it on your first day. Since the Queen asked me to share my chamber with you, I’ve thought hard on this. I cannot leave you in the dark, otherwise I leave you unwarned and unarmed, and likely to shame yourself, and your kin, too, in your ignorance. You must know what you’ll find here.”

  Kate dipped her hands into the water bowl. Oil from the cooked fowl washed off her hands and turned into rainbow swirls. She dried her hands on a towel and looked across at her cousin. “You speak of the Queen?”

  “Aye. I speak of the Queen. I do not know what news comes to you at home, but you must know this. The King and Queen are no longer content,” Madge said.

  Kate jerked back. “Oh—why?” She swallowed—remembering the triumph of her aunt’s coronation. After witnessing that day, she held the story of her aunt’s love affair close to her like treasure.

  Slouching back, Madge played with her plait. “The King blames her for the loss of their last babe. He cannot see that none is to blame but fate. Since their marriage, he breaks her heart, time after time, with his cruel and thoughtless dalliances—even while she recovered from losing their child. If she protests, the King tells her to do as her betters have done: endure.”

  Madge’s mouth tightened before she spoke again, reaching for her goblet. “He is kinder now, showing her affection at times. Strange to think it is because of another woman.”

  Kate looked at her cousin, more and more disbelieving her ears. The King unfaithful to my aunt? Breaking her heart? Telling her to do as her betters had done before her. Her betters? There are none better than my aunt.

  “‘Another woman’?” Kate echoed, treading on shifting sands, all her illusions about her aunt’s life at court under threat.

  Madge shrugged and then wiped her mouth. “During the court’s summer progress we stopped for a time at the Seymours’ Wolf Hall. Our Lord Seymour had already placed his daughter, Jane, under the King’s nose. Now he made certain wherever the King was, so was she. Coming back from the hunt one day, the Queen found him with Jane.” Madge met Kate’s gaze. “You understand my meaning?”

  Her cheeks heating, Kate nodded.

  Madge continued her story. “Only by good fortune did the wet weather bring the Queen back earlier than expected, otherwise Jane might have consummated her desire to snare the King. This time, having disturbed the King at his play, the Queen reined in her temper. She reined it in so well that he reconsidered his liking for one who acts with him like a timid, dull-witted white mouse. He returned to the Queen’s bed, thank God.”

  The nearby night candle sputtered and sizzled, its light flickering furiously before going out. Madge’s face dimmed. Kate leaned closer to her cousin and listened.

  “But you must understand that their lack of a son builds a wall between them—a wall that daily becomes higher and harder to climb because there is no prince.”

  Aunt Nan had given King Harry only one living child, a daughter, Elizabeth, little Bess—not the wanted prince that would safeguard England from civil war. Since Aunt Nan’s marriage to the King, crops had failed, bringing famine to the land, and good men had gone to their deaths. When Kate’s mother heard of the recent executions of Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, she had railed and wept. They died rather than agree to the supremacy of the King, that he had the right to do what he willed. Yet it was the Queen, and not the King, who was hated.

  Madge talked and talked. More candles had guttered to congealing masses of wax, their light flicking and sputtering, by the time Madge arrived at the most important news of all: The King’s return to his wife’s bed had achieved its purpose. Aunt Nan was with child.

  Aunt Nan emerged from her litter at Westminster, a picture of grace, in her coronation robes. Her ladies rushed around to help with the long trail while she gazed at the abbey. Sunlight struck and glittered the rubies of the golden chaplet encircling her brow.

  Darkness fell, a backdrop for hostile faces. Too many hostile faces. They jutted at Kate and sneered, surrounding her until fear tightened around her throat.

  Kate fought her way through the men and women, while Aunt Nan lifted her head and laughed. She seemed unaware of any hostility. Without faltering, she strode towards the abbey.

  One, two, three voices called out, “God save the Queen!” At the door of Westminster, looking over her shoulder, Aunt Nan waved in greeting and turned aside to joke with her ladies.

  A man’s voice shouted, “God save Queen Katherine!” The floodgates opened to voices of hate, a torrent of execration: “HA! HA! Henry and Anne!” “Witch! Goggle-eyed whore!” Soldiers pushed and beat back the rowdy crowd. More cries of protest rang out followed by another roar of hate, and yet another, and another. “God save Queen Katherine!” men and women yelled in unison.

  Aunt Nan’s hand protected the pronounced swell of her belly. She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her purple mantle to a better position
on one side. Again, rubies, sapphires and diamonds twinkled in her chaplet, dazzling the eye like fire.

  Now, all the hostile faces disappeared, replaced by only her aunt’s: ashen, all joy cast down, large, dark eyes even larger, unfathomable, deep as the ocean itself. She was the first woman—Eve who looked back at Eden, forbidden to her for eternity. Aunt Nan laughed a pealing laugh of defiance, her hand on her belly again. She entered the candle-lit darkness of Westminster.

  Kate awoke in the bed she now shared with Madge. Tears trickled down her face and her heart beat fast with terror. A rooster crowed, its full voice chasing her dream away until all that remained was the memory of hatred—hatred that threatened her aunt.

  Drying her eyes, she looked through an opening in the drawn bed hangings. Despite the darkness, a narrow strip of morning light escaped from a gap in the closed window curtains and seemed to spearhead towards her.

  Kate listened to the waking songs of birds and glanced aside at Madge. Lying back, an arm flung over her head, she breathed softly, undisturbed. Her hair coiled charmingly on her pillow and a loose shift revealed a naked, well-shaped shoulder.

  When the rooster crowed again, Kate swung out of bed, grabbed her fur mantle and tossed it over her shoulders. The cold floor made her gasp. Her bare toes curling up in protest, she jigged a strange, disjointed dance to the fireplace. Fire had turned most of the night’s huge log into a crumbling city of red embers and winding grey ash roads.