“Come now, My Lord,” Carey attempted. “Surely this is a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding,” Henry spat back. “Deliberate interference in my personal affairs. Was there nothing from Bishop Foxe, concerning the Pope? You do not want those letters seen, do you? What did the Pope say? Is the marriage null and void? Do not forget, Madam, that we are not husband and wife. That was a mistake. We never have been.” He paused to let his words sink in. The onlookers stood silent, aghast. “You are not my wife, in the eyes of the Church and the law,” he bellowed so that Catherine would hear him, “and I am not your husband. You are the dowager princess, wife to my brother, and I am your king. It is treason to steal the king’s letters. Treason! Treason!”
Catherine did not make it to the hall, where her meal awaited her. She staggered, one foot before the other. Tottered round the corner, leaned against the wall. Her ladies gathered around her, but she batted them away like flies. An antechamber stood empty, usually a waiting room used by servants, with a table and benches. There, she collapsed onto her knees in the rushes, shaking with sobs. Swiftly, Maria pulled the door closed behind them.
“Please, My Lady.”
Thomasin knelt with the others round her, offering their words of comfort. Catherine spluttered, voicing half words, suffused with pain. She convulsed again, sobbing uncontrollably and quite unable to answer them. They fetched wine and cordials to revive her, herbs to calm her, and finally managed to seat her on a chair, although her hands were still quivering.
“Fetch bread,” urged Maria after a while. “She has not broken her fast.”
Thomasin hurried out, almost straight into William Carey, who was positioned near the door.
“The queen is within?”
“She is indeed, but do not speak of it to anyone.”
“I will not tell a soul. I take it she is not well?”
“Not well at all. I have come out only to fetch her bread, for she has not yet eaten, coming lately from chapel.”
“Then I will not detain you. Poor Lady. I hope she fares better soon.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “That was savagery.”
Thomasin nodded and turned, but Carey gently touched her arm. “Wait. I hope you and I shall have the chance to speak again before long.”
For a moment, he held her with his eyes. Mid-brown eyes, warm and safe. Not the intense dark pools with which Rafe had held her captive, nor the dancing golden stare of Nico, almost like a caress; the eyes of William Carey were welcoming and gentle. They invited trust.
“Yes,” she heard herself breathe. “Yes.”
It was quiet outside by the time Catherine was strong enough to venture back to her rooms. Ellen and Thomasin were sent out first, to check that the corridor was empty, looking up and down through the gloomy stone passage. Only shadows met their gaze. Catherine had fortified herself with wine and bread from the kitchens and dried her tears, and her ladies had straightened her bodice and headdress. In the doorway, she took a deep breath, straightened her back and lifted her chin.
With Maria on one side and Thomasin on the other, Catherine walked shakily but swiftly, leaning on Maria’s arm. They were fortunate to see no one on the way to the hall stairs, and then Ellen went ahead, to clear the way through the courtyard. Servants melted away, glimpsed only in shadow or in the ripple of a gown. A broom was left abandoned, leaning against the wall. The palace was unusually quiet, but they were grateful for the small window of peace in which to make their journey. Under the stone arch, Catherine paused and caught her breath before attempting the steps. She held her hands to her side and winced.
Maria was beside her. “What is it, My Lady?”
“A pain. It will pass.”
They waited for a long time, while Catherine kept her palms pressed upon her waist. Then, she unfolded a little and nodded that they were to proceed. Maria offered her arm, but Catherine declined. Finally, the safety of her apartments came into sight and the door was closed behind them. The cool comfort of lavender and ash enveloped them.
Catherine eased herself into her chair, nestling down between the cushions. Thomasin hurried to stoke up the fire while Ellen removed her shoes. Maria and Gertrude gently unpinned her headdress, lifting away the heavy folds of fabric that hung down her back.
“I wish to lie down.”
Catherine’s hands clutched the chair’s arms. Slowly, she rose and swayed a little. Thomasin looked at Maria in alarm, but her face was calm and composed, setting the tone. The queen’s bed was in the adjoining chamber, and between the women, they managed to make her comfortable.
“Pull the curtains. I want darkness.”
The bright, glorious day, which had previously held so much promise, was instantly blotted out. Thomasin heard a bird singing in the garden as she pulled the last drape over the light. Darkness encircled Catherine.
Once Catherine was settled, Thomasin crept into the main chamber. The windows stood open, with the scent of the spring day. Wine, pasties and bread had been brought to the table, and Ellen beckoned her cousin over.
“Come, eat, you have had nothing yet.”
Thomasin ate and drank gratefully.
“The queen sleeps?”
“Perhaps. She does not want to be disturbed.”
