The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Wendy J. Dunn

  Other sounds, muffled by straw, followed, ones that would wake Kate in the cold sweat of nightmare for the rest of her life. Aunt Nan’s head thudded on the scaffold, bounced, rolled. At the same moment, the headless body, spurting blood from the severed neck, fell like a cut down sapling and toppled to the platform.

  Blood. Bright red blood everywhere.

  Cannons boomed and cracked like thunder. Kate fell to her knees, the straw shifting underneath her. Before her was Aunt Nan’s body. She turned the other way and put her hand to her mouth in horror. Her aunt’s eyelids and mouth moved as if still alive, trying to say something, the eyes looked straight at Kate. Terror shone from Aunt Nan’s eyes before death dulled them forever. Kate’s empty stomach heaved.

  Close by, Meg tottered like one decrepit. Her control about to snap, Kate lowered her head and prayed. Meg shook her arm. Turning to her, it seemed to Kate she saw her own shock and terror.

  “We have work to do,” Meg said, swallowing, seemingly unaware of the tears falling down her face. “Pray, pull yourself together.” She spoke automatically, as if speaking also to herself. She hurried over to rally the other weeping women.

  Time stood still. Kate’s world had constricted to the dimensions of this wooden scaffold, this terrible place of living nightmare, soaked in blood. Already, flies buzzed around Aunt Nan’s body and head. The other women on the scaffold wailed and wept, but did what was necessary.

  The handkerchief. Kate untied it from her girdle. “Do this for me,” her aunt had said. “Do not give my enemies time to gloat and mock.”

  Kate knelt, still praying, waving away flies, and gently closed her aunt’s eyes. With great care, Kate draped the handkerchief to completely cover her face. Then, her hands on her knees, she bowed her head. No one can hurt her again. God has her in His care, and she is with her brother now. Love will wash away her last memory of when she was so viciously murdered.

  Aunt Nan’s last words came back to her, words of forgiveness. Kate’s tears dripped like spots of rain upon the handkerchief. Soaked by blood, it was red and no longer white. Blood seeped into her gown, too.

  Meg came back. “No time for prayer, not yet. We must be quick and get Nan to the church. I and the others will carry her body. Do you think you can take her head?” Grey with exhaustion, Meg held out her cloak. “Use this, Kate.”

  Everything blurred. Kate nodded, taking Meg’s cloak. Minute by minute, reality slipped away as she securely wrapped up her aunt’s head, her hands becoming wet and bloodied. She stood gingerly, cradling the head as if an infant. Her knees shook, and the world swirled around her. She took one step and then another, refusing to give in. All she could do, she would; she would make certain all was done right by Aunt Nan, her Queen. That she was buried with respect, with dignity.

  She glared at the guards and the crowd. If any of the men approached her or dared to lay a hand on Aunt Nan, she would go mad. Turn animal. Snarl at them. Use her teeth to rip out their throats and nails to gore their faces. She wanted to scream, she wanted to weep, but not now, not yet. Not until she was away from this place of death.

  Someone moved in the crowd towards the scaffold. Francis. Just like her aunt’s mouth had moved in death, her mouth was moving now, but no words came. She gathered the bloodied cloak-swaddled head firmer in her arms, and then turned back to him. He tried to mouth something at her, his hand lifted up towards her before gesturing in the direction of the chapel of St. Peter. Realising he wanted to join her there, she shook her head with vehemence, suddenly terrified. What if he, too, falls foul of this awful day by giving away his allegiance to my aunt? What if the King kills him, too? How could I live then? She stood there, with her bloody burden, her mouth shaping the words, Tomorrow. Come to me tomorrow. Turning away, she tightened the grip on her aunt’s head and joined Meg.

  The fragrance of bruised, heady rosemary announced the arrival of a hooded woman, followed by another, more bowed than the first, carrying bundles of herbs. A sudden ray of daylight revealed them both.

  “Mother! Grandmother!” Kate ran into the arms of her mother. Once there, she wept. Her sobs rent the silence of the chapel, scarring time itself.

  A hand rested on her shoulder. Kate wiped her face and half turned in her mother’s arms to see her stepfather. He kissed her with compassion. “‘Our Kate—now 'tis time for you to come home.”

  But first there were duties to do. Father Thirlwall, another one of her aunt’s loyal chaplains, led the prayers for Aunt Nan’s soul. They buried her close to her brother. There had been no true coffin for her mangled remains, rather an arrow chest found for that purpose. The rosemary bought by Mary Stafford and her mother now blanketed under and over the body.

  Aunt Nan safely interred, Kate sat with her sorrowing mother and grandmother while her stepfather spoke quietly to the priest. The cresting tide of grief made her yearn for her brother, and then gave her another reason for deep pain. Poor Harry! How hard it must be for him, forced to remain with the King and his court. Pray God, Madge comforts him.

  She plucked at her gown. Much of it was stiff with drying blood—the smell left her nauseous. But she felt no urge to change her clothes. She wore a banner of accusation. Did her mother and grandmother feel the same? Like her dead aunt, they were women who insisted on cleanliness, but both had said nothing about changing out of her bloody clothes.

  Her grandmother stirred beside her and wiped her tear-wet face. “'Tis wrong that I must leave them here when they should be at rest with their kin.”

  Mary put her arm around her mother. “Perchance in the future, the King will soften his heart and give us permission to do so.” She smiled slightly. “When he has a right-born son, I will write to Cromwell and beg him to speak on our behalf.”

  Grandmother Boleyn sighed again. “Jane Seymour may be more fortunate than my daughters, but my heart tells me she, too, will regret her ambition to be our King’s new Queen.”

  “Aye. What’s made in blood ends in blood, more often than not. My poor sister found that out in the end.”

  Kate found her mother’s eyes upon her. “Can you make ready to come back with us by the morrow? Our horses are at an inn not too far from here. I do not think I could bear to stay in this place more than one night, and even that is too long for me.”

  Kate swallowed. “Aye, mother, I can make ready. But I will not be home for long.”

  Her mother frowned. “You speak of Knollys child? I have written to his father and given my approval of a betrothal, but have told him I do not wish for your marriage to take place until you are sixteen. Believe me, fourteen is too young for a girl to wed.”

  Kate smiled sadly at her mother. The news that she was now truly betrothed to Francis should have been reason for celebration, but it had come on this day of days. Once again, she tasted the bittersweet of life. “I am content, Mother, to wait for marriage.” She swallowed. “I believe Francis will be, too. He was loyal to Aunt Nan and will understand what I must do now.”

  “Do now?” Her mother blinked with confusion. “What must you do now?”

  Kate straightened and lifted her chin. “I have another promise to keep. I’ll come home for a time, but only for as long as it takes for me to get the King’s permission to be with Elizabeth.”

  Not only did her mother turn to her, but her grandmother, too. Her grandmother reached for Kate’s hand and held it.

  Mary Stafford half-hooded her eyes, and Kate’s grief surged up, choking her. Aunt Nan had always done likewise when she thought deeply or wanted to hide her thoughts. Did she do this, too? She hoped so.

  “Do you think he will?” her mother asked at last.

  A short time ago, when she had spoken to him, he could not hide his guilt and torment. He seemed a man going under, drowning—a man now a wisp, a ghost, closing his heart to what he once loved, choosing kingship for once and for all. But there was also in his eyes the panic of one who begged to be saved, and to be forgiven. She nodded. “He will give me pe
rmission. 'Tis a debt he must pay to the dead.”

  With her mother’s help, Kate packed her clothes chests. They were almost finished when Lady Shelton rushed into the chamber. Kate remembered how Lady Shelton disliked the Queen. Kate’s first instinct was to greet her angrily, but then something crumbled inside. Do I want this burden of hate? If she did not let it go now, she would carry it all the days of her life. She shut her eyes and swallowed before she spoke. “My lady, I thought you were at Hatfield with the Princess Elizabeth.”

  Lady Shelton started. “You must call her the Lady Elizabeth now, Kate. I brought the child back to gather all her belongings. I could not leave her at Hatfield, not at this time. I could trust none not to blab out about her mother.”

  Too tired to make sense of Lady Shelton’s apparent distress, Kate stood by her mother and gazed aside at her. Mary Stafford shrugged, clearly bemused, too. Something—or someone—had shaken Shelton out of her usual calm composure. Mary Stafford searched around Lady Shelton. “Then where is the child? Where’s my niece?”

  Lady Shelton raised her hand to her ashen face. “I am a fool. I thought she was safe with Blanche Parry, but the girl let her get away from her. I could not help it, Mary, that she followed me.”

  “Followed you? Followed you where?” Mary Stafford frowned in confusion.

  “Aye, she followed me.” Lady Shelton put her hand to her face, as if ready to weep. “Even Blanche is no help. The child screams every time we try to pick her up. It was like a prayer answered when Madge told me your daughter was back.” She turned to Kate. “Pray help me. The King will never forgive me if he knows I brought Bess to Greenwich without his permission.”

  Kate didn’t have to hear any more. She didn’t even have to ask where Bess was. She lifted her skirts and raced past her mother and Lady Shelton, heading straight to her aunt’s unguarded, open chamber. Inside, Bess sat enthroned in her mother’s chair as Blanche, her nurse, begged her to come with her.

  Forcing herself not to hurry, Kate stepped nearer to her little cousin. She dropped to her knees by the chair. “Bess, what do you do here?”

  She could have bitten off her tongue. Miserable and scolding herself for her stupidity, she felt no surprise when Bess answered, “Waiting for Mama.”

  Over Bess’s head, Kate met Blanche’s shining eyes. With a muffled cry, the nursemaid brought her hands to her face before hurrying away from the room.

  Now alone with Bess, Kate blinked and swallowed. She took deep breaths, regaining her composure.

  Bess tugged at her. “Katie, where’s my mama?”

  Kate stood and gestured to the chair. “Pray, may I sit next to you, Bess? I’m very tired.”

  Bess moved to make space. “Is Katie sick?”

  Shaking her head, Kate sat and put her arm around Bess. “No, just tired.” Kate swallowed. “Bess, you know I will never tell you lies.”

  Bess nodded and rested against Kate’s shoulder. “Mama told me Katie does not lie.”

  Controlling her sudden surge of grief, she took yet another deep breath. “Bess, I cannot tell you where your mama is. The King, your father, would be very angry if I did that.” She tightened her hold on her cousin. “You know we must never disobey the King.”

  Her face white and serious, Bess nodded. “Mama told me, too.”

  Kate raised her face, hoping Bess didn’t notice her tears. “Your mama asked me to take care of you. Is that all right with you? After I go home to see my little brother and sister, may I come and stay with you?”

  Wiggling beside her in excitement, Bess grinned. “Katie will play with me?”

  With effort, she smiled back at her cousin. “Aye, I will be yours to command.”

  What else could she safely say to her cousin? She gazed around the room until her eyes came to the Queen Esther tapestry. Likely, it would soon be taken down. She pulled Bess closer to her. “Before we go and find Lady Shelton, shall I tell you a story?”

  “Like Mama?”

  Kate tried another smile. God, pray help me! One more word may push me over the edge. But then, like an answer to her prayer, she remembered her aunt. She could not fail, not in this, her last duty to Aunt Nan. For the rest of her life, she would have her aunt’s example to help her, guide her and remind her how to live.

  “I’ll try—I’ll try my best,” she said at last, feeling she spoke not only to Bess, but also to a woman who would never be dead to her. A woman who had shown her how to live, and how to die.

  Kate pointed to the tapestry. “Do you remember the name of that Queen?”

  “Mama told me. She’s Esther. Mama said I wasn’t old enough for her story. Am I old enough now, Katie?”

  “Aye, I think so.”

  “Mama said she was a good Queen.”

  “Aye, a good Queen.”

  “Like my mama?”

  “Just like your mama.”

  THE END

  Historical personages in

  The Light in the Labyrinth.

  Henry VIII—Born 28 June, 1491, died 28 January, 1547. The second son of Henry VII, he ascended the throne in 1509.

  Katherine of Aragon—Born 16 December, 1485, died 7 January, 1536. She was Henry VIII’s first Queen and mother of Mary, his eldest daughter. In many hearts, Anne Boleyn could never replace Katherine as England’s Queen.

  Anne Boleyn—Birth year is unknown, but put forward as early as 1501 and as late as 1507. Henry VIII’s second wife and mother of Elizabeth Tudor. Anne was executed 19 May, 1536.

  Mary Boleyn—Birth year also unknown. I believe she was older than her sister Anne, perhaps born 1501. Married first to William Carey and then to William Stafford. Mary died 19 July, 1543.

  Margaret Douglas—Born 8 October, 1515, died 7 March, 1578. The daughter of Margaret Tudor, elder sister of Henry VIII.

  Mary Rose Tudor—Born 18 March, 1496, died 25 June, 1533. She was married to Louis XII at eighteen and danced him to the grave. After the King’s death, she secretly married Charles Brandon, a close friend of Henry VIII. The King, having lost a bargaining pawn by his sister’s marriage to Brandon, punished them by fining them heavily for marrying without his approval. But the King’s displeasure was felt only in money terms. Not long after Mary’s marriage, the King created Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. A widow of a French King, Mary was known at her brother’s court as The White Queen.

  Mary Tudor—Born 18 February, 1516, died 17 November, 1558. The only surviving child of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon, she became Queen in 1553.

  Elizabeth Tudor—Born 7 September, 1533, died 24 March, 1603. Ascended England’s throne 17 November, 1558 and was Queen of England for over forty-four years. She gave her name to an age.

  C/Katherine Carey—Birth year unknown, died 15 January, 1568. Daughter of Mary Boleyn and supposedly William Carey. But was she the illegitimate daughter of Henry VIII? My research makes me think so and led to the writing of this novel.

  Henry Carey—Born c. 1524, died in 1596. The son of Mary Boleyn and supposedly William Carey. I also believe him to be the illegitimate son of Henry VIII.

  Katherine Willoughby—Born 22 March, 1519, died 19 September, 1580. Wed to Charles Brandon at fourteen after the death of Mary Tudor, and thus Duchess of Suffolk. She was renowned for her intelligence, sharp wit and strong religious beliefs.

  Francis Knollys—Born c. 1514, died 1596. Husband of Catherine Carey.

  Thomas Cromwell—Born c. 1485, executed 28 July, 1540. A brilliant, self-made man, Cromwell was a ruthless politician who worked tirelessly for Henry VIII. Charming and generous to his friends, to his enemies he would do whatever was necessary to bring them down.

  Thomas Cramner— Born 2 July, 1489, died 21 March, 1556. A religious leader who loyally served both Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Instrumental in helping the King achieve the annulment of his first marriage to Katherine of Aragon, he was also one of the prime movers behind the English reformation. A man of true faith working tirelessly for his church and beliefs, yet he also h
ad feet of clay. His finest moment was his martyrdom, which saw him first try to save his life, but then chose to die for his beliefs.

  Mary Howard, Duchess of Richmond—Born 1519, died 7 December, 1557. The wife of Henry VIII’s bastard son Henry Fitzroy and a very strong personality in her own right. Was she a poet like her brother Henry, Earl of Surrey? I would like to think so.

  Margaret (Madge) and Mary Shelton—Born 1510/15, died 1570/71. There is a lot of confusion about these two women, and it is possible that they are one and the same. But I wonder if these two women were not only sisters, but also twins? That might explain the confusion. Madge has been identified as a mistress of Henry VIII and it is possible this relationship came about as part of the faction war between the Boleyns and Seymours.

  ENTERING THE LABYRINTH:

  Writing The Light in the Labyrinth

  “The frontiers of a book are never clear-cut: beyond the title, the first lines, and the last full-stop, beyond its internal configuration and its autonomous form, it is caught up in a system of references to other books, other texts, other sentences: it is a node within a network.”

  — Foucault, quoted in Hutcheon, 1989

  ALL NOVELS BEGIN with an idea, a response to living life. The idea for my first published novel was seeded when, as a teenager, I first read one of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poems, the poem I will always think of as Dear Heart, How Like You This? Many years went by before I was brave enough to marry this poem with my heart and mind to discover it enabled me to tell Anne Boleyn’s story through the voice of Sir Thomas Wyatt, which ended up becoming my first Tudor novel.

  The idea for The Light in the Labyrinth, my first young adult Tudor novel, arrived close to a decade after the publication of that novel. In late December 2008, one of my writing friends asked me to accompany her to the Melbourne Short and Sweet Festival, a ten-minute play competition. We spent an inspiring afternoon watching the performances of the ten finalists, so inspired that we challenged ourselves to write our own ten-minute plays and see if we could write something good enough to enter into the 2009 Short and Sweet Festival. I wanted to do it because I hadn’t written a play since high school—too long ago to count. Smile. Since taking up the calling of a serious writer, I am very prepared to push myself out of my comfort zone because I want to grow as a writer. Sigh. Signing up for a PhD in Writing provides a perfect example of how willing I am to suffer for my craft.