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Kentwell Hall, Suffolk

Catherine

She normally did not drink wine before dinner, her sister Elizabeth owed her red eyes and nose to the flagon she drank before noon, but today, Cat had every excuse to have a cup. Mary was dead, and her husband and two of her children with her. Catherine was aware that her sister had stayed in touch for the money and small jewels she had sent her from time to time but Mary still left a hole in her heart, right next to the one where her father had been. Grasping and greedy or not, Mary had always been closest to her of all her siblings. Mary had been funny as well, and daring, the very image of her father personality wise. It had been her end as well. She had hated her days in the North. The Barons of Bergavenny were of old blood but impoverished and she had not been able to keep up the lifestyle she had led in the south. Her husband had been old, over fifty, though not quite as terrible to look upon as she had feared. Despite her unhappiness, she had given birth to five children in their short marriage. George the heir, named for his father, Bess and little Kitty had survived...so far.

Catherine had to write to that Brother Phillip and beseech him to take the three children in. They were her nieces and nephew after all and it seemed as if no one else cared for them, at least not for the two girls. Perhaps she should write to the king and ask him to grant her the wardship. He would allow it, but mine own warden might not. She forbade herself to think of what had just happened in the garden but as always, her mind ignored that.

Her thoughts went back to that stone bench, to the feeling of his hand on hers. He had been so close to her, his shoulder had touched hers and she had felt the heat of his body on her skin. And the way he had looked at her...It had made her feel so vulnerable, like an open book, and worst was that she had thoroughly enjoyed the feeling. It had taken all of her self-restraint to do what was logical, and not what felt right. It had been right to get up and leave, to flee from him who filled her chest with contradictory feelings. But it had felt right to sit with him, to hold his hand and let him console her in her sorrow. If she had stayed only a moment longer, she would have shown weakness. His face had been so close to hers and his lips had been so within reach. She had never before noticed how bright his eyes were, how soft and kind, blue like a cloudless sky. She had never noticed the soft arch of his lips, and how smooth they were. Most men had dry lips. She wondered how it would have felt- And was ashamed of it. Mary had just died, her children were somewhere in a draughty manor in Northumberland, crying their eyes out and wishing for someone to rescue them no doubt and all she did was thinking about him of all men. Cat took another sip. The wine always made her sleepy and it was tranquillity she needed now, for her thoughts and feelings were as turbulent as an autumn storm.

She had to forget about that incident in the gardens. It meant nothing. All he wanted was her income, her inheritance. Had she not heard enough about him to be certain that he had neither sympathy nor decency? I heard it, yes, but from whom? Not from his friends, that much is certain. It had been her Lord Father who had told her to beware of Brandon, and Francis who had convinced her of the duke's dishonest intentions. He might not be as bad as they paint him but he did disgrace Mary, and who know how many other ladies at court without the hint of a guilty conscience.

No, he wanted her inheritance and that was it. But he knew that it would be gone if she married, so he tried to charm her. He was charming, she had seen him with other ladies. Perhaps he was sick of teasing her and wanted something else, something sweeter.

Catherine blushed, all alone in her room. She should not even think of that. He could try all he wanted, she would not give that up.

Anne had seen through him: Brandon wanted her income, and if he had to marry her to keep it, he would. Of course, there was nothing Catherine wanted less… And he had not even stayed true to his last wife, the Queen of France, the king's own sister. He would never be faithful to a traitor's daughter and no one would fault him. And of course, she did not even consider him for a moment.

No, Catherine would show him that she was not one of his other ladies, that she was not like Mary. In France, some had called her la vierge de fer, the iron maiden, and Anne as well, but they both had never been used and discarded like an old mare. She would allow no man to use her, not him either, no matter how blue his eyes were, or how gentle his hands or how witty his jests.

I will have to be civil though. She wanted him to grant her the wardship over her nieces and nephew.

It was almost a pity. She would miss their war of words.

Catherine was about to sit down to write a letter, to the king this time, when she remembered the other letters, from Anne and Francis. They were still on the stone bench in the gardens. Which meant she would have to go back and hope that he was already inside again.

Quiet as a shadow did she scurry down the stairs and through the reception chamber at the back of the house with its tall lead glass doors that led out to the gardens.

The weeping willow stood by the pond at the far end of the garden, in a corner far away from the Italian flowerbeds and hedges, from the fountains and gravelled paths. Relief rushed through her when she saw that the stone bench was empty, only to leave her again as soon as she noticed that the letters were gone too.

She would have to ask him. For a moment she considered to wait till the evening, until dinner, where they would meet anyway. But then she shook her head and squared her shoulders. She was behaving like an utter fool. She was a Stafford of Buckingham, the blood of kings, and no coward. And the duke was, after all, still a gentleman. She feared her own reaction and feelings more than anything he could do, in all truth. But she would not allow that to rule her.

Cat rushed over to the manor again. The great reception chamber was empty, so was the library where he often sat and wrote his letters. She almost cursed. That meant that he was in his bedchamber, whatever he did in there during the day. It was one thing to talk to a man in a reception chamber and another entirely to knock on the door of his bedchamber. She climbed up the stairs slowly, hoping that he would come out of his room suddenly but fate was not so kind. So she found herself in front of his door and knocked. She waited for an eternity but not long enough. When he opened the door, she saw surprise, joy, anger and embarrassment chase across his face in rapid succession. After her eyes had adjusted to the light after the darkness of the upstairs corridor, she understood why. Clearly, he had expected a servant. He was apparently dressing for dinner but he was not done yet. He wore boots and breeches but his doublet hung over the back of a chair and he only wore a thin linen shirt that gaped open in the front and did not much to hide what was underneath. Catherine stared at his chest for a long moment before she noticed it and cast her eyes down in embarrassment though with a pang of regret. He was a handsome man. When she dared to raise her gaze again, he wore a doublet and an expression of embarrassment to match her own.

"Forgive me." she said stiffly, just to break the silence.

"No-" he started, then stopped, and started again. "No, I should have- I just didn't expect you. My lady."

He was waiting for something and Catherine realised that she had not explained her purpose there. As far as he could know, she had only come to stare.

"I forgot some of my letters on the stone bench, I fear. Did you take them inside by any chance, Your Grace? " Her voice and tone were still wooden but at least she could look him in the eye.

He nodded briefly, and she thought she could see disappointment in his blue eyes but perhaps it was only the light.

"Here." He handed her a pile of letters and she left him alone, both relieved and regretful.

She opened Anne's letter on the way to her bedchamber although the light in the hallway was dim. It had been a while since Anne's last letter and she was curious to know what had delayed her.

She had not even read the salutation when something else caught her eye: A hastily added postscript, not in Anne's narrow, flowing hand but in a broader, more angular writing.

Lady Catherine, Anne has not yet been able to sent this letter, I found it on her table. She has fallen ill and Father and my brother as well. It is the sweat. Pray for them. Lady Mary Carey.

Catherine did not remember gasping but she must have for the duke came rushing out of his chamber.

"What is it? The king?" There was fear in his voice.

"Anne." Cat replied, lost for words. She had been sad when she had heard about Mary, who was her true sister of the blood but now...Anne was only ill, not dead, but Cat was devastated. She was her only friend, the only one she trusted in this fickle world, despite her weaknesses. Should she die…

The duke had taken the letter from her hands to read it for himself.

"The postscript." she pointed at Mary Boleyn's tall, inelegant letters and the duke's eyes followed her finger.

"Henry..." He rushed down the stairs and Cat followed. She understood. Anne and Henry had always been close. They had been in Suffolk for less than a fortnight and Anne had been ill for a while, judging by the date of her last letter, so it could well be that Henry had contracted the disease as well.

Brandon ripped a letter open that lay on the table in the library and skimmed it. Then he sighed.

"His Majesty is well. He sent his best physician to your friend with every potion he had in stock. You need not worry." It was a kind lie. There was no potion against the sweat.

Once again, Cat was crying, sobbing this time.

The duke took a step towards her, then paused. Then he took another step and stood right in front of her. Catherine saw it through a veil of tears. She felt his hands on her shoulder and back, warm and comforting.

"Mistress Anne is perseverant. If someone can survive the sweat, it is surely her."

Despite herself, she had to smile. "The sweat will flee in fear." she agreed. Hopefully. She would speak a dozen prayers for her, but the Lord was fickle when it came to sickness. It often took those that deserved to live most. It had taken her mother, too.

"It has been a cruel day for you." Brandon muttered somewhere over her right ear. "Perhaps you should go to bed, get some rest. I will send a maid up with your dinner."

It was a kind offer but if there was something she did not want right now it was being alone.

"That is very kind of you. But I cannot. I would only think about it-"

All the time. Imagine her sister dead in her bed with a face of ash on wet sheets, her young daughter, that had by a quirk of fate not caught the disease, looking down at her mother with big eyes, the crying babe in her arms.
Anne's face, as white as the pillows under head, in a cruel contrast to her raven hair, beads of sweat on her forehead and her eyes feverish and mad.
Her thoughts also went back to her father, pale but composed up on the scaffold as he laid his cheek on the oak wood block, she remembered the executioner's axe, the sounds, a deep "thump" followed screams and gasps, and the blood that had come rushing out of her father's neck in a thick stream of crimson.
Even further in the past was her mother, grey and pale and lifeless and not at all as if she slept. Too many people had died around her. Anne could not- God could not be so cruel.

The duke was still embracing her, his left hand rubbed circles on her back, her head rested against his chest, her tears stained the fabric of his grey linen doublet, the one he had just put on in front of her.

Only half an hour ago, she had sworn not to come close to him again. But it did not matter anymore. She had been sad before but now she was devastated, and also scared, not for her own life, but for her dearest friend's and that was infinitely more important. And he was here for her, warm and steady and kind. Perhaps her father and Francis and Anne had been wrong. But even if he was only after her inheritance, what did it matter now? She would readily marry the first vagrant that crossed her path if it only pleased the Lord to spare Anne.

"You should eat something." he said uncertainly and it dawned on her that he was not very experienced when it came to consoling crying damsels. Somehow, she found it endearing.

"I'm not hungry." she whispered back, her voice muffled by his doublet.

"Have a cup of wine at least." he tried to convince her. She was unsure. She had already had one, and her stomach was surely upset. But Catherine longed for the apathy and dulled senses that came with the alcohol so she agreed. The duke led her to an upholstered chair and walked over to the serving cabinet. Cat missed his warmth already. He poured two cups himself, old-fashioned golden cups, deep and heavy. He handed her one and sat down opposite her. She saw with embarrassment that her tears had indeed left a stain on his doublet.

"You never liked Anne." Cat took a sip of wine and Brandon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"No", he admitted.

"Why not?"

"She rose too high too quickly." The duke shrugged. "And she followed her sister too readily. Henry is my oldest friend. I would rather see him in the arms of his loyal wife than in those of a knight's daughter that has set her eyes on the crown."

"Women rarely have a choice in this world." Catherine smiled sadly. "When Lord Rochford tells his daughters to jump, all they may reply is "How high, father?" Mary did as her father commanded, and she did more than that out of free will." In France, for example. "And we all see how little it served her. Lord Rochford and Norfolk have no time for those that disappoint them. Mary is no more than a shadow now, where she has been the sun before. But Anne is different. She would never follow in Mary's footsteps, never become a whore, no matter what her father commands. She loves the king, she does. But she cannot admit it. Once she does, her family will think it her weakness. The whole court will not think of her as a charming, enigmatic woman that managed to capture the king with her mind alone. No, then she will be nothing more than a young girl who fell in love with a king and was so lucky that he returned her affections." Catherine saw that he was not convinced despite her wordy defense.

"Anne has achieved what few women achieve these days. She is respected by men."

Now, Brandon swayed his head.

"She is...but for what? No one will deny her intelligence or wit. But it was her ruthless scheming that brought her where she is now, her scheming and the king's wandering eye. She has tied her fate to a fickle man, and I say that as Henry's friend."

He was right but that did not explain why he did not like her.

"Maybe so. But she set this country on fire. She changed everything for women."

"Only that old wives can now be discarded." Brandon smiled sadly.

"You are determined to hate her." Catherine accused him.

"As you are determined to love her." That was true.

"We were together in France. She was the only one to write to me when I was all alone. I have two sisters, and one of the half blood, but none of them ever did for me what Anne did."

The duke look at her for a long moment.

"You have been alone for a long time, haven't you?"

She squared her shoulders. This was not about her. This was about Anne.

"No." She said defensively.

And even if...he had been just as alone. The only true friend he had was the king. Compton and Knivert, Norris and Carew, they all were envious of his high position. The lords of the old blood, Howard and Stafford, Percy and Neville, Hastings and Talbot were all dismissive and scornful as well as envious. Brandon was stuck somewhere in between, quite like Anne and her faction, not part of the gentry but neither were they really part of the high nobility.

Whether he was aware of his own position or not, he did not dwell on it and Cat was grateful.

"Mistress Anne is not well loved, neither at court nor in the country." he warned. "I will support the king in everything, but others might not."

That much was true.

"Anne was always someone who fascinated, someone who inspired awe and jealousy, not loyalty." Anne had a large family although Norfolk, her most powerful family member, was no longer as staunch a supporter as he once had been.

The duke nodded. "I find that loyalty is often underestimated."

There was the hint of a smile in his eyes and Cat understood. All the noble lords and ladies that cared only for names and titles and incomes would be gone in the moment when her influence was declining. A true friend, like she herself was to Anne, like the duke was to the king, was worth more than all the attention she received now. Anne knew this...but what could she do? For now it would suffice to survive.

Miles away in Kent, Anne was lying in her fine bed, the curtains half drawn, her thoughts racing and without continuity. Her fever was high, the illness strong but her will to survive was stronger. She had a life to live.

~o~

Charles

The news of Anne Boleyn's recovery reached them early in the morning, not a week later. Catherine had been quiet and solemn all week, neither furious nor extreme in her grief. As all ladies of the upper class, she wore a mask of porcelain and had allowed him a brief glimpse but never more. Sometimes, when he was especially masochistic, he remembered how it had felt to hold her in his arms. He remembered the wetness of her tears on his chest and the warmth of her body against is. She had withdrawn afterwards, was even less tangible than she had been before. She was kind, distanced, polite and he would have never thought that one day, he would long to have the wildcat back. Now that her friend had recovered, she arranged her sister's affairs. Apparently, the funeral had already taken place, it often happened as early as possible if the unfortunate subject had succumbed to a contagious illness. Catherine's nieces were in a nunnery, the boy still lived in the priory but his paternal uncle wanted to take him in. No doubt for the vast lands the boy would inherit. It were lands in Northumberland so Charles really did not care, but if it pleased his uncle, he would not object. He would no doubt give the boy his own daughter's hand in marriage. He could not complain.

He was outside in the gardens. They would soon return to court, the king would resume his summer progress, though on a smaller scale and only in the North, Yorkshire, Cumbria and Northumberland. Charles was both relieved and wistful to depart. He was now fully aware that there was something he felt for her. Something he was not used to at all. Something he rather did not name. He ignored it as well as he could for she did not return his feelings. At court, she would have Talbot again and he would dance with her and make her laugh. But here, he had felt strangely close to her, and he wanted more of this although he tried hard to deny those thoughts. It is only the loneliness. I could spend a fortnight in the countryside with someone like Jane Boleyn and I would have the same feelings. She was a distraction, nothing more. Charles had grown up at court, he needed the amusements and activities, the feasts and frolics. This secludedness and solitude brought out his penchant for brooding. He was not a great thinker, he should stop over-thinking this and distract himself...but with what?

"Your Grace? Would you like to play a game of cards?" She appeared in the library door, more beautiful than a fantasy and with a polite smile on her full lips. Just the distraction I needed. He sighed internally.

"Why not?" There are a hundred reasons against it, I know exactly why not. But he took the card deck from the shelf anyway. A hundred reasons against one. No, no one could ever accuse me of being wise.

They sat down at the card table.

"What is your wager, my lady?" he asked.

"I don't know. What do you want?" Her eyes were guileless but Charles couldn't help but laugh out loud. You don't want to know what I want, little wildcat.