A/N- Reviewers, I have mentioned that this story will be angst free, Klaus is never going to cheat on Caroline. Nobody will be cheating on anybody in this story.
The Infanta trembled as the Queen of England took her hand and led her away from the Court, slowly up the staircase, with her retinue falling in behind them.
So many beautiful, richly clad women.
Catarina had been raised with her grandmother in Arevalo, the castle had been so dark, cold and small, whilst they had been poorly fed, poorly clothed and poorly kept.
Now, she can feel shame over her ruined gown, which she clutches about her as she follows on the heels of the sumptuously clad Queen.
The beautiful Queen.
Even heavy with child she is graceful and in her loose gown she reminds her of a ship sailing down a river. Servants hurry ahead to open the doors for them and when they enter it is to find candles being lit, wine being poured and a fire being stoked in the large fireplace.
The Queen settles into a chair by the fire with an appreciative moan and her women flitter around her, one handing her a goblet of wine, another placing a cushion under her feet and yet another massaging her shoulders as she leaned backwards.
Luxury the likes of which the Infanta had never seen.
The Queen wears a friendly smile and waves a hand, a signal which Catarina does not recognize, fortunately, the brazen-eyed brunette pushes forward a chair until it hits her knees and she sits down.
"Little English, little Spanish." The Queen sighs, before snapping her fingers and speaking too quickly for Catarina to follow.
She hides her hands in what is left of her skirts and turns her gaze to the fire, trying to think of how she should act.
She had prepared herself for hostility, for cruelty, not for this kindness that she was being shown.
Verily, what was she to do?
The brunette appears at her shoulder,
"Come," she speaks in perfect French, "We have gowns ready for you."
Cautiously, the Infanta glances to the Queen who waves her hand again and she stands and curtsies as much as she is able to in her ruined clothes, she follows the brunette to another room and cannot resist gasping in wonder when she sees all the gowns laid out before her. Every color of the rainbow and so soft to the touch.
She had never seen fabric so fine, nor ever worn it. She had seen the gowns of her dowry, in Spanish fashion with high collars, heavy sleeves and gable hoods to ensure modesty. These gowns, well, they were not quite as immodest as French gowns but they were not a beacon of modesty either.
The brunette stands before her and taps a finger to her chin before spinning around with a flurry of her skirts, "Blue," she announces, "You will be resplendent in blue."
"Do none of the Queen's ladies speak Spanish?" she queries in French, as she is stripped of her scraps of gown, taken to a silver basin and given a cloth to bathe herself with.
"No," the lady responds, "French is so much more fashionable, besides we were at war with Spain," she frowns curiously,
"Yet, Spain was at war with France and you speak the language as well as I?"
Catarina runs the cloth along her skin and tries not to feel shame at the amount of women in the room. She had lived such a solitary life with her grandmother, she had only ever had one maidservant to dress her and now was surrounded by a bevy of them.
"It was assumed that I would be married to a French prince," she explains and the woman gives an artistic shudder, "It is the work of a gracious God that you were not," she announces irreverently, "For I have seen the princes of France and would not bed one for all the gold in the world!"
Catarina drops her cloth and stares at the woman scandalized,
"Such words are not well spoken in a royal court," she chastises only to have the brunette shrug,
"The Queen does not hear me, nor would she find fault in my words,"
The brunette takes her hands without any ceremony and pulls her forward, holding up a sheer shift, "Besides, I am her good sister in marriage," she explains as she slips the shift over Catarina's head, the gossamer smooth as water against her skin,
"Wed to the older brother of her husband and the older brother of your husband, the newly titled Duke Kol."
Oh.
This woman was her good-sister.
This was why she was so loose-tongued in her presence.
"What is your name?" she asks quietly as she is sat on a stool and stockings are rolled up her legs, she keeps her eyes on the woman and tries not to blush at the touch of fingers on her thighs,
"Katherine," she gives a wicked smirk and a bob in place of a proper curtsy,
"A lovely French name, is it not?"
There's a knock at the door and a blonde woman sweeps in before either of them have time to speak. She turns to Katherine and asks her many questions in English that Catarina does not comprehend before sashaying forward and pulling the Infanta into an embrace,
"You are well, yes?" she asks in broken Spanish as she steps back and Catarina has to wonder if any courtier in England practiced etiquette,
"Yes." She answers with a nod.
"This is your other sister," Katherine offers as she darts between them to tie up the laces of her gown,
"Rebekah."
Another one?
"How many sisters do I have now?" she demands in English and both women laugh,
"Just the three in England," Rebekah answers, "We are glad you are here."
Catarina does not comprehend the sentence yet she understands the sentiment and smiles,
"I am happy to be here."
She is dressed, her feet placed into heeled shoes, her hair is brushed and she is made ready in very little time, yet when she and her two sisters re-enter the chamber, the ladies are all gone.
Catarina wonders if she has committed a wrong, or if perhaps Spain has become the enemy of England again, she bites her lip and looks about in worry until her eyes land upon a scene.
The Queen is still in her chair yet there is a man with her.
The man Catarina had tended to earlier, he is standing before her, gripping the arms of the chair and his face is pressed against the Queen's neck.
She gasps and turns away quickly, having never seen such a scandalous act being done before and picks up her skirts, tripping over her heeled shoes as she sweeps out the door, bawdy laughter following on her heels as her two sisters trail behind her.
She takes Katherine by the sleeve and pulls her into a niche, "Will I be expected to do that with my husband?" she asks, too concerned with the answer to care that she is speaking French, and her sister covers her mouth with her fingers, laughing behind them,
"And more besides," she responds, before her face turns kind,
"Verily, I doubt that the bedding will take place tonight," she assures her, "like as not there will be a grand ceremony, so I shall explain to you on the morrow what is to be expected."
Catarina clears her throat and nods graciously, "Thank-you," she murmurs and decides that perhaps it would not be the worst thing to have to speak French with one sister.
Rebekah comes forward and slips her arm through hers, "You come now," She demands in a little Spanish, "You see husband."
The Infanta took that to mean her husband not her sister's husband, though, verily, her English family appeared to grow by the moment.
She is led to a gallery, quiet and ill-lit, and she can barely see the man at the end of the long hall.
Why was her husband hiding in the shadows?
Was he ill-formed?
Hideous?
Rebekah darts forward, "Kol!" she hisses, "Come here, now!"
He raises his head in surprise and though there is only moonlight and a single taper, Catarina can see that she has little to fear.
He is not ill-formed or hideous.
Indeed, when he comes towards her she cannot think of anything but a hero from a tapestry, his jaw is strong yet his face is kind. He bows gallantly and she curtsies, unable to recall what she is supposed to say, in any language.
He looks up from his bow with eyes that are full of humor and she smiles instinctively, holding out her hand which he takes with a quick kiss to her knuckles.
He straightens up and looks over his shoulder, jerking his head and out of the shadows steps a man in modest garb with a gold chain about his neck. Her husband speaks to him and the man turns towards her with a bow,
"Infanta," he begins in Spanish, "I am Atticus Shane, your husband's Spanish tutor. He wishes me to welcome you to England and asks if there is anything you need?"
Catarina shakes her head, "Tell him I am glad to be here, though I wish my arrival had been drier and I am honored to be his wife."
When Atticus relays this in English, the Duke Kol laughs, exposing his white straight teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, he is still holding her hand, his thumb stroking her skin without thought.
It is setting her atremble and her eyes keep darting to his strong, large hand as he caresses her.
"He says that he is very honored and glad to be your husband." Atticus offers by way of reply and then her husband is laying her hand on his arm and leading her down the gallery in a swish of skirts.
Katherine watches them go with a smirk, "Remind me to take her aside later," she asks Rebekah, slipping an arm about her waist,
"There are matters she and I had best discuss before tonight."
Her little good-sister is confused, "What matters?" she inquires, "Should I know of them?"
Katherine runs her eyes over the girl's sweet face, her large eyes, soft lips and pleasingly plump body, she was a beautiful chit though one well-guarded from the licentious members of the court by her brothers and the Queen's ladies, who knew the risk if any scandal or heartbreak were to befall their young charge.
"Not before you are six and ten." She decides.
A/N- There we go!