“What is it?” Kate asked, seeing Catherine brush away her tears.
“'Tis no matter.”
“Then why do you weep?”
Catherine shrugged again. “At the whims of fate? A silly thing, surely, to cry for. What one cannot change, one must learn to accept and make best of.” Sighing, she took up one book and flicked through its pages. “Boethius’s The Consolation of Philosophy…” She glanced at Kate. “Have you read this?”
Confronted by the Latin text, Kate grimaced “No, my mother possesses few books. I never knew there were so many until seeing my aunt’s library.”
“Aye, the Queen has a great passion for books. Her chaplain, William Latimer, often purchases them to help increase her collection. He gave me the gift of this book when I first came to court two years ago, just wed.” She closed her eyes. “‘Why then do you mortal men seek after happiness outside yourself when it lies within you?’” Catherine turned a smile to Kate. “I have read it often since my marriage. Would my new friend like to read it first, so we may discuss Boethius together? I know the Queen, your aunt, would approve. She holds Boethius in great regard.”
Kate smiled. “If you recommend it, then of course, I’ll read it before I start on the others.” She gazed at the pile of books. “Mother did not tell me how long I am allowed to stay from home, but I desire to remain here as long as possible. And while I am here, I want to learn as much as I can.”
A hunting horn sounded, answered by another—the gay sound of triumph and homecoming. Kate turned with Catherine to the window and peered into the courtyard. Through the gateway, a party of men rode in, flicking up white snow in their path. Gold and silver glinted from buckles and swords. Under fur mantles hinted rich colours: purple, blue, crimson, and green.
Horses wheeled around, tossed heads, and lifted forelegs in protest as riders shortened reins and pulled their mounts to a halt. Servants rushed around, taking hold.
Catherine sighed. “So … it starts again.”
Kate blinked. “What?”
“Silly goose, do you not see? The King returns.”
6
NERVOUSLY, Kate approached the open doorway of the throne room. Looking straight ahead, pike-bearing guards stood to attention on either side of heavy oak doors, swung outward to reveal the milling crowd within.
“Time for you to meet the King.” Aunt Nan glanced over her shoulder at her. “Come, follow me.” She smiled in reassurance.
Aunt Nan’s other attendants mingled with the rest of the court, while her chamberlain walked before her. In a ringing tone, he announced to all, “The Queen. Make way for the Queen. Make way for Queen Anne.”
A path opened wide for Aunt Nan. On either side, the men bowed and women curtseyed.
Her heart beating fast with fear, Kate trailed close behind her, aware of the King observing his wife’s approach. Kate caught the assessing eye of her grandfather. Standing beside another man, he nodded before murmuring something to him. Why hasn’t he come to see me since his return from the hunt?
The King sat on a high-back throne, on the dais, all alone. Long, muscular legs spread apart, knees bent, feet slippered, his repose was that of an active man, a man of power, one restless with inaction. Upon his head was a flat, circular hat, trimmed with the down of white feathers. What was seen of his hair was reddish, thin, threaded with white.
The Queen’s empty throne was next to him. Padded with green and gold velvet, emblazoned with the Tudor rose, its dark wood gleamed as if newly polished. Now and then, the King glanced at it.
Kate looked around, aware of the almost palpable fear of many in this chamber, fear that enclosed her own heart in its vise. No wonder. The King gazed around his court with hard, fierce, frightening blue eyes. She blinked. In the next second, he looked bitter; suffering; suspicious.
Men and the few women stood at a safe distance from him. They all watched him; waiting for him to speak; waiting for his command.
The King impatiently drummed his jewelled fingers upon the arm of his throne, or the thigh of his leg, waiting for the Queen to reach him. His rubies flashed and sparkled red droplets of light that danced upon the whitewashed wall.
Besides the cloth of estate erected over his head, tapestries, hanging on the walls nearby, also decorated the room with bright colours. Rich, gold-threaded depictions of two Biblical kings: Solomon in all his glory and his father, David. King David played his harp while, in the background, Bathsheba wept. Kate shivered, recognising that both kings had been modelled on the Tudor king before her.
Now slouched on the throne, he toyed with his thumb ring, straightening as his wife and Kate neared the dais. A ray of light glinted on the death’s head of the gold ring on his little finger. Aunt Nan, followed by Kate, dropped into a low courtesy. The King came down from the dais, reached out a hand to his Queen, and helped her up, while Kate stayed on her knees.
“You look well, Nan.” He positioned her body in profile for the court, rested a hand on her stomacher and grinned. “And how is our son?”
Lowering her eyelids, she smiled warily, wanly. “Giving me a taste for apples, my lord husband, and making me regret it afterwards. But I am not sickening with this babe as much as I have before. All is well.” She smiled again—a brighter smile, yet also brittle. “How was the hunt?”
With a laugh and smile, his arms stretched out wide in mime. “My arrows brought down my targets at over two hundred yards. I killed three bucks. We shall have fresh venison tonight.”
He looked behind his wife and seemed to notice Kate for the first time. Remaining on her knees, she stayed silent and still, waiting for permission to rise, for once wishing she could make herself invisible. All last night, she had tossed and turned knowing today she would meet the King. Likewise, Madge had been restless from the moment she came to bed.
“Who is this girl?” the King asked.
Aunt Nan glanced at her with encouragement and gestured for her to stand. “Come, sweetheart. Come and give your greeting to the King.”
Kate’s knees almost buckled as she stood upright. Annoyed at her lack of grace, she walked forward a few steps. Aunt Nan took her hand and turned back to her husband. “Surely you remember her from my coronation? This is Katherine Carey, sire.”
“Katherine Carey,” the King repeated, regarding her with new attention “Katherine Carey.”
He looked her up and down, from head to toes. So like his niece, the Lady Margaret, the King’s penetrating gaze disturbed Kate—she felt like goods brought out for bartering. Her hand clammy, she curbed the urge to wipe it on her skirt. The king exchanged a strange look with Aunt Nan.
“Why is she here?” he asked.
“I thought it time. My niece is well overdue to learn the ways of the court.”
“Katherine Carey,” he said again.
Kate blushed. Unused to being the centre of attention—now a King had named her three times and would not stop staring at her—she squirmed, just wanting for this audience to come to an end.
The chamberlain banged his staff on the floor two times and announced, “Lord Cromwell!”
A short, solid man entered the chamber. Her aunt made a sudden movement closer to the King. The graceless man took off his cap to reveal closed-cropped, coal-black hair underneath. He made an awkward, deep bow and then approached. His graceless gait was so different from the many at court who moved with measured, carefully considered steps.
“Tom!” the King said. “What brings you here?”
The man bowed. “Your Grace, we are glad to see you back at Greenwich.” He bowed to Aunt Nan. “We have all missed the King’s presence for this last week and more, have we not, my Queen?” His small, hard mouth twisted into what seemed to be his attempt at a smile.
Aunt Nan took the King’s arm and smiled up at her husband. He didn’t seem to notice. “Aye, my lord Chancellor. I am glad to have my husband home again.”
“What do you here, Tom?” the King said again. “Have yo
u come to claim the coin I lost to you at cards before I went away?”
Cromwell’s double chin wobbled and wobbled with his laugh. His face lit up with animation and amusement. “It is I who usually loses at cards and dice, my liege. I am happy to be the King’s moneylender for once.”
His hand on his hip, the King hooted out a loud belly laugh. “Sometimes I wonder who is richer—you or I.”
Those around the court who were not listening before now listened in earnest. Kate noticed her grandfather murmur once more to the man next to him.
Cromwell barked another wobbly-chin laugh, and scratched his head. “Marry! My Grace, I know my place. All I have is yours. I am your servant who willingly places his fortune in the service of my King.”
Aunt Nan’s half-hooded eyes opened wide. She remained oddly silent and moved restlessly beside her husband. She seemed to challenge Cromwell before lowering her eyes. Cromwell ignored her. It was all very strange.
Kate found the King watching her. “Tom, I do not believe you would know this girl,” he said. “'Tis Mary Carey’s daughter.”
Cromwell cocked his head, while furrowing his brow. “What is your name, child?”
Kate curtseyed and murmured, “Katherine, my lord.”
“Hmmm. Sister to young Henry, is that not right? I know your lady mother—you’re very alike.” He spoke to the King. “And she has a strong look of her father, too.”
The King’s face flushed and seemed to swell. But then he suddenly boomed out a laugh. “Aye. I see what you mean.”
Flushed, Aunt Nan shook his arm. “My Lord, may I have permission to take my niece back to my chambers? She is new to court and has had enough taste of it this morning. I also must rest. I have not slept well while you were away from me.”
He frowned. “What I do should not concern you, Nan. I have told you this before.”
Their eyes locked and seemed to war against the other, with Aunt Nan surrendering first, but not before a weary look settled upon her face. Close by, Cromwell stood there, eyes lowered, hands together, a smile hinting at his lips.
Going back to Aunt Nan’s chambers, Kate tried to make sense of the puzzle. Why had her aunt seemed so worried, almost scared, when the conversation turned to Kate’s father? Kate had discovered his portrait, a miniature kept by her mother, in a coffer of garments earmarked for making anew. Her mother must have placed it there in mistake. Despite losing him at only five, her handsome father remained clear in her memory: a rather square face on a long neck, eyes set wide apart, thin, well-shaped mouth. The only flaw was a narrow, yet somewhat bulbous nose. She had not thought she looked like him, but rather her mother. Since she had brought the miniature with her, she could barely wait to dig it out again from underneath her gowns and shifts and search for the similarity she must have missed before.
Aunt Nan arrived back at her chambers and reached for Kate’s hand. Dismissing her attendants, she led Kate deeper into the antechamber before releasing her. She sat on the chair by the window and kicked off her shoes.
“That’s better.” She flexed her long, shapely toes. “My new shoes were pinching me all the time I was with the King.” She gestured to her footstool. “Come, sit next to me.”
Thankfully sitting down, Kate gazed out at the day. The morning sun shone weakly, snow lay on the ground, thick and white, and otherworldly. She blinked. For a moment, the wind lifted a flurry of snow. It seemed to take the shape of angel’s wings.
Within the room, someone had built up the fire in the huge fireplace while they had been away and lit the braziers around the room. Kate closed her eyes, letting the welcomed warmth seep back into her bones.
Aunt Nan laughed and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Who gave you permission to sleep?”
Kate smiled at her aunt. The love in her eyes made Kate brave enough to do as she did with her mother. She leant on her aunt’s knee and rested her head.
Aunt Nan laughed again. “If you want, you can remove your hood. I remember how I hated them at your age.”
Kate yanked off her new hood. Her long, unbound hair, now free from its confinement, cascaded to curl upon itself on the floor.
Her aunt stroked her head. “A very pretty colour, Kate, not blonde, nor red, but something in betwixt.”
She stopped speaking, and silence reigned for a time. Kate thought about the King and the way he looked at her, how he studied her. Not lust, no, not lust, but it still frightened her.
Her mother had warned her of the men she would meet at court. “Guard your maidenhead as you would your life,” she had said. “Don’t ever let men get you alone. If you do, you might find yourself wishing for death.”
Raised in the country, the sight of animals mating was a common occurrence. She had seen servants dally with one another before she had to endure the sight her mother and her new husband kissing and caressing. Kate believed she knew what happened when they locked the bedchamber door after them. Sometimes they forgot to close it completely. Before her mother became big bellied with her sister and brother, Kate would pass their chamber to hear the bed creak and creak and their raised voices joined in unintelligible moans. Sometimes her mother cried out, “Will!” over and over, as if somehow she was lost and wished to be found again. Discomforted at where her thoughts had taken her, Kate sat up.
Her aunt smiled. “I thought you had really gone to sleep this time.”
With a shrug, Kate put fingers at her mouth and pulled her lower lip.
Aunt Nan cocked her head. “Welladay, child. Methinks you have questions. Do you wish to ask them?”
Kate took a deep breath. Her smile seemed to invite confidences. “The King. Why did he keep saying my name?”
“Did he?”
“Aye, three times he said it.”
Sitting back in her chair, Aunt Nan smoothed down her dress and then stroked her slim belly. She left her hand there as if shielding a vulnerable treasure. “I suppose three times is curious.” She let out a long sigh. “I wish your uncle was returned from seeing your mother. The King came back sooner than I expected.”
Perplexed, Kate frowned. “My uncle? Pray, what has Uncle George got to do with the King’s interest in my name?”
“Your uncle? Nothing, really.” Aunt Nan put her elbow on her chair’s armrest and cradled the side of her face with her hand. She screwed her mouth to the side and clicked her tongue. “I don’t know what to do. If I leave you in the dark, someone might blurt it out in any case.” She sniffed with annoyance. “Your mother should have told you sooner than this.”
Moving closer to her aunt, Kate blurted out, “Told me what?”
Aunt Nan studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward. “Give me your hands.”
Kate placed her hands into Aunt Nan’s. “Aunt, you’re frightening me.”
“Frightened? My niece, the daughter of your mother, frightened? You do not know yet the bravery of the women in our family. Niece, my Kate, believe me, you’re brave and strong enough to hear what I am about to tell you. Child, there is no easy way to tell you this.” Aunt Nan lifted her chin. “William Carey was not your father.”
Kate snatched away her hands and bolted up. “Not my father? What do you mean? He is my father.”
Aunt Nan shook her head. Pity shone in her eyes. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but 'tis the truth. William Carey gave you and your brother his name, nothing more.”
As if from a long distance, his voice sang the lullaby that had sent her to sleep whenever he was home: “Lullay, thou little tiny child, lullay; bye bye, lully, lullay,” her father sang. Her father.
The times she rode before him on his horse while he told her yet another story or taught her another song. He gave her nothing but his name? She clapped her hands over her ears and shook her head with violence. “You lie! He is my father! He is!”
Aunt Nan took Kate’s hands and held them in her firm grip. Her eyes shone with tears. “No, child. The King is your father.”
She stared
at her aunt, her heart pounding. In her mind, she heard her mother’s voice reciting one of her favourite Bible verses: For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
Slapped with horror, she picked up her skirts and ran all the way back to her chamber. Once there, she flung herself on the empty bed, and sobbed and sobbed.
7
THE TEARS FALLING DOWN HER FACE, Kate flipped the pages of her journal. She came to the one she sought, where Uncle George had written the words of Sappho:
Day in, day out
I hunger and I struggle.
Hunger. Struggle. Was that all she had to look forward to in life—the hunger of body, the hunger of soul? The struggle to simply to live? More tears dripped down her cheeks, dropping like raindrops on the parchment of the book, spattering and smudging Uncle George’s perfect calligraphy.
She shut the book, thinking of all the lies. What if they lied out of love? That did not make it right. Feeling so betrayed, she returned to the bed, rolling over to her stomach.
A soft knock followed one harder on the door.
“Go away,” Kate said through her tears, her voice muffled and hoarse, as she remained face down on the bolster.
The door opened and light footsteps padded to the bed.
“Go away,” Kate said again, but lifted her head to see her brother standing at her side. She sniffed, wiped her runny nose on her sleeve, and rolled onto her side. “Why are you here?”
Harry sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a lock of her hair. “Not as red as mine; methinks more like Mother’s. Why am I here? Why do you think?” He released her hair from his fingers. “Our aunt sent me. She tells me you know now.”
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