This "once every month" thing might need to be amended. Now if only I could get Image Manager to work…

Durham House, Westminster

April 22, 1509

She was in her apartments with Doña Lina that afternoon working on their mending when Doña Maria poked her head through the doorway. "Your Highness, the Prince of Wales has just ridden into the courtyard."

She almost gasped aloud. "Is he…how does he look?" she asked, rising to her feet. Whatever had possessed him—

"His Highness looks like he's had a long ride."

She heaved a sigh. "Then have the cook send up hot water for him; he'll want to wash first. We'll meet with him in the reception room. Can we feed him if he stays for supper?"

"If we stretch things. Praise God he's arrived on a feast day."

She smiled at the joke – although it wasn't much of one. For most Christians a feast day meant everyone could eat meat; at Durham House a feast day meant everyone could eat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had meat.

It was indeed strange, she thought, as she and Lina followed Maria down the main staircase down to the ground floor. How had Henry convinced his father to let him visit? She was kept well at Durham House, if by 'well' one meant 'securely' or 'in ignorance'; she hadn't seen the Prince in three years, hadn't received a letter from him in two, hadn't been allowed to speak with anyone but the Council on those increasingly rare occasions her presence was needed at court on her father's business. She couldn't even rely on gossip, as her personal servants had been taken away after the – after the incident. Her remaining ladies-in-waiting, all three of them, were kept as straitly as she was, and her priest-confessor was so old and doddering he could barely get through Mass. The cook and kitchenmaids did their best with what rations they received but she and her ladies had been forbidden to speak to them. The only consolation was that the house's owner, His Grace of Durham, had been tasked with supplying them with firewood and ale, and had proved himself a very generous man…unlike the King.

The guards, of course, ate remarkably well.

They hadn't needed to use the reception room in years but still she kept it clean with her own hands, as she was not so proud as to refuse to mop a floor or beat the rushes when there was no one else to do it. She had decided long ago that she would never let herself feel shame in physical labour; she'd been shamed enough in life already.

"I'm not wearing a hood," she said, turning to Lina with a frown. "Do I have time – oh, Merciful God: where's Juan?"

Lina patted her shoulder soothingly. "Don't worry, Highness; he's upstairs with—"

Just then Maria ushered Henry into the reception room. He'd grown so tall! "Your Highness," she said, sweeping him a curtsey, "how good it is to see you after all this time. I'm glad you were permitted to…"

Her voice trailed off as their eyes met. He was giving her the strangest look...

"Your Highness," he began with a courtly bow. "Dearest sister. If I might have a moment of your time?" His gaze flickered to Maria's face. "I would ask to see you alone…"

Maria and Lina stepped back, but he raised a hand and shook his head at them.

"…but in this case I think it better that your ladies remain, at least for now. I…Cata, I have news. You must prepare yourself."

Her stomach dropped. "Is…is everything all right?" Her father…her sister…

"Everything is all right, Cata," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "In fact, everything is marvellous. My father is dead. He can never hurt you again."

"He's…" The room suddenly swam; her only thought as she felt her legs drop out from under her was that Spanish princesses were not supposed to…

"Alteza…Catalina."

…faint.

Her eyes fluttered open as the acrid odour of vinegar shocked her awake. "Who…" she groaned, before she recognized the voice and the memory came flooding back.

…he's dead he's dead he's dead i'm free...

Juan!

She tried to jump back to her feet – a princess must not lie down when a king stood – but the dizziness stopped her and soft hands held her where she was. "Your Majesty, I—"

His voice was low and for her ears alone. "Doña Maria is here with us. There's nothing to worry about. You're on the chaise. You're safe. I give you my word, Cata: no harm will come to you now."

A few minutes passed before the world stopped spinning and she was able to push herself up into a sitting position. "Forgive me, Majesty," she began, but he shook his head.

"Henry in private, please," he said gently as he sat beside her. "Your ladies have already chastised me, and rightly so. I should have been more careful." He clasped her wrist. "You're so thin; have you not been eating?"

She felt her face grow warm. "Not every day…"

He swore under his breath, although he didn't seem surprised. "That ends now. Before I arrived here I stopped at Westminster and asked them to send over everything they had in the pantry. Meat, bread, eggs, butter, wine…" He looked up at Maria. "If Her Highness requires anything else, Doña Maria, please send word to Brian Tuke at the palace and it will be delivered immediately. If she wants ingots of gold she'll have them within the hour."

She curtseyed to him. "Your Majesty is too kind."

But he waved her thanks away. "It's still less than she deserves – than all of you deserve. I wonder if I could have a few moments alone with your mistress; we have matters to discuss. But please wait outside the door in case she has need of you."

"Yes, Majesty."

Dread pooled in her belly as Maria left them. "Henry, I regret deeply that I must…"

But of course he already knew. He had to know. He would never have said what he did if he hadn't.

His face was grim. "The bastard told me what he did, Cata. He told me on his deathbed. I am so sorry. I wish I could go back and stop him, but all I can do now is protect you."

"Protect me how?" she cried, her voice breaking into hysteria. "I'm befilthed, I'm a whore, I'm damaged. Even if you did get a dispensation…"

But he shook his head. "No, Cata. You are no more a whore than the abbess of St. Helen's. You know you didn't choose to…"

But she couldn't stop herself. Six years of pain, six years of grief she'd kept from everyone, even herself, exploded as she broke into heaving, incoherent sobs, flinging herself into the arms of the only man she could trust as her heart threatened to burst out of her chest.

"It's all right, Cata…hush…"

Spanish princesses, they say, do not cry; but even a Spanish princess can only withstand so much. And as he rocked her she knew he would keep her secret, as she would always keep his.

She finally broke away from him once she'd regained her breath. "Majesty…Henry, I – I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Don't apologize."

"But I still can't marry you."

"I know."

She looked up at him through her tears. How much did he—

"I'd never be so cruel as to expose you to the ridicule of Christendom by asking for a dispensation under the circumstances," he continued. "I care too much about your honour to…"

But she interrupted him. "That's not what I mean," she choked out, striving desperately to regain her self-control. "I mean that I truly have no honour and I truly am a whore." She turned to the door and raised her voice. "Maria?"

The door opened. "Highness?"

"Where is the boy?"

Her lips thinned. "With Doña Esmeralda, Highness. I think they're playing in the attic."

"Bring him here, please."

Maria clearly didn't like the idea but she obeyed, closing the door behind her.

She turned back to Henry, expecting him to be disgusted – after all, it was her greatest shame, one she could not begin to explain – but all she could see on his face was compassion. He didn't hate her. He didn't even seem shocked.

He took her hands in his. "I wondered…before I left Richmond I spoke to Dr. de Victoria."

"My old physician." She had not seen him in six years. He couldn't know—

"He's my physician now. I didn't mention you; I posed it as a hypothetical, but if he figures it out he'll never say a word. I'd thought it wasn't possible but he set me right." He let go of her hands, reached up to cup her chin, but she would not, could not meet his gaze. "He told me that in the war…in the Reconquista…there were many good Christian women, women that had been caught in sieges or in Boabdil's camp, who…"

"Who bore their rapists' children," she said, placing her cards face-up on the table at last. "I know the old wives' tale is a lie; how could I not? But I fear no one would believe me."

"I would," he murmured, "and I do. This was his fault alone, and every shred of sin connected to his heinous actions weighs on his soul alone. Not yours, not…"

"Juan's."

He smiled. "After your brother?"

"I…we've raised him as Doña Lina's son. She gave birth to a boy named Juan only a few weeks before I did. He died of the plague along with his father, and we thought it safest..."

Which it had been. Too many people still believed that a woman could only conceive if she completed the act, which would only happen if she'd welcomed the man. She had believed it herself until she'd been proved wrong by her own faithless body.

No: she would always scorn the attack but never the result. If any good had come out of this utter disaster, it was in the person of the sweet boy she was careful to call her nephew.

Henry sighed deeply. "I take it you didn't tell the King?"

"Whether he found out another way I don't know, but I've never said a word. I would have told you, but by the time I saw you after…"

"After you had the fever?"

She smiled sadly. "Yes, the 'fever' that kept me away from court for four months. By the time I saw you afterwards Doña Lina had claimed him, and I was worried we'd be overheard if I said anything. I'm sorry."

"I was only a boy, Cata. You were right not to tell me if—"

Just then the door flew open. "Tía Cata!" the boy chirped as he ran into her arms, his ragged shirt fluttering around him. "Doña Maria said…" but then he caught sight of the strange man sitting with her and drew closer to her.

"Don't be afraid," she said, wrapping an arm around his thin shoulders. "Here is a brave and valiant knight come to save us."

She looked over at Henry but his eyes were wide and fixed on Juan's face, and she worried…but no: after just a moment's pause he smiled. "Her Highness speaks true, as a noble lady should. I'm Sir Henry. What's your name?"

"Don Juan de Montoya, sir," he said, making a little bow.

"I'm honoured to meet you, Don Juan. Have you been looking after your mother and aunts?"

The boy's chest puffed out; he was so brave. "I would give my life in their defence, Sir Henry. Are you really here to save us?"

"I most certainly am." He reached over and ruffled the boy's thick brown hair. "All shall be well, Don Juan; I give you my word of honour."

"Why don't you run back to Tía Esmeralda, Juanito, and ask her to dress you in your best shirt?" she said, smoothing his hair down. "I have it on excellent authority that supper tonight will be special."

"All right, Tía Cata." He bowed to Henry again. "Good day, Sir Henry."

After he had gone, Henry ran a hand over his face; she could tell he was trying to control his emotions. "He's the picture of my grandmother."

"Henry," she said – but she wasn't sure how to put the question that burned in her heart. What would happen to them? Would he leave them here, would he send them away…

But it seemed he was as good at reading her face as he'd ever been. "I had thought," he started awkwardly, his eyes lowered, "I had thought to give you three choices."

"Three…"

He took her hands again and, as he told her about the tentative ideas he'd come up with, she felt the talons of fear that had pierced her heart for years finally loosen their grip, finally fall away. He would give her choices, estates, comfort…her life. Her son.

She would never return home, she knew that. Her father would have her locked away in a convent the moment her feet touched Spanish soil and she would never see Juan again. Marriage to a foreign prince was just as perilous. She had already declared her union with Arthur to have never been consummated, so how could she explain away her broken maidenhead? And, if she were to be brutally honest with herself, the thought of a man's touch still turned her stomach.

No, she decided: she would remain in England, at Henry's side – as his sister.

"I'd ask you to remain at court until I marry,' he said once she's told him of her choice. "Once I do, you can stay at court if you wish or you can retire to your estates…I had wondered if you'd choose to take the veil, but I suppose you wouldn't want to be parted from your little Don Juan."

She laughed. "Let's pray he never becomes a Don Juan in real life."

"I don't know," he said, his voice hollow. "Maybe it would be better for him if he did."

She squeezed his hand in sympathy. Had it never happened she would have married him and they would have found a way to make it work despite it all. She didn't know if a man of his – peculiar nature, she supposed was as good a way to put it as any – could sire healthy sons; her brother had only been able to sire a daughter before his early death, and the babe had been stillborn. But she had been willing to try.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"Stall," he said, his face a granite slab. "Delay them. Pray I wake up one day cleansed of my sin." He laughed mirthlessly. "Pray I find another princess whose brother was a sinner like me, who would understand…"

"Henry."

He shrugged. "It'll have to go through my sister Mary, I suppose; the realm can't go to the Scots. I'll ask Parliament to pass an act of succession once it convenes barring Margaret and her issue from inheriting. When Mary's older – when it's safe for her to bear children – I'll find her a younger son or maybe an English lord."

"You won't marry her to Archduke Charles then?"

"Not if there's a chance she could succeed…although I don't know if the people would accept a queen regnant." He looked up at her. "Maybe your mother's example will convince them."

They sat in silence for a moment. "Henry," she finally asked, "Does anyone else know?"

"You're the only one I've ever had the guts to tell," he admitted. "My confessor suspects, I'm sure; he's implied as much. Tom Wolsey's probably the wisest and most capable man I know, and the most cynical. I've asked him to look into your finances – where your dowry's gone, whether your servants have been paid…"

"Which dowry would that be? Which servants?" She held out her red, calloused, work-worn hands to him, palms up. "I scrub floors, I mend, I dust, I launder linens. I do not peel vegetables only because His Grace of Durham pays the cook!"

He'd always had a temper, she knew. Not the fearsome Tudor temper his father had, the temper that had destroyed her life; no, his was the York temper of his grandfather Edward, the temper that, once raised, would simmer until he was free to release it safely. He would never take his anger out on her, but take it out he would – and from the look in his eyes she knew that some innocent chair would find itself smashed to splinters before the day grew much older.

He suddenly knelt at her feet. "I give you my word," he said, "as a knight and a king, that you will never need to sully your hands again. You are the Dowager Princess of Wales and an Infanta of Spain; this should never have happened. None of this," and he waved his hands, "should have happened. You were not born for it. I'll send word to Westminster and have them send over a team of servants." He paused. "Unless you'd like to move to the palace instead."

She looked down at her gown, which had been cobbled together from half a dozen worn-out pieces. "I-I still have one outfit suitable for court. If you are willing to wait I will change. I…there are so many evil memories here that I'd be happy if I never saw this house again. His Grace is welcome to it."

"Then I'll return to Westminster and come back for the five of you in, say, an hour? That should give you time to..." He stopped, stared at her, frowned – but then he gave her a sheepish grin. "I'd forgotten that Durham House is an episcopal palace," he said. "I promised the Council I'd give it to you. No wonder Tom Ruthall was livid."

She laughed.

They rose to their feet, but she stopped him just before they reached the door. "There is one thing," she said. "Juan…if anyone asks, Doña Lina will say that she had a…a liaison with your father, if it would make things easier for you, or for him."

But he shook his head. "I can't think anyone else will notice the resemblance between a five-year-old boy and my grandmother. I can't see how it would matter."

But she could. Some day, if the nobles had to choose between Mary and Juan, some might consider a bastard boy sired on a princess a better bet than a legitimate girl – which would be disastrous for all of them, especially Juan. Better they think his mother is the loose-legged widow of a Castilian hidalgo.

Forgive me, Lina.

Spring had arrived, she thought as they stepped out of the entryway into the courtyard; the air was perfumed with blossoms, birdsong, and hope. "Until you return, Majesty."

"I'll be back in an hour," he reminded her, "with horses. Do you know if…if Doña Lina's boy rides?"

She blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall; he'd hardly ever been outdoors. "No, Majesty."

"Then he'll ride with me – if you think his mother would approve?"

"I'm certain she would."

"Then I bid you farewell, Highness. Tell her not to worry; I'll keep him safe."

If only you can, she thought as she curtseyed again. If only you can.

Incidentally, the real Juan de Montoya (who was of course not Katherine's son but the son of her Mother of the Maids, Catalina de Montoya – "Doña Lina" here) survived infancy to eventually become principal secretary to Eustache Chapuys, about whom more anon. Although we will hear from a certain exceptionally smug Knight of the Bath first…