Suddenly serious, Harry cocked his head, chewing at his bottom lip. “How is she?”
“Happy and content, until she thinks of you. She yearns to see you, Harry.”
Her brother stared at his feet. “She writes often. I am no penman, but for her I write.” He glared, as if she was the one at fault. “Why did she marry that lowborn rogue? She was allowed to see me before then.”
“She was lovesick.” Kate shifted in her discomfort. “I don’t think she could help herself.” To Kate’s confusion, hearing Harry call their stepfather a rogue made her want to defend him. “He loves her—truly loves her. He’s kind to me, but I don’t want another father. The memory of our good father is enough for me.”
Harry’s startled look puzzled Kate. He reddened and averted his face towards the window. Outside, peacocks screamed, piercing any semblance of peace. Their strident cries, as if panicked calls for help, only added to her apprehension.
Still looking at the window, her brother frowned. “My faith! Why are the peacocks back? The Queen, our aunt, had them banished from the gardens long ago.”
Kate squirmed under his sudden perusal. She was the elder, yet he looked at her differently to what he had in the past, like she was the child, not him. “Why are you acting strange? Everybody is.”
He hunched his shoulders and refused to meet her eyes. “Poor Katie,” he murmured. He glanced at her, then away again. “I cannot tell you.”
One day, only one day at court and secrets seemed everywhere. Secrets kept from her, secrets about the Queen and King. Now the secrets involved her. She glared at Harry. “God’s oath, why? Am I not your sister?”
“Aye, of course, but this first concerns our mother. Uncle and Aunt do not want her any more heartsore than necessary.”
“Heartsore? Why do you think that?”
He shrugged. “Believe me, she would be heartsore if they spoke to you without her permission. That’s why Uncle George has gone to her.”
Kate clutched her aching head and tried to loosen her gable hood. She sat on the bed and glowered at her brother. “Harry, this is not fair. I don’t understand why I must wait. Especially if this secret touches on me.”
He sat beside her and held her hand. “Life’s hurt our mother far too often. I beg you, sister, be patient for her.”
Kate tightened her mouth. “What happens if Mother does not wish to give her permission to our uncle?”
Lowering his head, Harry inspected a stain on his doublet. Kate tugged his hand. “Harry, answer me.”
He combed his fingers through his hair and looked at her with sober eyes. “Whether Mother says yea or nay, Aunt Nan just waits for our uncle to return. Then, I promise, you’ll know.”
5
KATE BIT HER BOTTOM LIP, frowned in concentration, and wrote on the first blank page in her journal:
I stand on a sacred threshold—a bridge between reality and dream. Time there has no meaning.
She frowned again, recalling the poem that had brought these words to mind. Her stepfather had recited it, just days before she left her home for court.
This never-lingering Time, who all day long
Is going on and never will return,
Resembles water that forever flows
But ne’er a drop comes back.
There is no thing
So durable, not even iron itself,
That it can time survive…
She saw him so vividly in her memory—smiling and looking at her mother, his eyes humorous, trying to lift her spirits. Trying to tell her that nothing ever stays the same. Kate blotched the parchment, annoyed to be even thinking about her stepfather. She sat straighter and returned her quill to the parchment.
Surely I possess eternity, the now, the past, the future, forever one.
Kate sighed. Would Uncle George or Aunt Nan think this a poem? But what is poetry? Kate stared at the words she had written and put down her quill. Should she scrape the words away and deny them the right to make such a claim?
For days now, she had tried to find her place at court. She felt an incongruous creature—bound through blood to the Queen, yet low in her service. Her new world was so strange. There was an air of expectancy—and of an even greater malaise. The chill of winter seemed to have seeped into the very spirits of those at court. She could make no sense of it. The court was like a dead hearth that waited for fire and life.
On her third day at court, early in the morning, Kate hurried to her brother’s chambers. Uncle George, given good weather, would now have reached her mother. Unhappy with this forced wait for his return, she planned to make Harry reconsider and tell her the reason for all this foolish secrecy.
She badgered him with questions, but discovered Harry had learnt too well the ways of the court and its skills of dissembling. He shrugged at her interrogation and then made her laugh with his telling of how he had put a purge into the drink of one his fellow scholars, a boy who too many times broke wind without apology. When Harry shared the punishment he received from his tutor, she laughed even more heartily. On a parchment, he had translated from Latin to English Erasmus’s “On Good Manners for Boys.”
There are some who lay down the rule that a boy should refrain from breaking wind by constricting his buttocks. But it is no part of good manners to bring illness upon yourself while striving to appear polite. If you may withdraw, do it in private. But if not, then in the words of an old adage, cover the sound with a cough. Besides, why do they not rule in the same way that boys should not purge their bowels, since it is more dangerous to refrain from breaking wind than it is to constrict the bowels.
Harry next invited her to explore his small library. Drawn to the shelves laid out with valuable books, Kate forgot her questions and became lost in opening covers, seeking the treasure hidden inside. When it came time for him to go to his tutors, he gathered together five of his discarded books, some loaned to him by the Queen, and told Kate to take them. She could hardly believe her good fortune that her brother would allow these valuable books to be in her possession.
Taking the books and more gifts, she looped her heavy skirts into her girdle so she could walk more freely. He opened his chamber door and waited until she was in the outside gallery. He then forgot her as he strode to join his fellow scholars.
She turned in the opposite direction to begin the journey back to the chambers she shared with Madge. With each step the weight in her arms grew heavier. By the time she reached the antechamber that led to her bedchamber, she struggled to regain her breath. The oak door looked closed, but a firm swing of her hip proved otherwise. She entered the room with relief.
Her good fortune continued. The bedroom door was ajar. Once more, she swung her hip, only to discover she had used the last vestiges of her strength. Her swing lacking any true power, the second door only opened a little more. Just enough for her to see inside the darkened room. Just enough to startle her. She made a sudden movement of fright that almost toppled Plato’s Phaedo and The Republic from the bundle in her arms. Kate leaned against the wall beside the door to regain a firmer hold. She peered into the chamber again. Her eyes—nor the thin winter light—hadn’t misled her. Seated on the window-seat, her aunt embraced the weeping Madge. Her face white and drawn, Aunt Nan looked ready to cry herself.
“Bow out,” Aunt Nan said to Madge, her voice bell clear and distinct despite the distance. “You’ve a lion’s heart, but believe me, you play with fire. 'Tis too dangerous. Let it be.”
Madge rubbed her face before looking up again. “And open the field for the little white mouse to gnaw deeper into the King’s heart? My Queen, how can you say, ‘Let it be’?”
Long, thick lashes swept a fan-like shadow beneath Aunt Nan’s eyes. Resting her head against Madge’s, she placed her hand on her flat belly. “My best weapon I hold here. Our hungry mouse cannot win if I give the King his son.”
Madge spoke almost peevishly. “'Tis not fair the King distresses you at such at time!”
<
br /> Aunt Nan nestled closer and drew a sharp breath. “Life is not about fairness, especially for those who wear crowns. That’s a luxury I cannot ask for. How can I when I cannot afford to give it to others?” She shrugged. “The King’s back at the hunt because I am breeding. He says he does so because of his care; he cannot bed with me, not while I carry his son. He refuses to see how his dalliances degrade our love.” Her sigh seemed to skate close to tears. “I’ll not give up my husband without a fight. All I can do to keep his love I will do, but it must be in truth and honesty. Do any other, I lose everything that made this road worth all the battles—all the bloodshed. I cannot lose his love utterly. I would sooner die than for that to happen.” She touched Madge’s cheek. “Sweet Madge, I ask for your forgiveness. I should never have agreed to you distracting the King from Jane. This is not your fight. I do not want you to dance a dance that fails even me now. I know my husband too well. Sooner or later, the King will demand payment for his songs and smiles. I’m no Wolsey or Cromwell that I can be content to see you, my young kin, be the payment for distracting my husband from his mouse. I love you too much for that.”
Kate could no longer ignore her heavy load. Once more, she tightened her hold and, as quietly as possible, backed away from the door. Whatever did this mean? Their conversation spoke a language beyond her comprehension.
She left the chamber and wandered some distance away, searching for a place to sit. At last, in the long gallery, she found a bench backing the wall’s high, wide windows and put down her bundles. Sitting beside them, she rubbed her aching arms and pondered the conversation she had overheard, but her fear and bewilderment only deepened.
One by one, she looked at the five books. Which should she read first? The third book, impressed not only with a gold border but also gold letters, was a thin, beautifully bound volume titled Le Pasteur Evangelique. She opened it. Unlike her aunt and mother, who spoke French fluently after spending years of their youth in France, hers was slow and sometimes clumsy. Now with time on her hands and desirous to better herself, she managed to translate the dedication to her royal aunt:
Oh Anne, my lady, Oh incomparable Queen, This good shepherd who favours you…
Reading on, she arrived at the poem’s prophecy. Her eyes filled with tears. Kate rechecked the words and made certain she had made no mistake. The verse sang out the prophecy that her aunt would watch her son grow to manhood. How Kate prayed and hoped for that.
“Katherine Carey!”
Kate looked up to the mischievous grin of the Duchess of Suffolk. A little distance behind the girl stood a solid, middle-aged woman, dressed in Suffolk livery. Blushing, Kate dropped the book back on the short pile, bounded up, and curtseyed.
The young Duchess gestured to the seat, and then laughed. “Sit down. Sit down. Pray, give me one moment of informality this morning.” She addressed her servants. “Patrick, go to the Duke, my husband. Tell him I crave forgiveness for my delay, but I wish to speak to the Queen’s niece, Lady Katherine, alone. Come back when the bells ring out the next hour. Mayhap, by then, we can escort this maid to a safer place than this.
Sitting beside Kate, the Duchess tidied her skirts and then picked up the book with the dedication to the Queen. “'Tis the Queen’s,” she said in surprise.
Hearing the unspoken question, Kate smiled. “From my brother’s chamber.” She gestured to the other books. “With great generosity, he has allowed me to take these books into my care.”
The Duchess grinned, dimpling. She seemed younger than ever. She picked up another book and frowned. “Great generosity, indeed. These are costly books, no doubt loaned by the Queen in hope he would actually read them. Young lord Harry may soon find himself confronting a very unhappy aunt when she discovers these books not in his chambers. When that happens, I would not wish to be in his shoes.”
Kate raised her hand to her heating cheeks. “Your Grace, I don’t believe my aunt would mind if I read them before Harry. It may encourage him to read them, too.”
Shrugging, the Duchess placed the book back with the others. “You could be right.” She dimpled once more. “How many years have you, my namesake?”
“I will be soon fourteen, Your Grace.” Kate stared down at her clenched hands. Fourteen. An age just as meaningless as thirteen, still stuck in limbo between childhood and adulthood.
“Near to fourteen,” the Duchess said thoughtfully. “I’m sixteen, not much older than you. Lady Katherine Carey, you’re niece to the Queen of England. Pray, can you not call me Kate, or at least Catherine?”
Something unfroze inside Kate. For most of her life, her mother’s few servants had been her only company. She often starved for friendship of maids her own age. Now one offered what she yearned for. Kate wiggled with delight. “I would like that, Your … Catherine.”
Catherine smiled and laid her hand on Kate’s arm for a moment. “Now that we’re good and true friends, pray may I offer you counsel?”
Alarmed, Kate jerked around. “Counsel?”
“Aye, Kat, counsel.” There was a noise like a muffled, faraway cough. Warily, Catherine lifted her head and looked down the empty gallery. Some distance away, the steady rhythm of footfalls faded and silence fell again. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, visibly relaxing. “This court’s not a place for a well-born maid to wander alone. Surely, the Queen told you this?”
Kate firmed her lips. “I don’t need servants to be always at my beckoning.” Breaking eye contact with Catherine, Kate again studied her hands, wishing she could stop chewing her nails. Like her aunt, her apprehensions often got the better of her. “I hate being shadowed. I like being alone.” She swung out her foot, rotated her toe, and moved out her other foot, staring at the new slippers Aunt Nan had given to her only yesterday. She looked again at Catherine. “I’m used to it.”
Seemingly with great concern, her new friend clasped her hand. “Pray, don’t be a fool. Very few of us have that luxury, and you’re too close to the Queen to ever walk alone in these galleries, or any other place for that matter. I would be failing as your friend not to tell you this. You need a servant, one like my good Betty.” She smiled at the silent woman. “Between Betty and myself, only a foolish man would take it in mind to accost us.”
The servant grinned, showing a missing eye tooth. She pulled a dagger from a pocket in her dress. “Aye, m’am. You need not fear if old Betty’s with you. I like my needle, and none yet have complained about my skill with it.” The woman cackled. “Welladay, maybe those who find themselves on its wrong end.” She cackled louder. “Its sharp end soon sorts out any quarrels.”
Catherine laughed. “That I don’t doubt!” She turned back to Kate. “My lady mother placed Betty in my service when I wed. She wants me safe at court. I want you safe, too.”
“Why should I not be safe?” Kate asked.
Catherine leaned closer. “What an innocent you are. My lady mother came with Queen Katherine…” Looking one way and then the other, Catherine flushed. “My tongue slipped. Pray, forgive and forget it. I am named for Katherine of Aragon, and my mother remains one of her closest friends. But believe me, I’m loyal to your aunt.”
With a smile, Kate sought to reassure her friend. “My own mother, my royal aunt’s sister, at times suffers from the same slip of the tongue. Katherine, Dowager Princess of Wales, was known as the Queen of England longer than we both have lived. Mama told me she was a very loved Queen and, for many, there is none other.”
Catherine nodded. “Aye, it is safest for us to say no more. Euripides tells us the wise man’s answer is silence, and silence is often the only and best armour we possess. Alas, even that is not enough to give us the protection we need.” Her face flushing, she halted and sucked in her top lip. “My mother hates it here. The court of the old King shocked her, after her early life with Queen Isabel of Castilla. The court may be now refined and civilised, but Mother still keeps to her house in London rather than seek out company here. She worries about me—even
knowing Betty’s skills.
“But let’s return to you. Surely your mother didn’t send you to attend Queen Anne by yourself?”
Kate shifted in discomfort and gazed at her shoes again. “We’re not wealthy. With caring for my new brother and little sister, there were no servants to spare when my stepfather brought me here. Mother said the Queen would see me attended properly.” She looked at Catherine. “I beg you, do not speak to my aunt about this matter. The Queen has troubles enough without concerning herself about me.”
“Troubles enough.” Catherine pulled at her skirt, straightening a fold. She met Kate’s gaze. “You’re right, she has more than her share of them. But you don’t want to add to her woes by putting yourself in a situation that would only distress her—not at this time. Likely Queen Anne assumed your mother sent you to court with a woman to care for your needs. 'Tis not something the Queen would think to ask you.”
Kate felt suddenly strange sitting there, looking at this girl who had already experienced so much more of life than her. Curious, Kate asked, “Have you been at court long?”
Tears brimmed in Catherine’s eyes and then, as quickly, were shuttered away. She lifted her chin and smiled. “It feels like a long time, but it’s only the last two years or so. I grew up at the Duke’s, my lord husband’s estate. With two infant sons, I still spend a goodly portion of my days there.”
Kate lifted her eyebrows, surprised. “You have children?”
Catherine laughed. “I have been wed for over two years, and my lord husband is not one to wait to bed his wife. My firstborn was born ten months after our marriage, and I am not long from my churching of my second.”
Something niggled at Kate. “Did you say you were raised by the Duke, your husband? What about your mother?”
Catherine shrugged. “My father died when I was but a babe. As I was his heir, for my best interests, my lady mother agreed to allow the Duke and his wife—the King’s sister, Mary, the White Queen—to take me as their ward. My mother was good friends with Queen Mary, God bless her soul, and saw me often.” Silent, she lifted a hand to her pensive face, tilting her head. Her long fingers rubbed close to her ear.
The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction Page 6
