My uncle’s jaw hardens. He strums his fingers down against his knee, looking over at me like I’m a hand of cards he’s deciding how to play.
“You have always been a little mystery to me, you know,” he says steadily. “When the king first took an interest in you, I was certain he was to make you his mistress. Yet he did not. Instead, he made you his queen, and I was certain then that it must have been because you were with child. Yet you were not. Still, the king was so besotted with you. For a while, I was sure he must somehow love you for yourself alone. Maybe the power of love exists after all. But then you had to go and ruin everything. Do you know how the king suffers?”
“How does he suffer?” I ask.
“Since hearing news of your alleged treachery, his temper flares without restraint. He cannot sleep. He eats only four full meals a day. The pain in his leg torments him worse than it ever has.Yet when he speaks of you, I still detect a hint of warmth in him. Somehow, he has not yet forgotten you. Why is that, Catherine?”
I wait a beat, then discover that he is actually waiting for me to answer.
“Because true love conquers all?” I venture.
A rigid coldness glazes over the duke’s eyes. “You will admit that you bewitched the king. You poured potions down his throat to make him love you.”
It’s really hard to gasp instead of laugh. “You think that I’m a witch?”
“I think you fed the king potions without his knowledge.”
That’s up for interpretation. “I would never, ever have any form of contact with a potion. I don’t even know what potions are.”
The duke sits back once more. “So you never knowingly distributed ingredients to your women to make them barren? And you never drank them yourself to remain infertile?”
I let my jaw drop. “All I want, all any of us women want, is to be fruitful for our husbands. It is my greatest dream to give His Majesty a son.”
My uncle isn’t buying it. I keep my eyes downcast, remaining firmly in character as a crestfallen queen with baby fever.
“Did you use any of your potions on Simon Gainsford? He is your current lover, is he not?”
Hearing him say Simon’s name hurts more than I anticipated. For his own safety, I reveal nothing in my features, remaining completely blank. “The only words I ever exchanged with Simon Gainsford were of the love I bear to my husband, the king.”
The duke takes a close look at me. I wonder if, deep down, he knows that no one actually loves the king. “And Gainsford is not the first, is he? There was also Francis Dereham before him.”
“I have no idea who that is,” I tell him. “Wait, wasn’t he the Dowager Duchess’s secretary at Lambeth?”
“He was,” the duke answers. “I was at Lambeth just a few days ago and spoke to my stepmother. She didn’t recall ever having seen you in company with Dereham.”
The Dowager Duchess said she’d help me. It seems she’s making good on her promise.
“That’s because I never was.” I keep my expression saturated in naïve honesty, and the duke rests one of his ankles on a knee.
“I interviewed her staff as well, and every one of them went on to say what a modest, sweet girl you were. Indeed, you dedicated your days to embroidering and praying to God.”
“The two most important things,” I agree.
For a second, the duke looks as though he’s actually trying to subdue a smile. “Then we searched the residence. Mistress Marshall mentioned letters that might be hidden, detailing the depths of your former relationship.”
“More lies on her part. Such letters don’t exist.” And this time, I’m being truthful. They don’t exist anymore.
“Nothing of note was discovered,” the duke admits. “And on top of that, Francis Dereham has mysteriously vanished from court and has yet to be found. Which is remarkable since he was here but days before your investigation began.”
“I hope that he’s all right,” I reply. “Though as I said, I didn’t really know him.”
“Indeed,” the duke commiserates. “From Lambeth, we then went on to question your ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor here at the palace. All of them spoke at great length of your piety, generosity, and infallible purity.”
I love my Tudor girl squad. Just saying.
“One lady-in-waiting, Joan Harrington, stated that it was through your unending dedication to the king that she learned to be a more obedient wife and that she will name her next-born daughter Catherine.”
Hope swells in my chest. Our plan is working. We’re changing the narrative.
