The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Wendy J. Dunn

  January came to its last days and the court continued to celebrate the death of Katherine of Aragon. Celebrate? Kate pondered in her journal, trying to make sense of what she observed. Why do so many celebrate the festivities as if they are counterfeit? An enactment of life rather than real life? Words in her head darted and played like salmon in a lake waiting to be caught; fishing them up, one by one, she wrote quickly.

  The court is a place for masks

  for illusion

  for trick of hand, hooded eyes

  and carefully considered words.

  Is that surprising? She had already learnt that to reveal your real face at court risked death.

  Leaning her elbow on the table, she cupped her cheek in her hand and put down her quill. These festivities disturbed her. They seemed frenzied, as if the masked participants wished to put away any thought of the past, any thought of tomorrow, and dance with death. Seize the day—tomorrow may never come.

  Kate swallowed, sat straighter, pure terror seizing her heart. Every day she had reason to fight down her fears. She picked up her quill and wrote again:

  Death? Why do I think so much of death? Is it living here at court that makes me think such things? Its growing shade darkens my days.

  Bar Holy days, Kate continued her lute lessons with Francis. For one hour, she and Harry practiced together while Francis went back and forth between them. He treated them exactly alike, gave them equal time—and finished the lesson as if happy to see his duty done for the day. After he left to search for his friends, Kate fought against tears again. What had she ever done to deserve such torture?

  The twentieth day of January arrived, the day before Saint Agnes Day, the day of maidens. Kate had no heart to welcome the planned celebrations with the same merriment as the other unmarried girls. To her surprise, even the usually straight-talking Madge entered into the fun. Now betrothed to Henry Norris, recent days had seen her merry and acting like one confined for months, but now free.

  Like a sleepwalker, Kate fasted and prayed with the girls. Their excited chatter in the Queen’s chamber drove Kate to distraction, but caught the interest of her aunt. With the King that morning, Aunt Nan looped her arm through his and brought him over to them. “What say you, husband? Shall I fast and eat a boiled egg with my maids so I dream of you tonight?”

  He laughed and rested his hand on her stomacher. “None would mistake you for a virgin, Nan, not with your goodly belly. As for fasting, I say nay for my boy.” He laughed again. “Praise God, our son makes his presence known more every new day.”

  Aunt Nan leaned against him. “Have I told you he has quickened already?” She smiled, her hand resting on his over her stomacher. “Last night I felt his first kicks. He will be a strong boy, our son.”

  The King drew her into half an embrace. Kate smiled to witness their love, but then a shadow fell. The King broke away from his wife, his confused eyes becoming as hard as flint.

  “Nay, no fasting, I command it.” Taking away his arm, he bent down to kiss her cheek. “I must be away. Cromwell comes this morning, and there is much work to be done before I meet with Suffolk. He oversees the jousting three days hence.” He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the Queen alone, forlorn, staring after him, her hand still on her belly.

  The conversations, the laughter, the wishful thinking about husbands and futures at last became too much for Kate. Suffocated by her misery, she just wanted to be alone. The want grew into a need that dissipated her desire to obey her aunt’s command. With the guards so close by, surely it would be safe in the Queen’s own gardens. She slipped away, grabbed her cloak, escaping down the stairs that led outdoors. The bitter wind and the slush of soft earth under her feet from days of rain and, before that, melting snow, better fitted her mood. Unloved, unwanted, unloved, unwanted, nothing, nothing, nothing. The words spun around and around in her head. The world blurred. She drifted down the footpath without any aim or purpose, like a wind-blown autumn leaf.

  When she stumbled over her feet, she lifted her head at last. Right in front of her, Mary Shelton sat on a nearby bench, her hood fallen to her shoulders, her eyes closed in a too-white, too-thin face. She looked straight at Kate. Bitterness shadowed her smile. “Did those silly girls drive you outside, too? What a gaggle of geese they are!”

  Kate sat beside her. “I suppose they only wish to be merry.”

  “Merry? When they talk of dreaming about their husbands? If they had any sense, they would know that no boiled egg or salted herring will bring them what they want.” A tear trickled down Mary’s wan cheek. “Only the fortunate get that choice. For the likes of you and I, our lives are in other hands.”

  Kate pulled her cloak tighter around her, her fingers so cold they hurt. During her time at court, Madge had remained silent about her sister’s obvious unhappiness. On many occasions the two girls disappeared together. When Madge returned, it was alone, snapping with Boleyn temper. She had stormed so much at Kate the one time she had asked about Mary, she dared not to ask again.

  Now, with Mary, Kate found the bravery to ask once more, but this time direct it to the person it concerned. “Why are you always so sad?”

  Startled, Mary licked her lovely mouth, and then averted her face from Kate. “Am I?” She attempted a smile. “It must be my bad humours.”

  Kate took hold of her cousin’s arm and felt bone, rather than flesh, through the thick wool of her cloak. Shocked, she let go. “You are ill.”

  Mary shut her eyes tight before she twisted towards Kate. “Aye, ill—or heartsick. I find it means the same.”

  “Heartsick?” Kate thought how it had been for her since meeting Francis. “You’re in love?”

  Mary clasped her hands on her lap before pulling them back under her cloak. “Aye,” she answered quietly.

  Kate frowned at her cousin. She had never seen Mary with anyone. “Who is he?”

  Mary drew in and then exhaled a deep breath, the cold air misting it before them. “You are what—thirteen?”

  Kate jerked back. Once again her age seemed to herald the ending of discussion. Tightening her mouth, she controlled her anger before answering. “My birth day has come and gone. I am fourteen now.” She winced at how terse her voice sounded.

  Shifting, Mary gave a brittle smile. “Fourteen? I wish I was fourteen again—with the wisdom these past years have taught me.” She shrugged. “Perchance it would make no difference. When we give our hearts, we rarely listen to wisdom, even when it comes from our own logic. I would likely do it all again, even knowing the suffering it has cost me.”

  “What would you do again?”

  This time, Mary’s smile brightened. “Love. Love with all my heart and soul—and my body, too.” She tilted her head to the side. “I need not fast, keep my silence, or hope to dream of my husband tonight. I would not wish it. The man I love is wed to another. Even if he wasn’t, he is not for the likes of me. I love knowing it is hopeless.” She considered Kate. “He is the Earl of Surrey, our cousin, my lover—and—” Mary looked over her shoulder, and then all around “—one with the true-born blood of Edward IV flowing in his veins, not the bastard blood of the Tudors.” Tears fell down her face. “I am but a dalliance to him, and it breaks my heart.”

  That night Kate lay awake for hours, listening to the wind wail and rage, driving the sleet against the windows. Mary had given her heart and body without any hope of a happy outcome. Her aunt loved her husband, knowing he had stopped loving her. Love, Mary had said, she would do all again, for love. The voice was no longer Mary’s, but Aunt Nan’s. I would do it all again. I love him, body and soul.

  Opening her eyes to the night, Kate had no need to pray to Saint Agnes to bring her a dream of her husband. There was only one husband she wanted or desired. But he only wanted her friendship. He treated her like a child—a child to be kept her place.

  I love him, body and soul, and he has my heart. She drifted into sleep, dreaming of Francis. Dreaming of Francis an
d her in a bed, naked and locked together. It was a dream that woke her, body stirred, wide-awake and full of strange feelings that burned her cheeks with shame.

  16

  I write this on the twenty-fourth day of January, 1536, at Greenwich.

  AFTER READING BACK what she had just written, Kate continued.

  On this day, at the abbey of Saint Peterborough, the Dowager Princess of Wales will be entombed, while we at court celebrate.

  Kate put her quill in the inkpot, not daring for a moment to write any more. Katherine of Aragon’s death finally won, for the King, the victory he had sought for years. She went to her grave as his brother’s wife, a dowager Princess of Wales, and not a Queen. Kate picked up her quill again.

  The King jousts this day at Greenwich, while to my joy I keep the Queen, my aunt, company in her chambers.

  The Queen’s apartment door opened, drenching the entrance in honey light that gilded a man’s shape at the door. Kate blinked, trying to identify the figure. Only when he shouted did she know who it was. The Duke of Norfolk, her uncle, shouted, “Madam! The King is dead.”

  Like a dagger his words stabbed into her heart. But not only her. She spun around to Aunt Nan’s sharp cry.

  Everything happened so quickly—a nightmare of confusion and terror. Her aunt rose fast from the chair, her movement entangling her feet in her gown. She stumbled, lost her footing, and fell to the ground. The loud thud of her fall reverberated in the chamber. Silence followed. Curled up, unmoving, Aunt Nan looked like one dead. Kate’s world opened to an abyss of disbelief and horror.

  Frightened, she cried, “Jesu’! Dear God!” She joined the women rushing to the Queen’s aid, reaching her first. Her aunt stirred, and Kate breathed again. Meg Lee now beside her, she did not know what to do next.

  Running feet echoed, louder and louder, in the gallery, stopping just outside the door. A familiar voice rose in protest and argument. Yet another shout, a demand for entry, and Wyatt burst into the room. Without time to wonder why, Kate turned back to her aunt.

  Aunt Nan spoke through tears, the words babbling out. “The King is dead? The King is dead? I’m done for. My babes, my poor babes…”

  Sir Thomas, his face stark with fear, crouched beside her. “Are you hurt? Have you any pain?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he took her into his arms. Kate blinked. Wyatt glared at the Duke as if he wished to throttle him—or more. Their eyes fenced and blazed with hate. Kate seemed caught in the middle of a swordfight, a swordfight without blades.

  Her uncle broke first, but he kept his hand at the ready to draw his dagger from his belt, all the while backing into the light that flooded the room. The empty doorway framed his dark figure for several heartbeats, then he disappeared into the gallery.

  “The King is dead.” Aunt Nan clutched Wyatt’s doublet like one drowning. She hiccupped, and Wyatt touched her face.

  “Anne. Anna. Listen to me. The King’s not dead.” He swivelled towards the empty doorway. He repeated hoarsely, “The King is not dead.”

  Not dead? Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Kate’s head hurt with the seemingly unending beat of these two words. Why did her uncle, Aunt Nan’s uncle, too, do this? Why did he hate his royal niece so much?

  Still enclosed in Wyatt’s arms, Aunt Nan convulsed over and over. She whimpered, “Harry’s not dead?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “Nay, Anna. You know I’d never lie to you. The King’s not dead.”

  “I feel ill, Tom.” Her skin so white, Aunt Nan’s pupils were enormous and engulfed the irises of her dark eyes. Her breaths fast and ragged, she put a hand against Sir Thomas’s chest. Kate trembled as Wyatt gestured for help to get Aunt Nan to her feet.

  Carefully, on either side of her, Kate and Meg walked the Queen towards her bedchamber. Before they got there, Aunt Nan swayed. Kate swung to Wyatt in panic. Reflecting back her fear, he scooped up her aunt as if she were the lightest thing in the world. His eyes shifted around the room, as if he, too, felt caught in a dreadful dream where there was no awaking, paying not one jot of attention to the chorus of disapproval coming from some of the Queen’s women.

  Aunt Nan’s head fell back, her gable dropping to the floor. Her white linen cap fell, too, and her plaited hair tumbled free. Tightening his hold on her limp body, Wyatt shouted, “Someone get help—get the physicians now! Where’s the Queen’s midwife? In God’s name, get her, too.” His face wet with tears, he carried her to her bed.

  Kate followed, and stood forlornly and helplessly beside Wyatt. Aunt Nan’s eyelids fluttered and she opened terrified eyes. Her face grey, she gripped her belly and moaned.

  Aunt Nan lost her baby days afterwards. It would have been a son. A prince. The child so wanted by the King that he had turned his Kingdom upside down to reject one marriage to make a new. Like fire catching at kindling, rumours raced around Greenwich. One horrible rumour said the dead child was deformed—a sign of a marriage cursed—a marriage that God did not want.

  Still recovering from the injury he received while jousting, his head bruised and swollen, for days King Henry stalked up and down the gallery at Greenwich, with mad, burning eyes in a red-cheeked face. He seemed a firebrand, one that blazed rumour into truth. He seemed a man ready to do murder. Henry Norris, close to the King since boyhood, followed after him, but like a frightened man who expected the King to turn and dagger him. Any forced into the presence of the King at this time put themselves in danger of his abuse and temper.

  But Kate cared only about her aunt.

  Aunt Nan was still unwell in her chamber when the King called for his sleigh and left his wife in the care of her women. That same day Elizabeth Boleyn arrived at court. Greeting her weary grandmother on her arrival, Kate struggled to hide her shock about how much she had changed since Aunt Nan’s coronation. Bowed over, more winkled than ever, all skin and bones, her grandmother had aged to become almost unrecognisable.

  Distracted, Elizabeth Boleyn barely acknowledged Kate’s greeting before disappearing into her daughter’s chamber. Left alone again, Kate reeled from the sound of weeping that was only shut off when the door closed. Even one of the guards paled and lost concentration on his halberd before straightening it up again.

  Every morning, Kate either walked or sat on the bench near the brazier outside her aunt’s chamber with Madge, hoping to see her grandmother and beg to be allowed in with her aunt, too. On the third morning, she told this to Madge, but her cousin shook her head. “We’re unwed and thus forbidden entry,” she said.

  Kate hid her disbelief. My kinship is closer to Aunt Nan than Madge’s. Surely my blood tie makes a difference.

  Madge passed her the book of shared poetry. “Why not read while you wait. Who knows—it might help you. I always find comfort by reading and writing. Later, you might think of something to add to our pages.” She shrugged. “Remember, it doesn’t have to be your own words. You can use it to share your favourite songs, poems, or even riddles. This is but a place for your pen, where you do not need fear to bridle your tongue.”

  Left to wait for Madge’s return from visiting her twin, Kate placed the book in her pocket. Comfort in reading? How could anyone find comfort in reading—especially in times like these, with grief so close by?

  Catherine Willoughby approached without noticing Kate and slipped into the Queen’s chamber. Will not my friend allow me entry? She picked up her skirts and raced into her aunt’s privy chamber. From the open door of Aunt Nan’s bedchamber came the unmistakable, sickening smell of blood. The bedhangings drawn, the slight body of her aunt moved restlessly on her bed and then stilled.

  Catherine turned around and opened her eyes wide at Kate before checking on the sleeping Queen. She spoke in barely a whisper. “Kate, you should not be here,”

  Coming closer, Kate placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “Pray, let me stay.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I cannot.”

  She took Kate over to the seats by the fireplace. The fire
and candles unlit, the Queen’s privy chamber was dark and cold. Shivering, Kate gathered her fur mantle tighter around her and clutched her bare hands underneath. She bit down against the agony of her freezing fingers, trying to ignore how her whole body protested against the bone-hurting cold. Sitting down in one seat, Catherine gestured to Kate to sit in the other, then leaned forward. “I cannot let you stay.”

  Kate swallowed, leaning forward as well. “Oh why? Why can’t I be here, too?”

  “You must know why. This is not a place for a girl who has not yet borne a child.”

  “But—”

  “Nay, Kate. It is more than that. The King is displeased with your aunt.” Catherine’s unhidden fear fuelled Kate’s own fear into an inferno. “Displeased is not a strong enough word. He is angry, Kate. He told her, just after she lost her babe, that she would bear him no more sons—now or ever. I will never forget how he slammed the door on the way out as if he ended their life together. He shouted to his men that witchcraft had seduced him into this marriage.”

  Kate blinked, not believing what she heard. At last she said, “Witchcraft?”

  “Aye, witchcraft. Now he sees none but his ministers. For hours, he is closeted with them. I hate to think what they talk about—but it must be about the loss of the King’s son.”

  Kate straightened in the chair. “None of this changes anything. I should be with my aunt, more than ever.”

  Tension drawn on her white face, Catherine drew a deep breath. “I know you want to be with her, and I promise I will tell her so. But you must realise that by being here you could give the King another reason for anger.”

  “God’s teeth, why?”

  Catherine sighed. “Because you are his daughter. You have been at court long enough to know the great store the King puts in royal protocol. If he hears you attend the Queen, he may think the Queen has requested it. You are a maid, Kate. The court rules that there is no place for you here. You do not want to give him any more cause to be angry at her.”