The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Wendy J. Dunn

  Kate bolted up wide-awake in her trundle bed. Around her everyone slept—even her aunt. Trembling, she lay down again, but without any hope of sleep.

  The next evening, Kate nestled against Aunt Nan’s knee. Flickering fire and candlelight netted them in amber glow. Shifting on her cushion in discomfort, Kate bent her head and lowered her gaze, trying not to think about the night and how it walled her in. How it gave her dreams that frightened her. The days were upsetting enough without fearing to sleep. She twisted towards her aunt. For a long time now—too long—Aunt Nan had sat on her stool without moving, without speaking.

  Since the great outpouring of grief when her brother went to the block, she had been like this. Even the news following shortly afterwards of the annulment of her marriage to the King had not stirred her.

  Cold fingers of air poked Kate’s back, her bladder tingled and twinged. Shivering, she gathered her shawl over her shift and turned towards the darkness that hid the bed and the clothes coffer. Should she get her woollen cloak? Within the circle of light was Aunt Nan’s workbasket. Draped over one side was the sleeve of a child’s night shift. Aunt Nan had finished it tonight, putting the last touches to the beautiful needlework that embroidered the edges of sleeves, neck and hem with scarlet thread. Reminded of her little cousin, Kate murmured without thinking, “Do you think they’ll tell Bess?”

  Aunt Nan jerked and then cried out in agony—a primeval cry that caused Kate’s heart to thump harder against her chest. Men forced to watch their entrails burnt before their eyes—did they cry out like her aunt? Cry out so the very stones would hear and remember forever?

  Aunt Nan bent over and pressed her white handkerchief to her mouth in her efforts to regain control. She turned to Kate, tears rolling down her cheeks. Once more, Kate nestled against her. She swallowed and licked away her own tears from her mouth

  Over and over, Aunt Nan twisted her handkerchief until it tore. The ripping sound made Kate start and wince. Her aunt straightened. “Bess is not even three.”

  Kate strained to hear her soft words.

  “How will she remember me? God help me, will she remember me at all?”

  The heartsore misery of Aunt Nan sliced asunder Kate’s fragile control. She leant her wet cheek on her aunt’s limp hand. “Aunt—”

  What can I say to comfort her? Was it possible to give her solace at all?

  The slow tread of footsteps crunched outside the chamber. Meg, returning from the privy, froze, seemingly aware of her aunt’s despair. She tossed back her head, like a horse smelling the approach of storm or blood. Smoothing down the sides of her gown, Meg walked forward again, grim and determined. “Pray tell,” she said, in a voice forced, cheerful, “whatever is this? Didn’t we agree to cast aside melancholy tonight?”

  Candlelight struck Aunt Nan’s face. Black hair combed back from her forehead, her eyes glowed as she attempted a smile. “Kate asked about Bess. Forgive me, but it undid me.”

  Wiping away new tears, Kate could barely breathe. “I promise you, your kin will not let Bess forget you. I vow I’ll tell my cousin all she needs to know about her mother.”

  Aunt Nan touched her cheek. “Kate.” Her laughter belled and cracked. “Almost six months at court and still innocent. Still thinking life gives us what we want.”

  Meg dragged her stool closer, bent forward, spreading out plump fingers over her thighs. “Now, Nan, Kate may be young, but she means what she says.”

  Aunt Nan bounded up and half swirled one way, then the other. Her wide eyes wild, haunted, she seemed like a doe hunted beyond endurance now facing the dogs and her doom. Kate swallowed, shifting on her knees. Does she think she has nowhere else to run?

  As if in pain, arms tight across her breasts, her aunt spoke fast, forcing out the words. “Harry will strip my child of all that reminds him of me.”

  Meg’s stool toppled to the floor with a resounding thud. Gripping Aunt Nan’s shoulders, Meg turned her around. “For that to happen he would need to destroy his Kingdom and build it over. England is made anew because of you. We’re no longer puppets to the papacy. It was you who set us free.”

  Aunt Nan broke away, brushing away more tears. “Politics? Do you think I care one jot about politics on this night of nights? Politics is what cast me in this cesspool.” She wrung her hands. “But Bess—what of her? My child will be motherless, without my protection.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body and dropped to her knees. She laughed and laughed. Her raw, ugly hysteria made Kate wish to curl up and hide. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. Shadows fluttered in the dark recesses of the chamber. They took on demon shapes, reaching for her, for Aunt Nan, for the others, seeking souls.

  Aunt Nan hiccupped, and began speaking again. “I’ll be well and truly dead before the sun sets on the morrow. I’ll never see another daybreak.” Standing like a sleepwalker, she returned to her stool, taking Kate’s hand, and then Meg’s. Feeling her aunt’s cold hand tremble, Kate tightened her hold.

  “Forgive me. I have much to be grateful for; I do not deserve you both. Thank you for wanting to be with me … and not letting me face death alone.” Aunt Nan’s trembling fingers lifted Kate’s chin. “You’re young, Kate. So young. Do you truly desire to remain with me to the very end, to witness a bloody death? I would not blame you if you changed your mind.”

  Aunt Nan’s eyes and teeth glittered from the light of the nearby candle. “Meg and I have shared the good and bad since girlhood. I love her almost as much as I love your mother.” She gave a little laugh, and tightened her grip on Kate’s hand. “Tell my sister she had the right of it. Don’t concern yourself over a King’s love; just bed with him, wait until his passion is spent, and bow off the stage for a freer life.” Letting Kate loose, she stared at her shaking hands. “Mary did not sink in the quicksand of ambition and pride, or cause our sweet brother to be put so horribly to death.” She inhaled and exhaled a ragged breath. “I digress. But you, niece, you’ve seen enough heartache because of me. 'Tis enough Meg sees me to the end.”

  Kate sat straighter and shook her head with such fervency it hurt. “You’ll not make me change my mind. I’m of your blood. I’ll not fail you or make you ashamed.”

  Her heart stopped, frozen by the thought of the coming day. She tried to laugh, like her brave-hearted aunt, who often laughed at the whims of fate. Even in the Tower, she laughed, waiting for death. Kate knotted her hands together. “I cannot lie and say I’ll not weep on the scaffold. But I pray to God I will be brave and do what needs to be done.”

  Drawn back to the darkness, Kate told herself there were no demons there, only shifting shadows. Why fear fleeting shadows when the darkness lay within, darkness that could seed a harvest of evil?

  On a nearby stool sat the book Madge had given to her. Before the sun set on another day, Kate had flicked through the pages, wondering if she should write. But no words had come. Now they did. She wanted to write that vigilance was not only for the night, but also for the day. She wanted to write that during the day, it was too easy to slide into stagnation, rather than face hard truths or the light and dark within ourselves. She rubbed at her face. She had learnt so much in her months with her aunt. But the most important lesson was this: to not let her own darkness flourish and overwhelm her by refusing to look in the mirror at her true self and recognise when she did evil.

  Kate swallowed back bile. Evil like the King’s… her father. God forgive him. He believed the lies because it was easier for him than to make do with two daughters as his heirs. He killed the man within him who loved her aunt and sacrificed his soul for the sake of his crown. He told himself it was for England and that God desired it, not him. Taking a deep breath, she turned to her aunt and vowed, “I pray God to honour you and to be a good witness to your unjust death.”

  Aunt Nan smiled with bitterness and put her hands around her neck. “My neck is so little, my husband’s well paid headsman will have an easy job of it. Think you what history will call me
in years to come: Queen Anne lack-a-head.”

  She pealed with uncontrolled laughter, laughing until she held her stomach. Meg stood, poured water into a goblet, and then put her hand on Aunt Nan’s thin shoulder. Kate shivered. The days of imprisonment had stripped more flesh from her aunt’s bones.

  “Drink, dear fool.” Meg’s voice shook with emotion. She cleared her throat. “Stop this fuss before you make yourself ill.”

  With exhausted obedience, Aunt Nan sipped and then wiped her mouth. She swished the goblet’s contents. “I lost my courage when they told me my execution was postponed until tomorrow. Meg, I was tempted to beg you to bring me the escape of poison, rather than risk breaking down on the scaffold.”

  “Nan!” Meg stood there, her mouth open.

  Aunt Nan smiled. “Like our Kate here, I’ll speak no falsehoods, not so close to meeting my maker. While I own to many sins, none but my pride, jealousy and lack of humility bring me here. God knows I am innocent of the evil they charge me with.” She clasped Meg’s hand. “Aye, I thought of poison, but only for a moment. The last thing I can give my daughter is the knowledge her mother made a good death. As long as I remember that, I’ll have no trouble dying well.” Aunt Nan chuckled softly. “The King, my dearly beloved husband, has been ever constant in his career of advancing me. From private gentlewoman he made me Marchioness, from Marchioness a Queen, and now he honours me by giving my innocence the crown of martyrdom. No other Queen of England could say the same.”

  Kate averted her face, struggling not to weep. Her aunt’s lute leaned forlornly and forgotten against a footstool. She got up and brought it to her. “Will you not play?”

  Aunt Nan stared at the instrument. “Do you really wish it?” she whispered. She twined her hands in her lap, as she didn’t dare touch it.

  Kate swam in grief, but refused to drown. “I love it when you play.” Ignoring the smart of fresh tears, she swallowed hard. “Pray, could you not sing for us tonight?”

  With a sigh, Aunt Nan took the lute. She swallowed and spoke hoarsely. “My beloved husband once said my voice belonged to an angel. Little did I realise he believed it so well that he would ensure a place for me in the Heavenly choir.”

  Meg enclosed Aunt Nan’s hand in hers. “Don’t think of the King. My brother Tom and you played so many songs together. Why not play and sing one of those tonight?”

  “You told the truth before? Tom’s safe?”

  “I heard the news from Father’s own lips. He worked every day to secure Tom’s release.” Meg laughed. “You know my brother; all he has to do is write a poem for the world to love him. Even Cromwell cares for him too well to feed his fine head to the ravens.”

  “I’m glad of it.” Aunt Nan shifted the lute in hands. “Tom shared enough of my woes without sharing my enemies too. He warned me I’d find myself bailed up by the dogs one day.” She smiled slightly. “I always thought I could dance myself out of any trap set for me. But this year…. When I lost my babe, my son, I lost all heart to dance. By the time I looked around, the time for dancing was over.” Her tears welled again and she lowered her head. “I wish my brother had never taken it upon himself to dance this dance with me, nor the four good men who died bravely because they were my friends.”

  “Cromwell knew their loyalty to you.” Meg’s face stilled. “Leave any of them alive with you dead and Cromwell would have been murdered in his bed before the month was out. My brother could have easily drawn the same short straw. Father said he had a bad time convincing Tom not to seek out his own death, or vengeance. Father reminded him that his son is the same age as our Kate—old enough to wield a sword, old enough to dance at the end of the rope. The Wyatts have long served the Tudors well. Brother mouthed the words of gratitude that Cromwell wanted to hear.” Meg returned her attention to Aunt Nan. “He’ll be released, Nan … soon. Father tells me that Tom is heartbroken.”

  Her head still lowered, Aunt Nan brushed gentle fingers against the lute’s strings, rustling its notes. “I’ve always made your brother heartsore. Pray, when you give Tom my Book of Hours, make certain he reads my message straight away. I know he will grieve for me, but I pray my words will comfort him. And, my child…. Don’t let her cry. Tell her she was my greatest consolation and joy. Nothing else matters but her. I’d do it all again—aye, even face another dawn break knowing death waits for me before the new day is old—for my daughter. Oh, if only I could hold my Bess one more time.”

  Church bells tolled. Without saying one word, they huddled in closer. Utterly still, an unsung dirge of silence wound a knot of comfort around them. The twelfth hour struck.

  Aunt Nan moved first, going back to her stool. “So it comes to this—the last day of my life. I should not leave you afraid, my Kate. Death comes for us all. I spoke the truth that I am not unhappy to die.” She smiled with grimness. “I took the crown life offered me only to find it came at a hefty cost. Do I regret it now?” She paused for a moment, her thin face tensed in thought. “I regret what it cost others, but for myself, I cannot see what other choice I had but to follow this road that has brought me here.”

  She turned to Meg. “It means much to me that you believe my life did more good than bad. And how can I regret my daughter?” Aunt Nan shook her head. “At the end, I cannot even regret Harry. He loved me once, and I will go to my death loving him, his true wife. How many women can boast of a love like ours once was—a love that shook the world?” She turned to Kate. “I tell you truly, child, that is the love that counts in the end. And I have loved, really, truly loved. Tell my daughter that.”

  Aunt Nan straightened her shoulders. “I’ve my courage back. I will face my death with a good heart. What have I to be afraid of, after all? God knows my sins, my great imperfections, but He also knows my heart. These last years I tried to do right by England and its people, even if they hated me and believed me arrogant.” She laughed grimly. “And I was. I thought I could be like Esther, but I did not save my people from the evil of Cromwell’s plans. Esther was wiser than I—she knew the rules and how to play them to win.” She smiled. “But at least I have learnt humility at the end. I have even stopped hating Cromwell. He will overplay his hand and find himself in this place before too long. I suspect he will have more regrets than me.”

  Aunt Nan brought her hand up to her head and shifted in her seat. “Geoffrey Chaucer once wrote:

  Tragedy means a certain kind of story,

  As old books tell, of those who fell from glory,

  People that stood in great prosperity

  And were cast down from their high degree

  Into calamity, and so they die.”

  She sighed. “So they die.” She bent her head. “I always prided myself on my intelligence, yet this is the reward for my vainglory.” She smiled tenderly at Kate. “When you’re young, you think yourself immortal—life is forever. You can do anything, and do it again and again without hurt. Now I’m at the end of my road. I’m wiser now. I know life is uncertain and that we can never take anything for granted.

  “Nay, I tell you true, I’m ready for death. The worst of it is to die at the hand of someone I love so dearly; to know the fire that burnt between my husband and I is but ash to him. It must be ash if I am here. Mayhap, the fire was too powerful after all and, by its heat, burnt itself out. I also told you the truth when I said I have no regrets. To regret would be to regret living, and I cannot do that. The choices we make are the threads we weave in life’s tapestry—for good or ill, it is useless to bemoan the threads once woven. All we can do is learn and pick out the right colours while we live.” She stared at her lute. “Kate has asked for a song, but I am afraid I’ve lost my heart to play tonight.” Her sad smile embraced both Kate and Meg. “Forgive me.”

  Kate came over and took the lute from her aunt’s hands. “Let me, then.” With effort, she grinned. “You haven’t heard my skill with the lute, Aunt Nan. Francis has been a good teacher, and he taught me a song about a lost heart.” She sm
iled at her aunt and Meg. “I believe it is by Sir Thomas.”

  Aunt Nan and Meg shared a look of amusement.

  “I know it well,” Aunt Nan said. “Play it for me, Kate. I would like to hear you sing; just to see you make music with my lute will restore my spirits.”

  At first hesitant, but growing in confidence, Kate plucked the notes of her aunt’s lute and sang.

  Help me to seek!

  For I lost it there;

  And, if that ye have found it,

  ye that be here,

  And seek to convey it secretly,

  Handle it soft and treat it tenderly,

  Or else it will ’plain, and then appear.

  But pray restore it mannerly,

  Since that I do ask it thus honestly;

  For to lose it, it sitteth me near;

  Help me to seek!

  Alas, and is there no remedy?

  But have I thus lost it wilfully?

  I twist, it was a thing all too dear

  To be bestowed, and wist not where!

  It was mine heart! I pray you heartily

  Help me to seek!

  23

  THE FINAL NIGHT AND NO ONE SLEPT. There was no way to hide from the coming day. Outside, men shouted and tortured wood with saw, hammer and nail. Banging and hammering punctuated and pounded the slow hours to morning. All night long the sounds told Kate they built the scaffold for her aunt’s execution.

  The other women tried to rest in the antechamber while Kate and Meg stayed with Aunt Nan in her bedchamber. Sitting close together, they talked of small things, but avoided what they would soon face.

  When conversation lulled, Aunt Nan at last picked up her lute and played, strumming loved songs for hours. As dawn approached, she lifted her head. “I have a new song, if you would like to hear it.” She brushed her fingers against the strings. “I wrote it on the other night I thought my last.” Her mouth trembled. “Mayhap, this night, too, will prove not to be my last.”