The Light in the Labyrinth

by Wendy J Dunn - BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

  The puppy wiggled, and Aunt Nan crooned softly to it before she spoke again. “Jane tells my husband that our marriage is an abomination and adulterous—the same arguments used to rid him of Katherine of Aragon. How it comes around and around.” Aunt Nan bent her head. “And I, too, have my dead babies to make it seem our marriage is accursed.”

  The laughter of the other women caught Kate’s attention. The Queen’s fool made faces, jigging on one leg and then the other, her arms held above her head.

  “My friend also repeats what I have heard already. The King tells many that our love was the result of witchcraft.” Aunt Nan turned, her face frightened.

  Her aunt’s fear caught alight in Kate’s stomach and became a fire that hurt. Does the King believe that? Does he really think Aunt Nan a witch? “Methinks,” she finally said, “they were but words said in haste and in grief. He cannot believe you are a witch, or would use such methods to win his love.”

  Aunt Nan pealed with laughter. “Win his love? Did I ask for his love when the King first looked my way? Nay, not with the example of your mother before me.” Her mouth trembled, and she stroked the sleeping puppy. “The more I tried to show my disinterest, the more he wanted me.” Her lips tightened. “Aye, Jane is well-coached. She also shows her disinterest. He cannot see it is but an act, while with me…” Stroking the dog, she smiled sadly, her face reflective. “The King—your father—was in his glory then—strong and tall, so handsome—a god amongst men.

  “We shared so many interests—books, music, the hunt—how we loved to race our horses back to court. When night fell, it was dance after dance. He wrote beautiful letters.” Bitterness edged her laughter. “A man who hated writing wrote letters to me; he wrote songs and poetry—all to me. About me. He said I held his heart—he sang I held his heart—that he adored me, that he was mine, forever, forever, forever. I was young. How could I resist him? I believed him when he said he loved me. Can I be blamed for giving him my heart? Now, I find it was only I who spoke true when I vowed I would daily prove my love.” She lifted a face wet with tears. “And now he calls me a witch? A witch.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh Harry! Where did love go?”

  Where does love go?

  On the day the King returned to Greenwich, Kate wrote that question in her journal. She had no answer.

  My aunt is desperate—so full of grief. She feels the King abandons her.

  The currents pulled her beyond her strength to fight, and her aunt’s desperation fed into her own. She couldn’t make sense of life. Was it simply all chaos—the chaos of flux? The chaos that left her helpless because she had no way to control it?

  Kate’s words poured their ink down the parchment and over the next page. She wrote about watching Aunt Nan watch the King. She snatched at any hope that he still cared for his wife.

  Item: He welcomed her back to his side.

  She swallowed, her anxiety making it difficult to breathe. It was a simple thing to write that the King welcomed back the Queen, but her love for her aunt made her aware of much more.

  Item: He seems to pity her. He seems to love her. He seems to hate her.

  Hate her? At those times, he acted like he thought her a canker—a canker he must cast out. He assessed her every move—unable to hide his confusion when her affection, her gaiety, her bravery, her intelligence made him warm to her once more.

  Cromwell watched, too. Every time the King swayed towards his wife, Cromwell moved in and spoke softly in the King’s ear. His words made the King flush and fist his hands, as if Cromwell pointed out that she forgot who really ruled. He stayed close by the King’s side, stirring up his suspicions and resentments.

  Cromwell’s message seemed clear: If you want to be free of a canker, you must first rid yourself of it. Day by day, Cromwell, with caution and craft, built a fire in his King, a fire to destroy her aunt.

  Kate took up her quill again and wrote what she imagined Cromwell told the King. It was far too easy to imagine when daily the murmurings of so many voices at court reached her ears.

  Item: She lost his prince.

  Item: She failed him.

  Item: She is the canker in his heart that has weakened him for years—a canker that leaves him less than a man, less than a King.

  Item: She wants to be always at his side, his Queen again, murmuring against his most trusted ministers, speaking up about Cromwell and the breaking up of the monasteries; telling him, the King, what course he should take. She refuses silence. She tells him it is for England’s sake. What would she know? He is the King. It is he, not her, who God speaks to. He is the King and he demands, nay, commands, her silence.

  Item: Don’t forget Jane—Jane, who speaks softly and waits; Jane, who treats him like a King. She does not speak to him as if she dares to be his equal. She does not speak to him forgetting that he is God’s mouthpiece—or that his word is law.

  Item: Aunt Nan dares to tell the King she knows better than him.

  Around and around it went in Kate’s mind, her worry making her dizzy and ill. But there was one thing she was certain of. Her quill scored across the parchment.

  I will not abandon her. Never.

  Kate rarely left her aunt’s side now. Without anything being said, she became well and truly a part of the Queen’s most trusted circle. There was not much Kate could do other than be with her during the day and long into the night.

  With Easter approaching, on Maundy Thursday voices rose in song and announced the Queen’s entry into the hall. Kate walked close behind as her aunt headed straight to the long, narrow tables that had everything needed for the ceremony. Poor women waited in a line, waiting for the Queen to wash their feet and give them their purses of alms—a coin for each year of Aunt Nan’s life.

  The court was not her only audience. Kate swallowed, observing the enthroned King. His face? His face. So still. So hard. So bitter. Close to him, Cromwell, his eyes slanted and unreadable, crossed his arms.

  She berated herself for being a fool. Of course, the King does not hate Aunt Nan. The words she wrote last night came back to her.

  Item: He thinks my aunt a canker in his heart he must destroy.

  Item: No wonder God and angels weep.

  Kate clasped her hands tightly before her chest, her apprehension cresting into a wave that threatened to pull her out from shore.

  Brought by a servant to wait for the royal party, Kate and her brother Harry stood at the entrance of the chapel. When men’s voices came close, he paled and pulled her into the dark recess of a nearby embrasure.

  “Keep out of sight,” he whispered.

  “What is it?” Even in the dark, fear illuminated his face.

  “Cromwell and Chapuys come.”

  The slow, considered fall of heavy feet and the tapping of a walking stick echoed another pair of feet. The nearest ones stopped and the walking stick tapped in annoyance.

  “Rochford!” The accented voice brought to mind an image of man lit by torchlight, with the trappings of Christmas near. “My lord, he forces me into conversation about his Lutheran beliefs every time I come to court. So what if he is proud of them. What is that to me—a good son of the true Church?”

  A muffled sound as if a hand slapped against padded doublet came before Cromwell’s voice. “Chapuys, he but plays with you, tests you. Think you—can you not see he really wishes to fish for information?”

  “Bah, do I not know this, Lord Cromwell? Big or small, you English Lords come to me to find out what I know! I noted Rochford’s pleasure when I hinted to him that my Emperor might be willing to recognise a certain lady. That stopped him in his heretical muttering. He soon left me to tell the concubine.”

  “That brings me to my next question, my friend,” Cromwell said, “What say you to kissing the Lady’s hand and show your Emperor’s approval of Queen Anne?” He spoke the words as if he spat them out. “You have an invitation to her rooms to do so, if this be your will.”

  There was a long sil
ence before Chapuys spoke. “The King wants this?”

  “So he says, so he says. But he leaves it entirely to your will.”

  “I have long been the King’s slave—and have no other wish than to execute his commands. But I will explain to him that present circumstances make a visit to the Lady…” He paused for a moment. “...inconvenient—and highly so. I beg you, my Lord, make my excuses. Explain to him that such an action, now or in the future, could only be detrimental to our present negotiations.”

  “Our present negotiations.” Cromwell said the words as if in play. “Aye, we would not wish to put those into jeopardy. I serve first and foremost the King, but the matters before us are also for the good of my country. We cannot let the French overreach for power. That being so, I also wish to serve the Holy Roman Emperor by bringing this issue to fruition. As I have told you before, it would profit you little to pay court to one who is no longer in the King’s favour. Ambassador, I must be away to speak to the King. Where will I look for you on my return?”

  “On a day in England when it’s not raining? I will go out to the garden and find myself a seat to wait for you.”

  “Until then, sir.” Seemingly going in different directions, the echoes of feet and walking stick faded away. Kate moved away from the wall and closer to her brother. Paler than ever, he bit his bottom lip and clutched at his hair, as if a mirror to her own feelings. “‘Present negotiations.’ Do you know what that all was about?”

  Harry shrugged and stepped from the shadows into the light. He popped his head out from the embrasure. “'Tis safe now. We can go.”

  Kate pulled him back. “Spit it out. What do you know, Harry?”

  He leaned a shoulder against the wall and considered her with a cross frown. “I probably know as much as you do. And that it is not good for our aunt if Chapuys and Cromwell are so friendly.”

  “And the negotiations? What did they mean by that?”

  “They spoke about Emperor Charles, Katherine of Aragon’s nephew. With his aunt dead, there is talk of the emperor now recognising the marriage of the King and our aunt.”

  Kate padded into the light. “Do you think we should go for a stroll in the gardens?”

  Harry came to stand beside her. Seemingly pondering the corridor that would take them outside, he scratched his head. “We’ll only get in trouble. Besides, Chapuys is not a fool. If we showed ourselves, he would suspect something was afoot.” He took Kate’s arm. “Sister, would it not be better just to go to Uncle George? He will tell us about these negotiations, if he knows anything. Then we can both avoid Cromwell. He is a man I rather stay clear of.”

  Kate shivered involuntarily, the thought of a sunlit garden swept aside by fear. She remembered the hurt of Cromwell’s grip on her arm and the way his dark eyes bore down on her. She nodded. “Agreed. In any case, the King and the Queen will soon be coming to the chapel. Let’s talk to Uncle George afterwards.”

  They found their uncle in his room tuning his lute. Sir Thomas Wyatt was with him, writing at a desk. He wrote in the same book her cousins passed around, the page before him marked with lines of crossed out words. Another one of his unfinished poems? Why couldn’t he leave the book to just the circle of women, rather than seemingly compete with them? While many men had made their mark in the book, it was Wyatt who took possession of it more often than not. He had written so many poems in their book there might come a time he could claim it for his own.

  When Uncle George’s servant announced them, their uncle and Sir Thomas raised surprised faces. Uncle George lifted an eyebrow at Sir Tom.

  “I can guess their purpose. They come to talk about Chapuys’s kiss.”

  Kate jumped when Sir Tom swore. He scored out another word with a savagery that Kate recognised from writing in her own journal. “Judas’s kiss, more like.”

  “We don’t know that yet.” Uncle George’s casual shrug could not hide his worry. He gestured with his head toward two stools. “Find yourself a seat. Then you can tell me if I am right.”

  Clumsy with anxiety, Kate dragged hers closer to Uncle George while Harry demonstrated his strength and carried his to a place next to hers.

  Kate sat on the stool as her mind swirled with recent events. A short time ago, to her astonishment, Chapuys had come with her uncle to the royal chapel. He waited until the Queen and King came down from their private gallery to make their offering before the altar. Those in the chapel hushed, anticipating how Chapuys would greet the Queen. He bowed; the Queen smiled and bowed her head to him. He then kissed her hand and gave her two lit candles to take to the altar.

  Harry disrupted Kate’s thoughts. “Surely this is good? Chapuys and Aunt Nan, I mean.”

  Uncle George met Sir Tom’s eyes. With a brief, sad smile, Wyatt answered, “Dum Spiro, Spero.”

  “While I live, I hope,” Kate said slowly. She pulled at her lip. “That is what you said? But surely we have more than just hope now, Sir Thomas. Chapuys has finally acknowledged our aunt.”

  “Your uncle and I have debated this, child. I feel what the ambassador really acknowledges is the Queen’s support of the Emperor. Surely you’ve heard her say she will no longer support the French King and his desire for war. Chapuys always does what is in the best interests of his master.”

  Biting her bottom lip, Kate swung around to her brother. “We heard Chapuys and Cromwell speak together today.”

  Uncle George’s fingers slipped on his lute’s strings. A jarring note rang out. He frowned. “And where were you two?”

  Harry answered. “In one of the embrasures near the chapel. They didn’t see us, Uncle.”

  “I should hope not.” He shook his head. “I have spies enough without calling upon my niece and nephew.” He scowled at Harry. “I have told this before—you must stay out of this. I have enough to worry about without concerning myself over your safety, and your sister’s, too.”

  “Uncle, we did not mean to spy.” Harry lowered his head and shuffled his feet. “I heard Cromwell’s voice and became fearful.”

  Uncle George turned his head a little and peered through half-hooded eyes. “You’re right to feel fearful.” He considered his nephew again. “What did you hear?”

  Harry put his hands behind his back and half-closed his eyes as if ready to recite. Uncle George and Sir Tom shared a smile while Kate fought her desire to laugh at her brother. “They talked about you.” Harry opened his eyes wide. “Chapuys does not like you, Uncle.”

  While Uncle George grinned, there was a grimness about him that made Kate attend him closely. “Of course not. But this is not a game where liking matters. Is that all, or is there more?”

  “They spoke about the invitation to kiss the Queen’s hand. Chapuys said no, but Cromwell said…” Harry raised his head. “Is the Queen truly out of favour with the King?”

  Uncle George spun around to Sir Tom. “Out of the mouths of babes.” He turned back to his nephew. “I will not tell you falsehoods, Harry. The signs are not good. Cromwell and my sister have fought a war to keep the King in their hand. Sometimes I have hope that your aunt is able to hold her husband. Today gives me hope. But one close to the King tells me our cousin Carew will receive the Order of the Garter on St. George’s day—a knighthood promised to me.

  “Why knight Carew who daily plots for my sister’s removal? We all know he is one of bitch Seymour’s tutors—telling her what to do and say to make certain of the King. Her friends spy on my sister and then tell everything to Cromwell. I am not without spies, too, and they tell me that he has sent word to the Lady Mary that the King is tired of my sister, and that he can bear her no longer. She is to keep heart because soon Anne will be gone, and Mary will resume her rightful place. The King has proven himself a fickle man. He swore to love my sister, and now we have this cesspool that creeps upon us more with every new day.”

  “But what if Chapuys truly acknowledged the Queen today?” Kate asked.

  Her uncle rested a hand on her shoulder. “I
hope that, too. All who love your aunt do. But we must make ready in case this cesspool becomes a flood.”

  Sir Thomas picked up his quill. “We will know soon enough. The Queen expects Chapuys to dine with the other ambassadors this evening in her chambers. If he does, we can breathe easy for a time. If not, we have even more cause to fear that the King is taken from the Queen.”

  Trying to make sense of everything and unable to sleep because of her worry, Kate wrote for a long time in her journal that night.

  Judas kiss, that is what Wyatt called the kiss Chapuys gave my aunt. He spoke true, for Chapuys did not come. The King welcomed the last of the ambassadors with the Queen by his side. She asked him, “Where is Chapuys? Why is he not here?” I hated the way he looked at her then. He said, “'Tis not without good reason.” He walked away without saying one more word. My aunt seemed so alone I desired to go to her—but I did not dare. Why cannot I be braver? Why am I such a coward? She stood there for such a long time, her eyes following after him. Her white face still, without expression. I did not think she knew what to think or do.

  Then her mask fell. While she did not say one word, it seemed like she beseeched him, asking him to come back to her. As if she said, “Look at me, look at me. I beg you, don’t walk away.”

  But the King just kept walking. I hate him; hate him; hate him.

  My aunt is so brave. I do not know how she could go to the ambassadors as if nothing had happened. She even shared a joke with the French ambassador and laughed with gaiety. She could not hide from me her breaking heart. I just wanted to weep for her.

  Mother is right—all grief is hard to bear—big or small. There is nothing small about the grief my aunt daily bears. 'Tis no wonder the strain of it causes her to lose her temper at times.