The Light in the Labyrinth

by Wendy J Dunn - BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

  Madge moved restively beside her. Turning away from the spiders’ ferocious battle, Kate returned the book to her cousin. “Why should the King mind that they’re wed? Thomas Howard is noble and a lord.” Her stepfather popped into her thoughts. “It is not that he is low born.”

  “He may not be low born, but he is not of the same station as Lady Margaret. You know her lineage?”

  Kate thought for a moment, her concentration captured again by the spiders. There was no doubt that theirs was a fight to the death. Black and pale legs entangled together, making it difficult to see where one spider started and the other ended. Venom dewed a cobweb as if mimicking the raindrops falling on the outside of the glass.

  Sensing Madge’s growing irritation, she turned to her cousin and shook her head. “Forgive me. I do not.”

  “Fie! For shame, Kate, you should know this. If Lady Margaret Douglas is the King’s niece, then it should be easy to determine that she must be the daughter of one of the King’s two sisters. She is not a Brandon, so she has not sprouted from Mary Tudor’s marriage to the Duke of Suffolk. That leaves the King’s elder sister, Margaret, she who wed James, the Scottish king. After his death, she married Margaret’s father in lustful haste and soon regretted it. Margaret was their only child. I was here at court when her father brought her to the King, after he stole her away from her mother. It mattered little that the King’s sister begged her brother to send her daughter back to her. By that time, the King had decided to keep his niece as a chess piece to put forward for consideration in the marriage games played by the royal houses. He has only a few marriageable-aged women close enough in blood, and to the crown, to barter over with his fellow kings. Now Lady Margaret is damaged goods, and with a husband to boot. Do you understand now why the Queen waits for the right time to break the news to the King about Margaret’s marriage?”

  Kate nodded and lowered her head. She seized yet another reason to give thanks that the King did not recognise her as his daughter. Her world constricted to just her thoughts. She had only been a court for a short time, but already the stories about how so many marriages came about threatened her. Two years ago, Catherine, the Duchess of Suffolk, wed a man more than four times her age, a man she once called Father. Now Madge talked of bartering and chessboards. There was no talk of hearts, rather the games of kings and the marketing of human flesh. It made her feel uneasy. More than that, it stirred within her feelings of disgust and horror.

  Her mother had married for love and wanted the same for her. Mary Stafford had defied her father when he put forward his candidates for Kate’s hand. “She is my daughter,” she had said. “This time, 'tis for me to say when and to whom Kate weds. When the right time comes, I will talk to her and see what is in her heart before deciding on her husband.”

  “Mary, you’re a fool,” her grandfather had shouted. Bucking at having to adapt to her mother’s new marriage, Kate had felt her mother deserved that and her grandfather’s fury. When he rode away without giving his blessing, or even bidding her farewell, Kate blamed her mother. Remembering that day, she recalled how he had glared at her, in passing, with stern coldness. She shivered now for another reason than this winter morn. She had taken the hurt, and then waited to hurt her mother—the first of many times.

  Bowing her head, Kate steepled her fingers together and thought. Her mother had always tried to do the best for her, tried to protect and keep her safe from this heartless world she found herself in. Now Kate realised her mother had also let her be herself.

  The anger towards her mother swayed like the broken cobweb above her head. Only a few sections of threads kept it secured to stone. Life was not black or white. It had rarely easy answers, and was hard to fight when one stood against many. Almost impossible, if you were a woman.

  But the lies. All the lies. How could her mother let her believe she was the daughter of one man when she really was the daughter of another?

  The smaller spider broke away, retreating under the shadow of the stone overhanging the window. The black one weakly stretched out its legs, tried to move, its efforts to escape entangling it more and more in the remains of the cobweb, while the other spider relaxed and waited. Waited for the larger one to wind its own winding cloth as it succumbed to poison.

  What if her mother spoke the truth in her letter? She hadn’t wanted to lie. But the lie gave her the only means to seize power over her life. But, surely, it was wrong to lie. Kate blinked away tears. What right had she to judge her mother? Aunt Nan had said her mother had the strength to untangle herself from the web of court. Aunt Nan’s voice echoed in her thoughts. No one owns her now. Her aunt’s heartache and envy had been palpable.

  Already the time with her aunt had shown that women must fight for power to live, to love where their hearts desired—using whatever weapons they could to surmount an unequal battle.

  Had the black spider believed the smaller one an easy target? The pale, victorious spider latched itself upon the bigger one and began to feast.

  Kate remained silent and thoughtful as Madge chattered about the two lovers and love in general. The poetry manuscript lay between them. Kate flicked through its pages. She did not hear someone approach until a voice made her almost jump out of her skin. Recognising the voice, she stood, and Madge stood, too, both girls bobbing a curtsey to Mary Howard, the young Duchess of Richmond.

  Mary grinned. “Welladay, I thought to give Madge the charity of my company. I did not think to find you also here, coz.”

  Kate’s cheeks heated. Uncertain on how to reply, she shrugged.

  Mary turned to Madge and lifted an eyebrow in question. She bowed her head to the Duchess. “Aye, she knows what we do here. Pray, your leave to sit?” Without waiting for an answer, she took Kate’s arm and they sat again. Madge gestured to the spot next to her. “Your Grace, why don’t you join us?

  Mary lifted her chin askance to Madge. Then she looked over her shoulder and around the room. With an amused twist of her mouth, she nodded and sat. “Aye, why not?” Her deep, blue eyes widened at the manuscript in Kate’s hands. “Who gave you that?”

  Kate flinched, but this time found her tongue. “Madge, your Grace. She was showing me the poems.”

  Her cousin grinned. “I have invited Kate to join our scribblings.” She took the book from Kate and turned a page. “See, she has already left her mark.”

  “Oh!” Kate cried, her hands going to her cheeks. “Pray—don’t—”

  The two older girls laughed.

  “I told you she is a green maid,” Madge said aside to Mary.

  Scowling, Kate jumped up, her hands on her hips. “Stop calling me that! I am not a green maid.” She swallowed. Even the verse she had written only days ago seemed to mock her. “I’m not a green maid.”

  Madge pursed her mouth and shook her head. She waved her hand at the place by her side. “Sit down and listen.”

  Hunched over, Kate sat on the edge of the seat. If only she could disappear.

  “I told you we share this book. If you write something, it is for us all to read.” Madge sniffed. “You have read what our Lady Margaret and others have written. Why be all out of humour when you only did what all us have done—and spoke from your heart?”

  The pretty Duchess took the book from Madge and read out loud Kate’s verse. She smiled gently at Kate. “A good start. What name has he, the dark, gentle one?”

  Kate stood, clasping her hands before her. “Francis Knollys,” she whispered. “Pray, I beg, do not tell him. I would die.”

  Mary and Madge laughed. Nervously toying with her hair, Kate felt younger than ever. She wished she could think of a retort that would make the other girls take her seriously. But the longer she stood before them, the more it seemed Madge was right. She was a green, foolish maid. Francis Knollys? He will never look my way. Never. Never. Never.

  The door to the gallery creaked and swung open. Alert for another cause, Madge stood, all her attention going to the door. Lady Worcest
er entered, carrying the struggling Purkoy. Her lips curling, she held the dog away from her as if worrying about getting its white fur on her black gown. Madge paled and lost her animation. She shared her panic with the equally ashen Duchess.

  Lady Worcester curtseyed. She walked towards them and curtseyed once more. “Your Grace. Welladay, this is an unexpected meeting.” She smiled at the door of the bedchamber. “Are you attending the Queen?” She grimaced as the dog wriggled in her arms. “I found this cod’s-head alone outside. No doubt he escaped whoever had him in their care. I’ll never understand why he cannot be placed in the kennel with the rest of the Queen’s dogs.”

  Madge glanced at Mary Howard with meaning. The Duchess walked over to Lady Worcester. “Shall I take him?”

  Lady Worcester passed over the dog with visible relief. “The Queen can have him with my blessing. He is better behaved with her.” She scrutinized the door again. “She is resting no doubt.” Lady Worcester put a hand on her pronounced belly. “I will do the same—unless you think there is call for me to stay?”

  The Duchess smiled. “Nay. Pray, go and rest.”

  Lady Worcester returned the grin. “When the young Duke, your husband, does his duty and gets you with child, your Grace, I will delight in telling you the same.” Just as she opened the door, laughter—a man’s echoed by a woman’s—came from the bedchamber. She stopped and turned to them a face that spoke of confusion. “Who is that?”

  The Duchess started. “Oh,” she said slowly, “just the Queen’s brother.”

  Lady Worcester appeared taken aback. “Lord George? I thought he rode out this morning. His wife said he would be gone all day.” Her frown deepening, she left the room.

  Kate’s cousins returned to the window-seat. Both girls silent, Mary patted the little dog while Madge, staring ahead, twirled a loose tress of her hair around a finger. The dog, as if wanting to get away from their unhidden distress, jumped off Mary’s lap to go to Kate.

  “She’s friends with the Queen. It will be alright,” said Madge.

  Kate picked up the dog, wanting to hold him close for comfort. Her body trembled, but not from the cold.

  11

  DAILY AT COURT, Kate struggled with the knowledge of her true parentage. What made it worse was that when she was with her aunt and the King came near, he never once looked her way. Even weeks after their first meeting, it was the same and, coming from his throne room with her aunt, she had to beg permission to go back to her chamber, alone. That she seemed so invisible to him left her ill—ill in heart and spirit.

  Seated by the hearth, her journal in her hand, Kate watched the fire as if the burning flames could reveal answers that so far eluded her. She wanted to weep, but detested this forever-weeping girl that she had become. She had never cried at home. Now she fidgeted in her seat, regretting the contempt she had offered her mother, thinking her weak for her tears.

  Everything seemed to crumble around Kate. She had believed coming to court would give her happiness, only to discover sorrow in its stead. At home, the life of her aunt held true to her motto of “Most happy.” She faced the lie of that now. Aunt Nan was a woman whose laughter grew increasingly brittle with each new day. Kate sighed. At home, she had worshipped her aunt and seethed with shame for a mother who wanted no more than to see her family safe and happy. Now, close familiarity to her aunt had revealed that her idol was truly a woman of flesh and blood—a woman who did not feel safe or happy. Her aunt’s misery added to Kate’s desire to see Francis, even if but from a distance, and kept her from asking to be sent back home. But do I stay here only for them?

  If her aunt acted like one who walked on shifting sands, Kate simply fell and fell, unable to find a handhold in her confusion about the King. He was her father, but did not own her as his daughter. Despite her being not of his blood, William Carey owned her as such. Since his death, she had yearned for a father’s love, prayed for a father’s love—a love to embrace her through her whole life. She had searched for what seemed an eternity, but now, more than ever, it seemed the unattainable grail of her existence. She blinked away tears.

  She once had a father who loved her, and now had a father who rarely glanced her way. She meant nothing to him. Less than nothing. Unchecked, her tears fell down her cheeks. Did she want his love? Could she ask for his love? Perhaps it was true—I am less than nothing.

  The fire crackled and burst into new life. In her mind, her mother read from the work of Seneca: If you wish to be loved, love.

  Love the King? It seemed an impossible task. Impossible, because Kate hated him.

  At the writing desk, she opened to a blank page of her journal and dipped her quill into the inkpot. She scored deep upon the vellum parchment, the quill scratching it like a sharp fingernail seeking blood.

  There’s hatred in my heart

  Hatred I want not

  Anger closes my throat

  And seeks to burst forth

  My soul is black with sin

  My thoughts are dark

  And evil

  I desire to kill

  See a man bleed before me

  Make him hurt

  For all the hurt

  He gives to me.

  Called back to her chamber later that day, she found Will Stafford seated near the fire. Her stepfather’s hair uncombed, Stafford looked weary, unwashed and saddle-sore. A three-day beard darkened his cheeks and chin. Beside him was a low table, and on it a wooden trencher with the remains of a small loaf of bread and a chicken carcass. To one side, yellow cheese crumbs formed lace-like patterns on the trencher. Tossing a half-eaten fowl leg back, he got to his feet and smiled.

  “Look at you, Kate! Aren’t you the lady!” He flourished a bow. “Young madam, I greet ye.”

  “Why are you here?” She tugged at the girdle of her new velvet gown. “Should you not be with Mother?”

  Speaking out of habit, out of hurt, the words had rung out short and rude. She flinched. Her weeks away from home had taught her shame. Her mother wasn’t the only person who had cosseted and protected her. When her stepfather’s smile disappeared, she flinched again.

  Stafford sat back on his seat with an audible groan. “Must it start again, Kate? You ask why I am here. If you were any kind of daughter, you would know it has to do with your mother.”

  Fear seized her heart. “Mother? Is she ill?”

  Her stepfather considered her. “So,” he said slowly, “you do have feelings for your good mother. Ill? Kate, it has been weeks since my Mary wrote to you. She bled her heart out in that letter. And for what? Her daughter’s silence. Of course your mother is sickening—and you’re the cause of it.”

  Kate shifted angrily. “Do not blame me for my mother’s sins. What was she expecting? My forgiveness?” The raw hurt within her bled again. “She made me a bastard. A bastard!”

  His mouth grim, he shook his head. “Bridle your tongue, maid. Of course your mother wants your forgiveness. As for expecting it, my Mary is too gentle and good for that. Don’t you know her children are the sun and the moon to her? 'Tis breaking my heart to see her become more despondent as each day passes without a letter from you. 'Tis time you remembered you are no longer a child and count your good fortune you have such a mother. Don’t you know how much she sacrificed to keep you safe at her side?”

  Cosseted. Protected. Loved. Yes, that had been her life growing up with her mother. Homesick, Kate blinked at the smart of tears. Her mother toiled with hands as beautiful as her sister’s, only hers were reddened and broken-nailed with menial work, and matched her threadbare work day clothes, even if carefully patched. A large estate took much hard work to run and there never was enough coin to pay their few loyal servants. Yet her mother made their home a happy place.

  Kate considered her stepfather. Life had become easier for her mother since her marriage. She no longer worked so hard, and their home was filled with the joy that only came when a woman loved her man. Throughout the day and night, apart or
together, Will and her mother sang. This time, joy was mutually given and shared, and no longer dependant on just one. Kate bent her head and swallowed, ashamed once more. Surely it was time to own her stepfather as a good man. But her mother? Kate’s eyes filled with tears. How could she forgive her mother?

  She turned to her stepfather in desperation. “I don’t know what to do.”

  He came to her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  “Aye, you do, child. If you love your mother, you do.”

  Kate broke down then, her sobs muffled in his doublet. He patted her back. “There, girl, those tears will do you good.” He laughed softly. “Boleyn women may not like to weep, but for certes it helps their menfolk when they do.”

  Later, they sat by the fire and spoke quietly together, as if getting to know each other for the first time.

  “Do you want to come home?” he asked. “You can, you know. You can sit behind me, and we will ride like the wind to your sweet mother. It would be good to have you back for Christmas. Your little brother has changed so much in the weeks you have been away. Little Nan misses you, too.”

  Kate thought hard. What of Catherine and Madge? What of Francis? What of my aunt? What of the man who is my father? If she returned home now, she would likely hate him all the days of her life. Do I really want to hate him? The poem she had written had shocked her. She had never wanted to kill anything in her life. She started, remembering her evil, jealous thoughts about her little brother. Is something evil deep inside me? Something evil and murderous? Am I truly a fiend? Whatever the evil was, she recoiled from it with horror.