Harry clambered onto the bed beside her, his back against the headboard. “Would our aunt tell such a falsehood?” He drew up his knees, his arms encircling them. He possessed an air that combined youth and maturity. “I found out years ago. It is why our aunt makes such great efforts to turn me into a great lord. I hate that more than knowing I bear the name of a man who is not my father. But I was only three when William Carey died. I do not remember him like you.”
The bolster’s pattern work of thick embroidery imprinted on her face, and her brother’s hand rested on her shoulder.
“Don’t take it so to heart,” he said. “I am twelve and no longer care. Our aunt and uncle have long explained it to me.”
Unable to fight her curiosity, Kate wiped away tears and looked up at him. “What did they explain?”
Harry gave her a preoccupied smile and scratched the side of his face, reddening his pale skin. “How it was with our lady mother—could she say nay when the King wanted her? Of course not. Aunt Nan says the world is not like that, especially at court. She wants me to remember how it was for Mother.”
“You, Brother? Why should you have to remember?”
“Because she wants me a good man, like Uncle George, who treats women with the respect due to them. He does not regard them simply as the property of men.”
“And what did the King”—Kate could not name him father—“tell you?”
Henry settled back, his gaze travelling to the ceiling. “He has not told me anything. He does not call me son or deal with me thus.” He shrugged. “Sister, he does not claim us as his. He cannot. Aunt Nan is our mother’s sister after all. Uncle George explained about the King ridding himself of Katherine of Aragon because his brother bedded her first. He didn’t want to give reason for those at court to think he had done something likewise in his dealings with our mother and aunt.” Harry paused for a moment. “Uncle George has been like a father since I came to court. The King rarely acknowledges I am here.”
Her brother looked at her with adult eyes. “We have one father who gave us our name, another father who won’t own us, other than as the niece and nephew of his wife.”
Their positions seemed changed from days ago. Now there was no doubt in her mind; he treated her like a child. But perhaps she deserved that. While her brother possessed a pragmatism beyond his years, she struggled to understand.
“So—” Kate swallowed and sniffed again. “So—I have no father now. This morning I was Katherine Carey. Now, my whole world is taken from me. I am nobody. Nobody, Brother.”
With a brisk, sharp rap, Madge came into the chamber and strode towards the bed. She held to her chest a small, thin manuscript. Its brown leather cover bore the initials M. F. and S. E.
“How much longer are you going to stay here?” she demanded. “Are you not hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, she dragged a stool over to Kate’s side and sat there, thumbing through the loose pages of the book. Sometimes she would smile at what caught her eye. Several moments passed before she looked back at Kate. “Your melancholy will not help.”
“What business is it of yours?” she snapped.
Madge cocked her head. “One thing. I have no desire to see you so unhappy, even if just because I share this room and bed with you, and have no wish for a doleful companion. Second, I know more of the world than you. We cannot change the past, but the future? Who knows what that will be if we are willing to make the best of today. That is what matters, not the past.”
Kate turned on her side and pounded her pillow. She wanted to be left alone; she wanted to curl up and die. “You know, too? Tell me, am I the only person at court who did not?”
Her cousin shrugged. “The court is no place for secrets. No one blabs it in public places that your brother, Harry, is the King’s son, but people speak about it behind closed doors.” Madge rested a hand on her shoulder. “And that his sister, too, shares the same father. You both couldn’t hide it if you wished. You and Harry have the look of the King.”
“I have the look of the King.” Kate hiccupped, remembering how Lady Margaret, the King’s niece, had looked familiar to her. Now it made sense to her; they were close kin. “Everyone has lied to me. Everyone!” Kate angrily rubbed at her tear-wet face. “Why did my mother never tell me? Why did she let me go to court believing her lies? Is she such a fool that she did not realise I would find out?”
Her head bent, Madge turned the pages before looking up again. “Kate, I cannot speak of your mother’s reasons. If you wish to know more, the Queen has told me she will speak to you. Will you not come with me now? She worries about you and she should not be worried. If you bear your aunt any love at all, come and hear her out.”
Kate tried to comb her fingers through the knots of her tangled hair. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll come.”
She swung her legs around and got gingerly off the bed. She caught sight of herself in the burnished mirror hanging on the dark panelled wall. Her uncombed hair was a mess and her face red and botchy, unrecognisable from the girl made ready to see the King that same morning. “First, let me wash my face.”
Madge’s book still open on her lap, a few words caught Kate’s attention. Going past to grab her comb, she asked, “What have you there?”
“My sister Mary has come back with our book.” Madge smiled.
“Mary?” Kate stopped mid stride.
“Don’t worry, the Queen has found another chamber for her. Nine months together in our mother’s womb was more than enough for us. We spend so much time with each other in the day, we’d rather sleep apart.
“But back to the book—a group of us pass it amongst ourselves and write down our thoughts, or perchance a poem. I thought you might like to join our number.”
Kate stood in front of the mirror, straightened her hood, and spoke distractedly. “Write poetry?” She remembered her recent effort in her journal, now hidden away in her coffers. “I do not know if I can.”
“That is easily rectified by practice. None of us write well. My penmanship is blotch after blotch, but using this book has shown me there is more to writing than pen and ink. Who knows, it might help you over your troubles.”
Kate turned to her cousin and scowled. “You must think me a fool if you believe I can be so easily diverted after this.”
Madge shrugged, closed the manuscript and placed it on the bed. “Read it later. You might be surprised at what you find. As for being a fool, it was you that used the word, not I. I am waiting to see what you prove yourself to be.” She stood. “Are you ready to go and see the Queen?”
My dearly beloved daughter,
I send this missive in the hand of my brother George, for your eyes only. Pray, once you read these words, burn my letter, and find it in your heart to forgive me. I did not want you to go to court; I never hid that from you. But I never told you why. My good husband told me I was wrong to send you without first telling you what I write now. Believe me, I break a long held vow by this letter, and pray to God for forgiveness. Methinks, though, the vow I made so many years ago was to a living man, who saw his life stretch out long before him. His death left me tied to my vow to him. But I do not speak of it; I will never say out loud what I must write now, in this letter you will burn—nay, must burn. Let me write it quickly: William Carey is not your father. Kate, my beloved Kate, your father is the King, the husband of my sister. It is a cesspool, I know. How can I expect you to understand?
William Carey loved you, my Kate. He loved you like a true father—far truer than our good King, who sired you. William never wanted you to know you were not his. Your brother, he was a different case. He was a son. William always knew he would lose him to the King. But you, Kate? The King was always happy enough to let poor Will make-believe about you. William was not a man like other men; he had no other children but you and Harry who bore his name, but not his blood.
Aye, Kate. You and your brother both share the same sire. I know you will be heartsore learni
ng this. I am heartsore that I cannot tell you otherwise. William Carey was a good man. I could not have wished for a better father for you. I would have been happy to remain his wife, even though it would have been in name only, to see you grow up content in his love. I would have gone to my grave denying what I know true, that you and Harry were of the King’s blood. I would have done it for you. What does it matter in any case? William deserved the name of “father.” The King? Once he became enamoured of my sister, he forgot me, he forgot you. I hoped he had forgotten about Harry, too, but discovered to my grief that a son is harder to forget, especially for him—a king so desirous, nay, desperate, for sons.
I know you have many, many questions. Forgive me if I do not speak too much about the past. I thank God every day I have you and Harry, but I’d rather not remember how it all came to be. Just let me say I was very young, and had no choice in the matter. But let me also say this: I told you how my father whipped me. That was when the King desired me and arranged my marriage to William. I pray to God you never have to live through something like that.
Also know that I would suffer those years again for you and Harry. Believe me, Kate, I, too, wanted to believe Will was your father. The truth is overlaid with painful memories. The only joy and love I had in that time was what you and your brother gave to me. Tell my sister she has my permission to speak more of this matter; she knows just as I do that the world often makes us dance a dance not of our own choosing.
Your loving and devoted mother.
Pray kiss your brother for me.
Burn this letter, I beg you.
Nay—I command you.
Kate lifted her tear-glazed eyes to her uncle and aunt. “This is what you went home for, to bring back the soiled tapestry of my mother’s lies? She tells me to burn it. Here, take it now, and toss it in the fire!”
Her uncle frowned and reached for the parchment. He closed it up, then glanced at his still and silent sister before looking back to Kate. “Aye. It needs to burn, child, but not with anger—with understanding.” He put a hand on her arm. “Your mother asked you to forgive her. She begged me to ride like the wind so I could give you her letter. She loves you, Kate, more than life itself. She never wanted to see you hurt.”
Kate yanked her arm free. “Then she is fool and more! How could I not be hurt after living with her lies only to come here to discover the truth?”
Aunt Nan leaned forward and gazed at her with compassionate eyes. “You have a right to be angry, Kate. But if you knew how badly our sister has been hurt by life, you might understand better why she found it too difficult to hurt you.” Aunt Nan glanced at her brother. “Mary was never the strong one. She is sweet, gentle and humble. She never had the armour needed to live long at court. Her beauty drew men like honey, but only to her great injury. They called her a whore, but she was not much older than you when the French King François seduced her with his talk of love, and then she came home to find another king eager to take his place, and our father more than eager to see it happen.
“François thought it amusing, but it was I who comforted your mother when it came to her ears that he called her his mule, there for all to ride. Your grandfather did not care. Neither she nor I had a way out, other than to make the best of the bad goods life offered to us.”
Surprised, Kate shook her aching head “But at least the King married you and made you his consort. My lady mother?” She sputtered out the words. “She was the bad goods, the whore! The one who made her children bastards!”
With a sobbing cry, Aunt Nan slapped her face, before gathering Kate into her arms. Her aunt’s tears fell and wet Kate’s face, too. “Don’t! I know you are angry, but your mother does not deserve that. I said before she was never the strong one. That is not true. George and I discovered long ago that Mary has different type of strength—one able to untangle itself from the web found here. She has been able to make a life of her own. No one owns her now. More and more I envy her.”
Kate pulled away, confused. Her head hurt even more. “But you are the Queen!”
“Aye, the Queen. Kate, if you chose to remain with me, you must know that my enemies wish otherwise.” Aunt Nan smiled sadly. “Aye, niece, just because I am the Queen doesn’t mean my enemies do not have the power to hurt me.”
Peacocks screamed. Aunt Nan grimaced and whirled towards the sound. “Even our uncle of Norfolk hates me. He calls me the great whore,” she said slowly. She turned to Kate, her face solemn and stern. “The new peacocks disturbing my nights are his recent gift to the King. He is pleased and smug to see the King put me in my place with his acceptance of those cursed birds.” She rolled her shoulders, moving her head from side to side, as if releasing tension. “Much of this is my own fault. I lack a woman’s proper humility and have a temper difficult to rein in at times.” Aunt Nan’s smile was both wry and resentful. “I speak my mind, niece. For years, the King valued and sought my counsel, but no more. He desires my silence, but how can I be so when I have spent years being otherwise? Once abandoned, silence is a difficult art to relearn. Every step I take is fraught with danger, and if I stumble, there are many who would soon bring me down. Master Cromwell just waits for the opportunity.”
“Bring you down?” Her mouth suddenly dry, Kate tried to swallow, her mind filling with the hostile faces from her dream of her aunt’s coronation. But she also remembered something important. “How can anyone do that? You’re the Queen of England.”
“Queen of England.” Aunt Nan turned to her brother before speaking to Kate. “I tell you again there are many who would deny me that title. I am unlike my sister. I cannot risk avoiding the truth, even if it makes for my own unhappiness.” She sniffed, lifted her chin, her eyes alight with what seemed amusement, but one her words did not echo. “As my sister has found again to her hurt, cards of make-believe sooner or later get tossed to the ground.” Uncle George took her hand. “Only here, in my chamber, am I really safe, with the few I can trust.”
Aunt Nan’s solemn eyes made Kate squirm and lower her head.
“Can I trust you, niece? You look so much like your mother that I think I can. But, speak you, are you strong enough to withstand the storms, if they come, and stay true to me? Or are you your father’s daughter, who is no longer steadfast, but inconstant and changes with the wind.”
Kate lifted her chin. “I do not know the King. I have always loved you, admired you, been proud of you, my aunt. I would never betray you.” Kate stared at the folded letter in her uncle’s hands. “I know how betrayal feels. I pray to God that I will die before doing it to another.”
“Oh, Kate, I beg you: forgive your mother.”
In answer, Kate snatched the parchment from Uncle George and tossed it into the fire. As the flames took hold, the words seemed lit with gold before they crumbled into ash. The blackening parchment became one with the fire, and Kate blinked away tears. “I vow to you, my aunt, you will never find me breaking your trust. As for offering my mother forgiveness, I have none.”
8
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, back in her bedchamber, Kate had another visitor. Ignoring a knock on the door, she curled up on her bed, but Catherine, the young Duchess, closed the door and stood against it, gazing at Kate with serious eyes.
“Has the Queen sent you?” Kate asked.
Catherine shook her head. “Nay, I wanted to see you. To speak to you.” She paused, looked at her feet before considering Kate again. “Believe me, I come in friendship.”
Kate sat up and swung around to glower at Catherine. “You are the Duchess of Suffolk. Why would you want to be friends with me, the unwanted bastard of the King?”
The older girl sighed. “I know this is not an easy time for you. I, too, am fatherless.” She padded closer and sat. “Time will help lessen the hurt and make you see that to be an unclaimed daughter of a king is better than one who is claimed. At least you have some hope of freedom and choice denied to us poor pawns who are moved where the King wills. And there is
no chance the King will decide he wants you for his bedmate, as he did with your mother, as he did with mine. He is a great sinner, but not one who would ever bed his own daughter.”
Kate bounded up in shock and crossed herself. “Bed with me? Don’t speak such vile words, even in jest!” She swallowed hard and gazed at the Duchess. “Your mother, too?”
Catherine nodded. “Pray, this is betwixt just us, and must remain unsaid afterwards. My mother told me to beware of the King and why. She believed he offered her friendship, but found his kindnesses came at a hefty price.” She shrugged. “'Twas just one night, years before my birth, but my lady mother still wears a sackcloth in penance. Queen Katherine is her lifelong friend, and my mother carries the heavy burden of her betrayal to this day.” With a sigh, she shrugged. “Too many men think women whores—starting from the King. He thinks all women are at his service, to do what he wills. Queen Anne taught him different for a time, but no more.”
Kate crushed the sides of her gown in her hands. “I cannot bear to think of him as my father.”
“Do not then,” Catherine said quietly.
Lowering her head, Kate shifted from foot to foot. “You speak as if this is easy; what would you know? No one could understand how my heart breaks.” Kate looked desperately at Catherine. “All my life I believed William Carey my father, called him Father. My heart and soul believed him thus.”
Catherine took her hand. “I think I do understand.” Her lips tightened. “Once I called my lord husband Father.”
Kate rounded on Catherine. “What?”
Her expression slack, Catherine spoke flatly. “I lived in the home of the Duke as a small child, betrothed to the Lord Harry, his son. What else was I to call the Duke? Or think of him? I had no father of my own, so my heart easily claimed him as mine, with pride. His wife, the White Queen, the King’s sister, Mary, whom I also loved, encouraged it. None of us knew the tragedy that would befall us.” She paused and toyed with the rings on her left hand. “But when the White Queen died, Harry, never strong, sickened with grief. I married his father instead.”
The Light in the Labyrinth Page 8