“No—don’t answer that,” she says, as soon as I open my mouth to speak. Her eyes flutter away from mine. “You could be; it’s too early to know. There is always the possibility.”
But there is no possibility. I think to explain the fatigue the king often suffers, preventing him from visiting my chamber, but I remember how such words damned Queen Anne. I press my fingers to my lips, afraid of what may escape.
SIX DAYS
.
No word.
“I must speak to him myself,” I whisper to Lady Rochford, before the others descend upon my bedchamber to ready me for the day.
“But they’ve barred his chamber, Catherine. If I knew how to get you in, I would tell you—”
“No, not the king. I need information.”
She nods slightly. Pursing her lips in resolve, she quietly absents herself as the others arrive to dress me in green brocade.
AFTER SUPPER I
don a fur cloak over my gown and Jane and I take to the garden for a late-night stroll. Jane leads me to a particular secluded corner, where a cloaked figure awaits in the shadows. When he turns, Thomas starts as though in fear at the sight of my face. As I approach I can’t help but notice how pale he is, his face drawn and tired.
“Thomas, tell me what’s happening.”
“I’ve wanted to tell you, but they’ve told me to keep it secret. By this time all of court knows he is ill.”
“How ill? How did this happen?”
“He is
very
ill, Catherine.” His dark eyes wince in fear at these words. “He may be dying. I know it’s treason to say so about a king, but I think little of treason when it may well be true.”
I step back and lean against a hedge, my breath suddenly short. Thomas moves closer, his voice barely a whisper, his head lowered over mine.
“He has not spoken for days, as if struck dumb in some way. I asked him if he would like you to visit and he reacted violently, as though driven mad by pain. I think he is embarrassed. We all know how he has endeavored to hide his weakness from you.”
“But if he is dying, will no one tell me? Am I to learn of my husband’s death along with all the rest of the court?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“Did someone do this to him?”
“I do not know that, there is no way to know until it’s over. But there are those eager for the king to die so that young Edward can take the throne.”
“Prince Edward is only a child.”
“Yes, but a lord protector would be appointed. That is where the true power would lie.”
Edward Seymour
—if he were lord protector with little more than a babe upon the throne, then he would, by proxy, become King of England. I shudder at the thought of Henry being surrounded by those who wish him ill. The power of a king puts poison in men’s hearts, and I’m afraid of that same poison attacking me.
If only I were pregnant!
They would not dare harm a queen who harbors an heir to the throne in her womb! But I’m not pregnant, and the king is unable . . .
If only Thomas could do this for me.
The thought shoots through me like a bolt of lightning; everything seems too sharp, too bold all of a sudden. I fear I may faint.
“You must be very careful, Catherine,” Thomas whispers, his voice hoarse with urgency. “You must be careful of who surrounds you, who listens to your conversations. There are spies all around—please, promise me that you will guard yourself.” Thomas grasps my hand; the feel of his touch sends a shock through me, but I dare not shake him off. His warm hand enveloping mine makes me feel safe, if only for a moment. “It would pain me if you were hurt, in any way.” I need not look into his eyes to know that this is true.
Jane and I depart, arm in arm, my hood concealing my hair and face.
“Is it a fine night out, Your Majesty?” Lisbeth asks cheerfully as we enter my chamber.
“Quite cool, but fine indeed. I can smell the coming of spring.”
The ladies giggle happily at this. Life is a masque, and I must play my part well. Katherine pulls off my cloak and Lisbeth tugs at the stays of my corset to ready me for bed. Joan pulls the curtains back from my bed and turns down the bedclothes. As a nightgown is pulled over my head, I hear a shriek.
I struggle to force my head through the neck of the gown, eager to see what all the gasping is about. I walk over to where Joan stands beside my bed. Tucked under the bedclothes, an arrow lies upon the white sheets. Its sharp tip is covered in blood, staining the linen with a gruesome red smear. I reach out to remove it but Joan jerks me away.
“Catherine, no!”
Dorothy approaches the arrow instead, all the other girls looking on. She lifts it carefully and inspects the tip.
“Animal’s blood, certainly,” she says, “deer, most likely.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Joan exclaims.
I can’t help but look to Lisbeth and the rest of them, in search of the evidence of treachery. Their faces are pale with distress.
“Get rid of it,” I say. “Just get rid of it. And there shall be no talk of it outside these chambers.”
While Dorothy disposes of the arrow, Lady Rochford grasps me by the shoulders and looks deep into my eyes.
“We must be more careful with you, my queen. We must be always careful.”
I nod, watching as the linens are promptly changed. I feel uneasy settling into bed where the arrow rested its bloody head just moments ago. There are such things as signs and omens, and people often claim to see them: mystical things, of course. This was not a mystical vision but a savage, intentional act. I fear it is an omen, nonetheless.
XXVI
It has been seven days now since the king’s illness began. For the last three days I’ve stayed veritably hidden from the eyes of the court. My ladies deem it safer for me to take my meals in my own chambers while the king is sequestered in his. Every day I watch as Lady Rochford tastes my food before permitting me to eat. I’m considering asking the other ladies to do so as well, as a test of their loyalty to me.
In spite of the lively fire and the feast laid before me, my feeling of imprisonment in the gilded cage of queenship is now more palpable than ever before.
The duchess visits, ostensibly to cheer me, but her news is grave. Henry suffers visibly, and has yet to regain the power of speech. Numerous physicians have prescribed a variety of cures, but little change has been made in his condition.
“I spoke to Jane,” she murmurs lightly, hovering over our gaming table. “She has told me that your monthly blood has just ended.”
“Only Jane knows, I made sure to keep it secret.”
“If the king were well, this would be the perfect time for you to be made pregnant. There are already rumors that you are with child.”
“There are always such rumors. Would that they were true.”
“It is imperative that they be true.” Her steely eyes penetrate mine. “There have been other rumors, you know—rumors that the king is concerned that you are barren, unable to have children. The king cannot wait forever,” she says grimly. “Catherine, your life is at stake.”
“What am I to do?” I feel myself on the verge of panic. “What can I do, if he is ill and not able to bed me?”
“There are those who do not want a Catholic queen, you understand. Not even a Catholic dowager.”
“I know that.”
“Perhaps you would do best to think of yourself, think of your future, and put thoughts of the king aside, for now. He cannot help you now—he cannot even help himself. You are in dire need of a royal heir, in order to protect yourself with the king’s power in the event of his—” Her voice drops, barely audible. “. . . that he does not recover.”
“What are you suggesting? Any lie I tell of a pregnancy will be discovered soon enough.”
The duchess thumbs through her cards quietly. We turn back to our game, but I can’t concentrate, my thoughts swimming so erratically that I can’t see the cards before my face.
“There are those you can trust to help you, Catherine.”
“I don’t know who I can trust.”
“You can trust me, and Jane. And you can trust your cousin Thomas. We will all assist you if you decide to take action.”
“Take action,” I murmur, the meaning of the words unclear.
“On your own behalf,” the duchess answers. “You may need to act on your own behalf to protect yourself. There are many jealous of your ascension to the throne.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And they will do whatever they can to uproot you. The Reformation party considers you an instrument of Satan—I have seen those very words printed in their religious tracts. They fear your influence on the king.”
“I never talk of religion with the king.” I think of the bloody arrow upon my bed; I can feel it pressed against my spine.
“It is not only about you, but the entire Howard family. There are many eager to tumble those of us who have climbed so high.”
I have climbed very high, indeed: suddenly I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a giant precipice, looking down. “That is true,” I tell her. “I know it is true.”
“Then you must be with child, Catherine. That is the only way you can be safe. With a child in your womb, no one will dare threaten you. It is the only way.”
Suddenly I feel as if I’ve tipped forward off the precipice, the cold wind rushing by my face.
“What are you suggesting?”
“You know what I’m suggesting—no doubt you’ve already thought of it yourself.”
I flutter my eyes away from hers, an unwitting admission.
“Take action on your own behalf,” she says succinctly, and leaves it at that. She wants me to betray my king, my husband. Are things that dire already, that she would suggest an act of treason?
TONIGHT, THE DUCHESS
visits my privy chamber as Lady Rochford prepares me for sleep. All of the other ladies have been sent to bed. The duchess places the book upon my dressing table, crushing a silk handkerchief beneath its weight.
“It’s been ten days since the king’s illness began, and still you do nothing?” she asks sternly.
“Do nothing? What am I to do?” But the moment I say it, I regret my words. The duchess points to tomorrow’s date on the calendar.
“Tomorrow, a perfect opportunity for you to become pregnant.”
“I can’t do it,” I say, breathless, rising from my chair. “Do you know what you’re suggesting? If discovered, it would be the death of me!”
“It could be the death of you, regardless!” the duchess declares. “This all has little to do with you, Catherine, this has to do with power, with the family. I gave you the choice to act on your own behalf. I thought you would jump at the chance to bed your darling Thomas, considering the type of girl you are. But you didn’t, so I’m taking away your choice—I’m telling you to do this. The decision has been made for you.”
“You are telling me to commit adultery, and heresy. You would tell your own flesh and blood to do such a thing?”
“You are little more than flesh and blood. You are the vessel by which the Howards lay claim to the greatest power we can wield.”
“If it has so little to do with me, then I wish you had chosen a different vessel, a different pawn to use in your game!”
“Don’t you think I would have claimed it for myself if I could?” The duchess’s voice is sharp, her gray eyes shining wet in a way I’ve never seen before. “Don’t you think I wanted it to be me? Or that Norfolk, or any other of the Howard clan would want to be where you are now, at the king’s side?”
“Then why didn’t you, if you were so crafty to get him to fall in love with me? Why didn’t you do it for yourself?”
“We knew we couldn’t. With this king, we know the best way to get close to him is to get one of our pretty young things in his bed. So we created you, we told him all about you, told him exactly what he wanted to hear, and he fell in love with all of our words. He took you and made you his wife, the potential mother of his sons, his heirs.”
“I didn’t ask for you to create me, if that’s what you did. I asked for none of this, and yet I’m made to suffer for it. It isn’t fair!”
“You are right, it isn’t fair. No. It isn’t. You always go on about what is fair and what is not—you, dressed in velvet and furs, seated beneath the cloth of state with the royal jewels around your neck, dining beside the king with all of court bent in half at your feet. You get all of this, and you are nothing. You are a child.”
Her eyes widen, as if taking me all in. I wish that she wouldn’t look at me that way, with that pain so vivid in her eyes. I don’t know whether I want to embrace her or run and hide.
“I’ve dreamed for years of sitting there, as queen,” she says, her voice hoarse. “It was my only dream. But I was never pretty enough to do it, to catch his eye. Now I’m barren and no good to anyone.”
I look away, knocked sideways by the anguish in her voice. She puts her hand on my shoulder and pulls, making me face her.
“The king needed a vital young maiden. Now the king needs sons, more than he ever did before. Do your duty, Catherine, and give the king what he needs.”
“What about the baby, if there is one?” I gasp, breathless. “What if it—it doesn’t look like—”
“You have reddish hair, yourself. Not completely unlike the Tudor red.” She strokes my hair with delicate fingers, her voice softened. “Remember, Catherine: the Tudors stole the throne from the Plantagenets to begin with. We must be practical and work with what we have. You have bigger things to worry about right now than the shade of downy hair on the head of a babe.”
I look up at her. She smiles, faintly, her hand resting upon my shoulder.
“Once it’s done, it will be done, and you will be safe.”
The duchess pulls me into her arms. I whimper for a moment, but she does not reprimand me. She has given me so much I never asked for, and yet this is all that I have ever wanted from her. I wrap my trembling arms around her, knowing the moment will not last long, and likely will not happen again.