Not that. Not again.
He bowed deeply as he came abreast, peeking over his shoulder before whispering, “I think of nothing but you, day and night,” he declared, reaching for her hand.
She allowed him to take it. To wound him would be a grievous mistake. She glanced down the hallway to be sure they were alone, then pulled him into a dark alcove where once a saint or statue must have lived. “Dear Jamie,” she whispered, raising a hand to his smooth cheek. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to steal back to my rooms with you, but you know that it is impossible.”
He moved close, covering her breast with his free hand. “Nothing is impossible! I am your slave, I swear it. No word will ever escape these lips.” In a fever, he bent to press kisses to her chest.
She caught his hand, and tugged him up by his hair. “We cannot!” But she pressed her mouth to his palm, feigning passion. His wrist carried a ghost of that orange and pine scent of his father, and the notes whispered through her person, reminding her of the night, the pleasures, the illuminating thoroughness they had indulged.
“We cannot, dear boy,” she repeated, smiling up at him. “A moment was all we were allowed, but know this—when my eyes fall upon you, the thing I am remembering is the pleasure you gave.”
“Oh, dear lady, I have never, I will never—”
She touched his mouth. “Listen to me. Your father would banish us both. To play the game you wish to pursue, you must be wise and patient and keep your goal always in sight. Do you understand?”
He gulped jerkily, eyes downcast, and she thought he might be overcome. “Yes.”
“Now return to the queen and be kind to her.”
“Very well.” He pressed one more kiss to her hand and rushed away.
She stared after him, wondering if she should trust him. Her bladder insisted she forget it for the nonce and she hurried into the closet.
Where she saw at last the source of her irritation. No babe stuck in her this round.
She was saved.
• • •
Toward the end of the month, a sudden thaw left the grounds muddy but a bright cold sun lured Catherine outside. The Duchess of York walked with her, their ladies a trail behind them, and Feliciana romped ahead with the fox kit Gregory, now grown to full size with a fat white tail and the loveliest eyes, lined in black.
Catherine was in fine spirits. She had completed her novena and there had been no sign of her courses. Perhaps, at last, she was with child!
“I have thought on your question about going to church with the king,” Anne said. “To show you are adopting the customs of the English.”
“Yes. You think it wise?”
“Perhaps.” Anne glanced back over her shoulder. “Mayhap a trade.”
“A trade?”
“You attend with your husband. And then perhaps he would attend with you. Out of love.” She paused, as if choosing words with care, then, “You are a most inspiringly devout Catholic. Have you considered, Your Majesty, that you are well positioned to bring the Church back to England if you so desired?”
“Pray, what do you mean, sister? England is hateful to our faith.”
“What if your king were Catholic? If he converted, would not the country follow?”
A tremor of discomfort crossed her good cheer. “But could it not also stir civil war once again? The country is only now easing into a prosperous and peaceful era. Surely the people are weary of war.”
“Perhaps that very disinclination for war would be prevention of it.”
With a frown, Catherine shook her head. “He would dislike my meddling with him this way, and things are peaceful between us.”
“Of course,” Anne said. “Think no more on it. It is only my own fancy.” She smiled.
“You are so devout that I have imagined you often as the saint who brings the true faith to the country.”
The words stuck in Catherine’s conscience, but she brushed them away. She loved her faith, but she also loved her husband and wished to bring no trouble to him. “I am no saint, sister. But enough. Let’s think of some celebration to enjoy this bright day.”
Discreetly, she pressed a hand over her belly, imagining that the Holy Mother had granted her prayer, that a new life grew there. Her heart was light, full of hope, and she laughed at the antics of the fox and Feliciana.
But the next morning, her flower stained her thighs, the mark that proved she’d not caught a babe. With effort, she held up her chin, but all the ladies knew, and she knew they spoke of it behind their hands. The queen and her flower, no babe again. It has been many months.
After mass she waited until the chapel emptied of all but her two attendants, today Lady Castlemaine and Lady Eleanor, who waited toward the rear. She ignored them and knelt in sorrow before the Mother of God.
For a moment, she only looked at the statue, the Holy Mother and her Holy Son, draped in bright blue robes gilded with gold leaf, her long dark hair trailing down her arm. Her eyes seemed to look directly into Catherine’s, and for one long moment, she allowed the fury of loss to fill her. Then she bowed her head, contrite over her anger.
Oh, Holy Mother! she cried in her mind. I have been dutiful in all ways. There are mysteries I cannot know, and the world is ordered according to the will of God, but I beg of you, send me a child!
Fervently, she bent her head and began to pray.
• • •
At the rear of the chapel, Barbara sat quietly with Lady Eleanor. They’d all heard the whispers that the queen’s courses had arrived this morning, and the queen wore her distress like a heavy cloak. It weighed down her shoulders, her head, and although she did not weep, her mood of sorrow was clear.
In some still place within her, Barbara felt a stirring of sympathy, a strange prick of alliance. No matter their differences, the lot of women ever carried the same trials. A child, no child, beauty or no beauty, all dependent on the whims and wishes of the other sex.
Next to her, Lady Eleanor sighed and shifted. The woman was never pleasant, but she disapproved of the Catholic rituals particularly. Barbara leaned over and quietly whispered, “I will stay if you wish to depart.”
She shook her head with a scowl. She would do her duty.
Barbara shrugged and looked back to the queen, the slim shoulders bowed. It had now been more than seven months that the queen had lain with the king, and there was still no heir. If it continued thus, Catherine might be sent back to Portugal, disgraced and barren.
The thought did not please Barbara as much as it might have. The king would still need an heir, and a wife, and he would marry again. Perhaps the next wife would be less biddable, more threatening.
She pursed her lips. Always the enemy you knew over the enemy you did not.
Catherine rose, pale but straight and queenly, and Barbara thought, quite to her own surprise, But is she my enemy?
• • •
A cold wind blustered over the windows as Barbara arranged the last touches to a table set for two. The room glowed with candlelight and she’d arranged her hair to fall in splendor over her white shoulders. Around her throat and scattered across her décolletage were strings of rubies. Her cheeks flushed with anticipation.
A scratch at the door. A tumble of pups, racing into the room, and there was the king. At last. She curtsied deeply, her heart racing. “Your Majesty.”
For a moment, he paused, taking her in. “Good evening, my Lady Castlemaine.” His voice, rich and low, carried promise. “You are so very, very lovely.”
Then he was before her, drawing her up, drawing her into his arms and kissing her. Her lover, her love, her friend and companion. “Oh,” she whispered, nearly faint with his return. “I have missed you so.” She kissed his mouth and his face and his hands. Tears again burned in her eyes and she bent her head, pressing her cheek into his knuckles. “I have so feared that I lost you entirely.”
“No, no.” He tucked a finger below her chin and raised her face. He
looked into her eyes, and said with great intent, “It was cruel to dismiss you when I hold you in deepest regard. I did not think how hard you would take my absence.” He pressed his mouth to hers. “You are most dear to me. I cannot bear to be away from you.”
Barbara closed her eyes, breathing in his very particular scent, taking sustenance from the solid presence of him. When she had calmed herself, she opened her eyes, lifted on her feet to kiss his beloved, precious mouth, and said, “Come, let me feed you.”
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Writer Team
Liz Duffy Adams is a playwright whose play neo-Restoration comedy Or, premiered Off Broadway at Women’s Project Theater and has been produced some 40 times since, including at Magic Theater and Seattle Rep. She’s a New Dramatists alumna and has received a Women of Achievement Award, Lillian Hellman Award, New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship, Weston Playhouse Music Theater Award, and Will Glickman Award. Her plays include Dog Act; A Discourse on the Wonders of the Invisible World; Buccaneers; Wet or, Isabella the Pirate Queen Enters the Horse Latitude; The Listener; The Reckless Ruthless Brutal Charge of It or, The Train Play; and One Big Lie. LizDuffyAdams.com. @lizduffyadams.
Delia Sherman is the author of numerous short stories, as well as the novels Through a Brazen Mirror and the Porcelain Dove. She has judged the Crawford Award for Best First Fantasy Novel, The James Tiptree, Jr. Award, and the World Fantasy Award. She has taught SF and Fantasy writing at Odyssey: the Fantasy Writing Workshop, the Clarion Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers’ Workshop, the Hollins University Graduate Program in Children’s Literature, the Alpha Workshop for Young Writers, and workshops at colleges and science fiction conventions all over America. DeliaSherman.com. @deliasherman.
Barbara Samuel (also known as Barbara O’Neal) is the bestselling author of more than 40 novels. Her recent titles include The Lost Recipe for Happiness, and How to Bake a Perfect Life, a Target Club Pick. Her books have been translated into many languages, including Polish, Turkish and Chinese, a fact she finds dazzling. She is a two-time Colorado Book Award winner, a member of the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, and a 7-time RITA award winner. She is also regular blogger at Writer Unboxed, and teaches writing around the world—anywhere they’ll have her. BarbaraSamuel.com. @barbaraoneal.
Madeleine Robins has been a nanny, an administrator, an actor, and a part-time swordswoman; has trafficked book production, edited comics, and repaired hurt books. She’s also the author of five Regency romances, the New York Times Notable urban fantasy The Stone War, Daredevil: The Cutting Edge, and three Regency-noir mysteries, Point of Honour, Petty Treason, and The Sleeping Partner, featuring the redoubtable Sarah Tolerance, agent of inquiry. Sold for Endless Rue, an historical retelling of Rapunzel set at the medieval medical school of Salerno, was published in 2013. She is a founding member of the online authors’ cooperative Book View Café. A native New Yorker, Madeleine now lives in San Francisco with a dog, a husband, and a hegemonic lemon tree. She’s working on another book. MadeleineRobins.com. @MadERobins.
Mary Robinette Kowal is the author of The Glamourist Histories series of fantasy novels. She has received the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, three Hugo awards, and the RT Reviews award for Best Fantasy Novel. Her work has been nominated for the Hugo, Nebula and Locus awards. Her stories appear in Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and several Year’s Best anthologies. Mary, a professional puppeteer, also performs as a voice actor, recording fiction for authors such as Seanan McGuire, Cory Doctorow and John Scalzi. She lives in Chicago with her husband Rob and over a dozen manual typewriters. Visit maryrobinettekowal.com. @MaryRobinette.
Sarah Smith’s young adult ghost thriller, The Other Side of Dark, won both the Agatha (for best YA mystery of the year) and the Massachusetts Book Award for best YA book of the year. Her Chasing Shakespeares has been called “the best novel about the Bard since Nothing like the Sun” (Samuel R. Delany) and has been turned into a play. She has just finished a book about the Titanic, starring series characters Alexander von Reisden and Perdita Halley. The earlier books in the series have been published in 14 languages, have been named New York Times Notable Books twice, and are out in eBooks. The Vanished Child, the first book in the series, is being made into a musical in Canada. Sarah lives in Boston. SarahSmith.com. @SarahWriter.
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