To say that Katherine Howard was excruciatingly disappointed would have been the understatement of the millennium.
Oh yes, it would have been a classic understatement.
An understatement in every sense of the word.
She could not believe that fate and destiny would be this cruel, this merciless towards her.
First her pride had been mortally wounded due to reality shattering the illusions that she had woven and had been absolutely certain of, and now she was condemned into fading into the shadows as though she, she who was God's bravest, wittiest, and most beautiful creation, was a nobody?
It was more than she could take.
Common sense would have told her that, given that she had never ever seen either or both of the Princesses for herself, and did not even have a portrait of them to consider, there was always a fair chance of her expectations falling into the pit of disappointment, especially since they had been founded purely on the grounds of imagination. And common sense would have made her realise that, though she might think herself to be the possessor of a great many admirable qualities that would – and should – make her the envy of all the others of her sex, she was still, at the end of the day, only one of the many ladies at court, and a rather minor one at that, if truth be told.
But for a girl who had been thought to think of nothing and no one but herself since she was a child of five, common sense…well, quite naturally…went unheeded.
Indeed, the only times where Katherine Howard took note of common sense were when necessity demanded it. At other times, the pride that she had allowed to rule her life with a fist of iron compelled her to go deaf to it. Even if she could not make herself go completely deaf, there was still only one thing that she would say in response to this situation: it is more than I could ever take!
She had heard so much about the two of them. Mary Tudor, the beloved daughter of the King who had been put aside on the word of Anne Boleyn, her cousin. The Princess who had been humbled to dust, the mourning girl who had been forbidden to see her dying mother. Elizabeth Tudor, whose sex had been the most severe of disappointments to her son-obsessed father from the very moment she drew her first breath. The little Princess whose father turned away from her and denied her publicly as his daughter despite her mother's desperate pleas for mercy, the little girl who had to be told by others of her mother's tragic fate, and who had been cruelly condemned to live the rest of her life in the shadow of disgrace.
As such, Katherine had been expecting two figures of utter tragedy, since – though no faults of their own – each of them had been forced to endure trials that would have broken most women and children.
The picture she had painted of Mary Tudor was a prematurely-aged woman with a skinny body, a small head of thin, frizzy red hair, a low hoarse voice from ill health and constant cries of grief and despair, and a face made gaunt and grim by destroyed hopes and vanquished dreams: a snub nose, large wary eyes, and a mouth that was forever down-turned. A thoroughly careworn woman who had absolutely nothing to recommend herself, except a tolerable allowance that could be revoked at any time by her utterly undependable father, and an utterly laughable ability to pray as if she had sinned against the Holy Ghost itself, when everyone knew her to be as pure and innocent as the Virgin for whom she had been named.
The apparition she had conjured up of Elizabeth Tudor, on the other hand, was a child that was only a little more alive than a broken doll, being corpse-pale and thin, with dark, haunted eyes that are too large for her face, and a thin little voice that suggested that she was constantly close to breaking down in tears. A desperately lost, desperately frightened little child whose eyes blatantly betrayed her utter ignorance of what she should do, whose very air indicated that her future and her life itself were as uncertain as her father's favour, and with absolutely nothing of worth except her Tudor-red hair, which was attributed to "a stroke of devilish luck" for a child whose parentage is in doubt.
Yes, such were the images that Katherine Howard had believed the two infamous Princesses of England to be, and she had been perfectly certain of acquiring a new boast about her accuracy being flawless once when she went to court and saw the two sisters for herself.
One hard lesson she had learnt through this: anticipation only made the disappointment keener.
For what she saw were two individuals as different as day and night from the ones she had woven from the threads of a fanciful imagination.
Princess Mary Tudor was, though her peacock-rivaling vanity demanded that she die a thousand deaths of the most painful sort before she admitted it, one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Tall and stately, with a body fit for a Goddess of Love and Desire, she had a soft, full rounded face that was as innocent and beatific as the most devout novice on the verge of taking her vows, or a virginal saint tragically destined to die young, sweet, chaste…pure. A wealth of gorgeous chestnut hair tastefully streaked with copper and gold rippled even beyond her rounded hips, a dramatic contrast to her flawless alabaster skin and exquisite scarlet-red bow of a mouth. A straight long nose and chiseled cheekbones that were the despair of a master sculptor set off to advantage a pair of huge, wide eyes that glowed with a colour unlike any Katherine had ever seen before. Pure blue, untinted with grey or brown or black. As blue as a sapphire that enticed and promised. Sapphire eyes that were framed like portraits by thick, long ebony lashes that swept her rosy cheeks as if they were black crescents, and crowned by straight eyebrows of chestnut.
She did not walk, but glided, as a swan would on a still pool. Her voice was the voice of a Princess who had been born and bred to be – once upon a time – a great and mighty Queen for England: strong and sure when giving orders or conversing, yet as rich and sweet as a thrush when singing or entertaining. And while she had a tendency to favour gowns of sober colours and jewellery of dark hues, she dressed and adorned herself in a way that not only made her look stylish and seductive, but also did justice to the piety for which she was famed: the decent, modest cut of the dark-coloured gowns concealing yet enhancing her mouthwateringly voluptuous form, and the careful arraying of the pieces of rich, deep-hued jewellery simultaneously giving the impression of beguiling modesty and setting off her unique colouring to full advantage.
Yes, she possessed more than just beauty, grace and style, but a sheer presence that allowed her to dominate an entire hall of people without having to utter a single word. Hers was a charm that had been refined by hardship, perfected by tragedy, a grace that was made all the more ethereal by her having the look of a young girl who had seen all her hopes destroyed, and yet had learnt to live with it and had even accomplished the extraordinary feat of making the best out of her pitiful circumstances.
Lady Elizabeth Tudor – Lady, not Princess, her master had emphasised that endlessly – was also a startling surprise. She was extremely young, only seven years old, yet she was imposing in her own right.
As impressive and as imposing as the sister who was old enough to be her mother, as some might say.
She had a heart-shaped face with strong, high cheekbones that tapered down to a pointed chin, and a rosebud mouth of pure cherubic perfection. Her eyes, the notorious Boleyn eyes that had led to the fate of a nation being changed forever, were her most striking feature, one that gave a new definition to the term "exotic": Huge and almond-shaped, with dark arched eyebrows and fantastic dark lashes that contrasted almost shockingly against her irises and her skin, they shone black, onyx-black, as black as the loveliest, most secretive of nights. From what she had heard, they could actually change colour depending on their mistress' mood: sometimes green, then purple. Her skin was just like her older sister's: as soft and pure as the finest cream, with just a gentle bloom of rosy colour in her cheeks and her mouth. Waves of soft, lustrous copper-crimson hair – the famous Tudor hair – tumbled sweetly to a tiny waist, a shiny waterfall that could take one's breath away. She was tall for her age, lithe-limbed and slim, and moved with a grace that made her seem as if she were a willow tree dancing with spring breezes. Her voice was like that of a nightingale's: haunting, musical, and pitched exactly to touch one's soul with the exquisite power of its modulation and harmony.
But there was also an indescribable charm of endearment about her, a kind of magic that made one as though just by looking at her could make his or her heart warm by the most delightful way. Katherine now understood what Charles Brandon, Francis Bryan, and numerous other courtiers meant by her radiance; she is tremendously engaging. Even the simplest of her actions made her exude a sort of vulnerable appeal. She was like a young animal that one cannot see without wanting to pet: like an orphan fawn, or a puppy with big, soulful eyes.
Yes, Lady Elizabeth was, undoubtedly, the prettiest and most charming child Katherine had ever seen. But she was also the saddest. It was not just that those beguiling black eyes were often soft with that wistful emotion that made one want to reach out and comfort her. A shroud of tender, innocent sorrow cloaked her just like the folds of her gowns did.
Her dress…now that was the part that thoroughly baffled Katherine Howard. She just could not understand why a girl who could – at anytime, anywhere – have her pick of the most beautiful gowns and the most exquisite jewels prefer to attire herself in a simple, modest way that made many a daring tongue suggest that she must be determined to live a life of celibacy, despite the fact that whether or not she could do so was not a matter for her to decide at all. Indeed, very rarely was Lady Elizabeth not seen in severe, sober-hued gowns of grey, black, white, and brown, and adorned by only the stylish French hood which was usually pushed back to show her priceless red hair, a beautifully jewelled crucifix that her sister had given her on her third birthday at her neck, and a book of hymns dangling at the end of a golden chain around her waist. Most ironically, it was a confirmed fact that those few occasions in which she appeared in bright, rich colours and fabulous jewels were entirely the work of her sister's persuasion, and her sister had been the very one whom everyone had originally blamed for being "a bad influence" on her in terms of behaviour and appearance.
Whatever the case, Katherine was forced to admit that she had been hopelessly wrong about the two Princesses, and that each of them was a rare, splendid specimen of the female sex in her own right. Where Elizabeth's was a beauty that invited touching, affection and protection, Mary was a majestic beauty that inspired awe, admiration and worship. Elizabeth was a little fairy from those fantastic tales that delighted all children, while Mary was a mythological Goddess in all her glory and majesty.
But…it did not make it any easier for her to swallow the pill of the knowledge of being thoroughly in the wrong.
And tonight, she was feeling sourer and more irritated than ever.
She had dressed for show: a new gown sewn of crimson damask, cut to the lowest possible point of her bosom that propriety would allow. The velvet yoke around her gown and her hood were of black velvet. The colours against her copper hair were boldly inappropriate, but her masters had been more than pleased with it, and she herself thought that she could not have made a better choice: many a male eye was on her, clearly appreciating the gown and its seductive contents. As expected, her heart swelled until it could burst her chest open with pride. Pride in her beauty, her charm, her desirability, and – most importantly – that she was a center of attention, as it should be.
Yes, ever since she came to court, Katherine Howard had expected to be much observed and much commented upon. It was natural for a vain, proud, willful girl who thought of herself as the fairest flower of the court. That many handsome young boys, all sons of good families, all wealthy in their own right, and all high in favour, had flirted with her, attempted to seduce her, and even offered sexual favours only served to fester her pride.
But she ceased to be a center of attention, of excitement and sensual pleasure when the two Princesses made their appearance in the Great Hall.
Completely ceased to be.
There was a pause of absolute, utter silence, in which one could have heard a feather fall, or the Angels gasp.
Everyone seemed to have lost their sense of speech as the two sisters glided towards their father and stepmother to greet them. It was not that it was the very first time that they were seeing them, and had not known them both to be such visions of exotic, ethereal beauty. No, it was the loveliness of the dramatic, almost razor-sharp contrast between them: in expression, in colouring, and in looks. As Brandon had found out for himself, the sight of them, standing side by side, was…incredible. Absolutely incredible. It was a kind of inexpressible charm that distinguished them from all the others, making even the most gracious, most beautifully-dressed ladies of the court pale into insignificance by comparison. Little wonder the sight of them always made Katherine seethe with jealousy, and try her best to deny their beauty, but as always, she failed miserably: upon being confronted with its full, magnetic impact, she could not help but be overwhelmed by the waves of the mortifying thought that she had not done them justice.
Mary was dressed in a hunting habit that was wonderfully becoming to her: on her dark, curly head was a handsome beaver hat with jaunty, dark blue feathers, and she wore a black velvet jacket with diamond clasps, and skirts of dark blue velvet, richly embroidered in silver. Around her swanlike neck was a necklace that had made many a lady catch her very breath at the wave of utter longing that had swept through her at the sight of it: moonstones and diamonds, inlayed in pure antique gold, glittering and twinkling like a star in the yellow light of flickering torches. The dark hues of her dress brought out the soft, creamy whiteness of her skin, the copper-shaded chestnut in her hair, and made her eyes shine bluer. Had she been armed with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, she would have looked every inch like Artemis, the Goddess of the Moon and of Wild Nature, having descended from Mount Olympus to Earth for yet another hunt. In this case, however, her prey was neither the stag nor the roebuck, but mortal men, and her arrows were not her usual arrows that were as soft as moonbeams and brought about painless death, but those of Eros, the God of Love: arrows that were tipped with gold and tailed with white dove feathers – sweetly poisoned arrows that infect man and woman alike with the most dangerous of all fevers, making them all succumb helplessly to a state that could be either more glorious than life or more miserable than death.
Elizabeth was, much to the astonishment and wonder of almost the entire court, dressed for both piety and grandeur: a gown of white silk damask, studded with pearls, and with the sleeves and the hem trimmed with the soft white ermine that had been one of her father's gifts. She wore it with a matching French hood of cloth-of-silver, set with priceless silver lace, and a veil of white gossamer trimmed with pearls cascading over her beautiful copper curls to her hips. But what was most captivating was the air of grace mingled with modest reserve that bore witness to the beauty of her soul. She was like a pristine, exquisite creation of the God of Sculptors, a Fairy Princess who had ventured from her mystical, otherworldly realms into the human world, not to cause mischief and mayhem as so many of her kind had delighted in, but to see, to learn and to explore with a sincerely open heart and a genuinely willing mind, making her all the more enchanting by her utter lack of naughtiness and desire to do harm.
Once the paralysing attack of the shock had passed, propriety again took hold of everyone's senses, and all the ladies and gentlemen either curtsied or bowed to the two beauties: they had to curtsey or bow to the Princess Mary low enough to indicate their respect to a Princess of the Blood Royal, and rise up before the Lady Elizabeth could take the credit since she is only a bastard of the King, and as always there were those who said that she is not his at all.
But then, Katherine noted that she did not seem to take note of whether any respect was shown to her or not. Her behaviour was that of a child many years her senior: she smiled her courtier's smile – a smile so gracious and so courteous that Katherine wondered how many times did she practice in front of a mirror, inclined her head as regally as her sister did, and met their gazes with an imperious yet gentle directness. If one were to look very, very carefully, however, one could discern the discomfort in her air, and how she seemed to draw ever closer to the sister who held her by the hand, as a shy child would draw to a loving mother for protection.
It seems that I was quite right about her being a lost, frightened little child, after all.
Succumbing to a moment's impulse, Katherine gave Elizabeth a mischievous, knowing smile, as if they were not strangers but close allies, a pair of naughty schoolmates who love nothing better than to cause trouble, and even poked out her tongue at her as the little Boleyn-Tudor Princess went past her. She saw no harm in doing so, for the child was only six years old, and besides, she was her cousin from her mother's side. Then she heard the sound of a throat being cleared: the typical sound that indicated disapproval and demanded attention, and she looked up…into the dark, critical gaze of the Princess Mary.
The transformation was nothing short of magical: the soft, innocent, exquisite face that a master sculptor would have given to the Virgin was now the hard, stern, and intimidating countenance of the most formidable of Queens. She stared at her as a Goddess would stare at an impertinent sinner who had dared to defile her sacred shrine, unable to believe that she had actually done what she had done.
Instantly and naturally, Katherine lowered her gaze to the ground, cheeks burning with mortification; now looking every inch like a girl caught in an act of disobedience and had no choice but to await punishment.
It did not come.
For distraction came in the form of King Henry and Queen Barbara.
Her lovely face warm with the sweet smile that came to her as naturally as she breathed whenever she saw her stepchildren, Queen Barbara greeted them with a tenderness that was heartwarming to behold: giving each a warm hug and a loving kiss on both cheeks, and then scrutinising each of their faces thoroughly, as if checking to see if they were truly as well as they seemed to be.
Then it was King Henry's turn. As always, one had to wonder whether the deep fondness he demonstrated towards them was genuine or just for show, given his notorious treatment of them when his affection turned to spite, but it was still sweet and touching nonetheless: he gave each of them a hug, spoke with warm tenderness to them, and revealed that he had prepared presents for them – sugared plums and pieces of glided marchpane in his pockets for the little Lady Elizabeth, and a handsome-looking cheque and a large sapphire ring from his own finger for the Princess Mary. With a face made more beautiful by genuine approval, the Queen placed a dainty white hand over the King's callused, much larger one, and whispered something quietly in his ear, making him give a light chuckle. Clearly, they are a merry little family, which would be indeed as heartwarming as a blazing fireplace in the cold, bitter winter, if one did not recall the unforgettable fact that the father of the family – for all his smiles and his kindness – was a difficult and dangerous man, one insane enough to actually believe that he and God are of the same mind.
But that the King was a madman and that the world was governed by his whims did not matter, not in the least, to Katherine Howard. What mattered most was the utter lack of attention paid to her. She had been certain that this King, whose susceptibility to beautiful women was notorious, was attracted to her, and she knew that he had been stealing little glances at her as a man would a forbidden treasure. But the entry of the two Tudor sisters broke her spell: he did not seem to have eyes for anything else once they showed up. All his attention was focused on them, them whom he had declared bastards and Princesses no more, and whom he had generally neglected until recently. She would have laughed, but she could not, since the "insult" to her beauty was too great, and she knew that she should not, not in front of the court, where every eye would be on her the instant she does something outlandish.
It was then that she felt a firm hand on her sleeve. She looked up and saw the dark hair and long, thoughtful face of her master, Edward Seymour.
"Lord Hertford," she greeted, and would have curtsied had he not stopped her.
"What is the matter with you?" he demanded in the hiss of a whisper, clearly annoyed. "You look as sour as a lemon."
"It is those two," she indicated the two Princesses. "They never fail to irritate me."
"Irritate you? How? As far as I know, they have never done anything wrong to you. Or…have they, without my knowledge?"
"They are everything that I would never be," she said simply, making Edward bite the inside of his mouth from laughing as realisation dawned on him.
"Oh, my dear Katherine, you are jealous of them, are you not?"
"Why should I not be, Lord Hertford?" Katherine demanded, though her voice was still as low as a whisper. Even in anger, she did not forget that there were things that cannot be spoken out loud in court, no matter how true they might be. This was, after all, a place where one wrong word could mean the Tower or the scaffold. "Why should I not be? What woman would not be? I had originally thought that they were plain and common, old before their times, good-for-nothing, unwanted and useless. But now I am forced to accept that they are the complete opposites of what I expected them to be, and that they have everything that young girls like me could possibly want, could possibly dream of. What girl, Lord Hertford, upon seeing them in all their rich jewels, their fancy gowns, and their beauty and their pride, would not be as jealous of them as can be?"
"Yes, perhaps. But don't forget: if everything goes according to our plans, then in only a matter of days, one of them would be cold in a grave, nothing more than a memory, while the other one…you can do as you like with the other one once you are in a position of power: banish her, imprison her, marry her off, send her to a nunnery…whatever. This I promise you. But first you have to be patient. Be patient. And take one step at a time so that you would not fall. So wipe that sour look off your face and smile. Look pretty, look pleasant, look agreeable. The King is always fond of easy and agreeable women. He does not like frowning, disagreeable women who look as though they are sucking on lemons, even if they are of unparalleled beauty. And for sure he would not be fond of you if you keep that frown on your exquisite face, my dear little Katherine. So smile and look fair and sweet."
At once Katherine smiled her beguilingly innocent, seductive smile, now slightly cheered as she saw the sense in her master's words. Edward scrutinised her intensely as a fastidious horse-dealer would a filly, and gave a nod of approval. "That's better. Much better. Now, keep that on no matter what happens. Whether or not the Princess Mary and the Lady Elizabeth are common or extraordinary, ugly or beautiful, desired or repulsed is not important. What is important is the work that you have to do. There is a part that you have to play to perfection, Katherine."
"Yes, Lord Hertford."
"And remember, Katherine: patience and modesty are the two virtues that the men of this court find most appealing in a woman. Even me."
"Yes, Lord Hertford."
The ritual involved in setting the royal table was intriguing, one far more intricate than any ever employed at Hunsdon, Hatfield, or any other nursery palace. First, a damask cloth embroidered with flowers was unfolded and spread in the most precise fashion over the grand oaken table. Then napkins sprinkled with sweet-smelling herbs were laid on the cloth, followed by gold plate and cutlery shining from immaculate polishing, goblets of Venetian glass glittering from thorough washing, loaves of hot, freshly-baked manchet bread and chased ewers of drink. Thanks to the "New Learning" that was introduced by Queen Barbara, the insufficient, almost pathetic ritual of dipping fingers into bowls of scented water and then wiping them on napkins had been abolished. Now, the finger bowls had been replaced with rich, pleasant-smelling soaps and large bowls of hot water for everyone to thoroughly wash their hands clean, followed by soft, warm fleecy towels with which for everyone to thoroughly wipe and dry their hands.
The dinner itself was fantastically well done. Thanks again to the "New Learning"; the cooks had done a magnificent job, a million times better compared to when they had been ignorant of the virtues of cleanliness. All kinds of meat and vegetables, excellently prepared in every imaginable way: raw, stewed, boiled and roasted, made up the menu. Fruits were served with a selection of soft and hard cheeses, and a great variety of wonderful drinks: mountain spring water, fruit juices, ices, sherbets and wines, all chilled with snow from the icehouses, such that everyone sang their praises. The hot food was served with a bit of steam; the pastries had the perfect browning to their crusts, and the cheeses had the proper bite to them. Undoubtedly, the most exquisite item of the feast was the sweetmeats: flowers and bouquets in marchpane, so pretty and so delicate that it was a true pity to break and eat them.
But it was neither the succulent food nor the wonderful drinks that proved to be the center of attention.
Most shockingly, it was Princess Elizabeth.
The Princess Elizabeth, always serene and ethereal, always sitting demurely next to her sister at the dinner table, answering only when spoken to and keeping silent when she was not, actually – without any prompting or encouragement from her sister or her stepmother – engaged her father in conversation before he even spoke to her. It was something so unexpected, and seemed so impossible, that it was a wonder that there was no uproar, and that the entire court was able to carry on eating well and drinking deep, as if the quietest, most soft-spoken member of the royal family starting a conversation with the fearsome, unpredictable head of the house was an everyday occurrence.
Elizabeth played her part beautifully, executing it with such light charm that one who had not seen her frightened and lost would actually believe that a magical alteration had taken place overnight, that she was no longer afraid of her father, and actually wanted to get to know him. She brought up topics of definite interest for them to chat about and discuss: Scripture and the classics, the historical works that she was currently studying, and even art and music. She picked the nicest morsels from the dishes on the table and put them on his plate. She was very much Elizabeth, Elizabeth in every turn of her head and her quiet, refined way of speaking and moving, but there was something about her determined charm that reminded one of her mother, who had tried her utmost to mask her fears when she realised that her husband had tired of her and was plotting to be rid of her.
And it was a heartbreaking sight to behold, especially to Mary, who had felt no sorrow and only a little pity at Anne Boleyn's disgrace and death, but had grown to love Anne Boleyn's pure and innocent daughter with all her heart. Barbara, seated next to her husband, also gave a little shrug of her shoulders and a small sigh of sadness. A child like that, so full of beauty and charm, so pure and so angelic, being forced into playing a difficult, tiring part that no one would be willing to play if they had a choice. With a knowing, sad glance of understanding at each other, stepmother and sister did whatever they could to make it easier for the little girl to play her part, to give her some assurance that she was not alone and never would be: both tried to participate in the conversation, though their success was repeatedly compromised by Henry, who obviously wanted the discussion to be only between him and the daughter whose love he was determined to win. Mary took the choicest cuts of meat and vegetables from her plate and placed them on her sister's, and saw to it that her sister's goblet was always full of her favourite drink. Barbara ensured that Elizabeth received extra helpings of her favourite dessert of candied fruits, and secretly gave orders to make sure that a hot drink and a warm fireplace would be ready for the little Princess when she and her sister retired for bed.
Henry, on his part – being always insensible of whatever he chose to ignore – was utterly delighted, grinning from ear to ear as he chatted with his engaging younger daughter. His daughter, his pretty clever tender-hearted little Bessy, had finally – as Knivert put it – "seen the light", and he was determined to make the most of it, to show Bessy that his light was one that she would never regret seeing, an exquisitely beautiful light whose warmth and comfort she would never have cause to despise herself for relishing in. Take that, Bors; he thought triumphantly, his heart roaring like a lion that had conquered a new piece of territory by defeating a foe. My Bessy has turned to me at last. My Bessy has tired of you and your dull, monotonous ways. My Bessy has turned to me, just as I know she would. My Bessy has learnt that a deep, true, unwavering fatherly love like mine is always the best.
Katherine, picking at her food so that she would not be seen as greedy, saw the mixture of pride and triumph on Henry's face, Elizabeth's determinedly bright, active and enchanting behaviour, and laughed to herself: the daughter is a shameless, consummate little actress while the father has got to be the most deluded fool that has ever lived. Really, this family is a joke. A big, fat, stupid joke. I wonder why no one has died of laughing here yet…
After everyone had eaten their fill, had their mouths and hands washed, and the cloths were drawn, the master and his minion engaged in a last-minute discussion of their own.
"I am sorry, Lord Hertford, but I am still compelled to ask this: you have already spiked the drink that the King is going to give her, have you not?"
"For the thirteenth time, child, yes! I have! Only a third of the potion for her tonight, just as the necromancer said."
"And another third for her tomorrow night."
"And the last third for her the night after tomorrow's. Then, all we have to do is sit and wait. In only a matter of days, the little Boleyn bastard will be no more, her memory nothing but a distant, feeble jest. Is that not what the necromancer said?"
"Yes, Lord Hertford. It is just…oh, it is too bad that we cannot administer the potion all at once, Lord Hertford. If only we could, then it would be a swift, easy, sharp job. It could be all over in just tonight. But I know that it cannot be."
"Yes, it is a pity. But as I have told you before, Katherine, patience is a most appealing virtue. It is one that always promises a handsome reward. So just wait. Just leave everything to me. And don't forget that it is time for you to get to work."
"Yes, Lord Hertford, I know." Katherine said, as cheerfully as a child who had been given a long-desired toy. She glanced towards the Queen, and saw that the King was now watching them. Carefully, indifferently, she turned her head a little away from Edward and withdrew slightly. It would not do to seem too engaged with him. She glanced under her eyelashes, and indeed the King was looking at her. He beckoned to her with a crook of his finger, and she stepped up to the royal chair as if she had been waiting all her life for this moment.
"Your Majesty?"
"I am saying that we should have some dancing. Will you partner the Princess Mary? The Queen tells me you are the best of her dancers."
Katherine flushed hot with pleasure, and wished with all her heart that her grandmother could see her now: being ordered to dance with the Princess by the King himself upon the recommendation of the Queen.
"Of course, Your Majesty." She curtsied beautifully, taking care to also cast her eyes down modestly since everyone was watching her, and put out a hand to the Princess Mary. Her dark, secretive heart hissed like an angry cat that had been outwitted by a clever mouse when she noted how Mary did not leap up to take it, and merely glided to the center of the hall to form the first line of the dance with her as if she were not much honoured by her partner. As ever, with Princesses who had been taught since childhood to guard their tongues and to behave properly at all times, there was nothing that Katherine Howard could specifically find to find fault with in Mary Tudor. It was the very air of her: the way she set herself slightly apart, the way with which she now carried herself, as if she, regretfully, cannot agree with the partner that her father had selected for her.
Well, that's of no loss to me. It is not as if I came to court just to seek her approval…Katherine mused with all the arrogance of a spoilt child, giving a slight toss of her flaming red head at that serene, beautiful face, and summoned the other ladies, who formed a line behind them. With a snap of the King's fingers, the musicians struck a chord, and the dance began.
She should have foreseen it, for any Princess would have been taught how to dance in the courtly world where dancing, singing, music, and poetry mattered more than anything else, but she felt the fire of her jealousy-induced irritation at this Spanish-Tudor Princess burn fiercer than ever as she realised what a wonderful dancer she was. Indeed, even the most severe of dancing teachers would give a genuine smile of approval at how the Princess Mary Tudor performed: her head held high, her eyes simultaneously giving the impression of being heavily-lidded and sparkling like priceless gems, her feet twinkling through the steps as if they were stars dancing in the night sky, so gracefully did they move, that they did not seem to touch the ground at all. It was the greatest of blows to the pride of a flirtatious girl who had been taught to revel in constant male attention, for Katherine was certain that – despite her best efforts to display the full effect of her beauty and her sensuality through the dance – more than half of the male attention in the room was completely focused on the Princess, whose rosy colour was rising along with the dance, making her seem more beautiful than she already was.
For a moment, for a moment only, Katherine wondered if she could seize Mary by the throat and throttle the life out of her.
It was too much for her.
Simply too much.
She cannot be a foil to someone else's performance, she just cannot be.
It was not in her nature, she just did not aspire to second place, even if the first place was claimed by one of the greatest Princesses of Christendom.
It was not only that, but also the overwhelming sense of inferiority that Mary made her feel just by dancing with her, cruelly reminding her that this Princess and her little bastard child of a sister were far better-educated than her, far more gracious than her, and despite their uncertain status might turn out to be more than she ever would be.
She felt – as clear as crystal – the razor-sharp sting of the unspeakable differences between her and these two Princesses, a scorpion-like sting that poisoned her with jealousy and spite. They have overshadowed her, they lived in fairytale palaces that she could only dream of seeing as a child, they have dresses and ornaments that made her go as green as a pea just to think about it. If she were ever to be draped in ermine, she knew that the one and only reason would be that she was beautiful and seductive, while those furs were theirs by right of birth, whether or not they were lovely and desirable. One was six years older than her, the other more than ten years her junior, and yet both sisters had always been ahead of her. While they delighted in gowns that grew fancier and fancier, reveled in the richest of jewels, had romantic ballads and pretty poems dedicated to their beauty, rewarded winners of tournaments, and translated Latin and Greek into English for the sole purpose of gratifying their pride in their wit and learning, she had to wheedle and pout like a silly child, and resort to the lowest tricks of a whore to get bolts of common, low-quality silk to make new gowns. She had to be content with the plain, pathetic jewellery that were her mother's deathbed gifts: a little chain of thin gold, and a set of simple gold bracelets. No one had ever written a single, solitary ballad about her, no one had ever drawn her likeness, and she had to be grateful for hand-copied from prayer books from a girl who lectured her all the time like the strictest of governesses.
All these long, wretched years, while she was powerless to do anything but learn demeaning tricks and to entertain shameless, loose-lived young men in her bed, this young woman and that little girl spent in worthless prayer and meaningless study, quietly foiling the plots of those who sought to bring them down again, attempting to consolidate their unsteady positions in their father's heart, and dazzling England with their beauty and wit.
Now she danced with her, the young woman whom they call the most beautiful and most devout in England, the young woman whose looks utterly contradict her nun-like serenity and peace, the young woman who commanded her father's reluctant adoration and the admiration of a nation. She could not look at her straight in the eye, though the Devil himself knows that she does not command her.
"You are Lady Katherine Howard, is it? A granddaughter of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk?" Mary asked pleasantly, her voice as mellifluous as a siren, and her smile polite, though in those unearthly blue eyes was that faintest hint of dislike that had been there ever since she caught this mere maid-in-waiting audaciously making faces at her beloved little sister.
Yes, Princess Mary Tudor might seem as gentle and as harmless as a butterfly, but when it came to defending her loved ones, she would become a woman no less fierce and formidable than her father himself. She would move Heaven and Earth to protect them, to keep them from harm, especially when it concerned the sister who had – most unexpectedly – proved to be an utterly reliable ray of hope and sunshine to her in the darkest moments of her life.
Eustace Chapuys and Francis Bryan could testify to that: in years back, the court had been rife with tales of how they each suffered the humiliation of a public scolding by the older Spanish-Tudor Princess for giving offense to her sister. Eustace, who had desperately and consistently tried for years to turn his mistress against her sister, was eventually dealt with a devastating blow to his pride in the form of an ultimatum: cease with his poisonous yard-spinning, or be horsewhipped and dismissed forever from royal service. Francis Bryan, whom everyone knew to take an especial delight in making fun of ladies in a bawdy way, had tried once to make Elizabeth the butt of a joke, when she was welcomed back at court and restored once more in her father's favour. Mary, to whom he had done the exact same thing, had stepped in immediately before he could complete his nasty jest, and had herded her sister off like a devoted mother would her child, but not before giving Francis a tongue-lashing that no one had thought to be within her capacity, extempore before the entire court.
Neither man had dared to make the Princesses the subject of their "nonsense" ever again.
Yes, the message Mary had spread had been made perfectly clear: You people thought to embarrass me and my sister in public. You thought that you could use us both in pawns in your games, the butts of your evil and insulting jokes, that you could shame us and triumph over us. But my sister and I are both Princesses of England, Princesses of the Blood, and we have endured trials that you all, in your smug little havens, can never dream of. We have learnt to trust each other with the entirety of our faith and our souls no matter what. We have sworn to stand together regardless of the circumstances. So you all need not think that we are afraid of you all, or that you could turn us against each other. I shall never stoop to do anything that a Princess of the Blood should not do. I shall never be petty, or spiteful, or quarrelsome. But if you challenge me, I shall defeat you. If you slight my sister or intend to turn me against her, her who had been God's greatest gift to me, then I shall teach you a lesson that you shall never forget.
"I am, Princess," Katherine replied, feeling the smile on her face stretched so hard that her mouth was drying with the effort.
"I have heard of Her Majesty the Queen speak of you as a beautiful and charming girl, always pleasant company to be with, and well-schooled in all the arts that become an attractive and accomplished woman," she said, "I see that much of what I have heard is true, but I daresay that you still require lessons in keeping your own counsel and pay the respect that is due to a Princess of the Blood." A sudden flame of colour in Katherine's cheeks betrayed her shame and anger at this reproach, a flush that was intensified by the realisation that, all the time, those blue eyes were taking in her scandalous gown, her provoking headdress, and the way she swayed her hips to ensure that she would be constantly watched with desire and admiration by the red-blooded men. She realised that this Princess, highly accomplished not only in book-learning but also in the ways of the world, was trying to read her, and she, dancing with her, was trying with every inch of her being to hide her resentful jealousy of her, her beauty, and her position. She was trying to look agreeable, while she felt her proud belly turn over with spite, especially when she saw how elegantly those rich skirts of blue velvet swished in tune to the music, hinting at the litheness of Mary's sensual, fertile form.
"I do not mean to be harsh, or rude, or to make you uncomfortable, Lady Howard, but here is a place where there is no room for mistakes. And appearances could mean anything, everything. Not all can be dismissed as mere escapades, or the wild follies of youth. All new courtiers must accept these rules, in entering this world; they abide by these lessons for the very purpose of survival."
"I understand, Princess. From the bottom of my heart, I apologise for any offense that I have dealt you or your sister the Lady Elizabeth with," she said. She swallowed in a dry throat. "Be assured that it would not happen again. And allow me to say that it is a true pleasure to be able to serve Her Majesty the Queen, and a more genuine one at being allowed to dance with you. As Our Lady is my witness, you are the finest dancer that I have ever been privileged to be partnered with, Princess."
"Thank you, Lady Howard. It is most kind of you to say that. I am sure that Her Majesty also finds it a true pleasure for you to be in her service as well. And it is the Princess Elizabeth, Lady Howard. Not the Lady Elizabeth. The Princess Elizabeth." Mary corrected gently, noting with well-concealed pleasure at the flicker of unmistakable surprise in Katherine Howard's emerald eyes as she said this. Her first two statements were of course the typical, rehearsed responses that a Princess would give to a compliment paid, but that last statement made regarding her sister's title – and hence status – was spoken with an underlining note of serious warning, as if to emphasise that, despite all the rumours and speculations as to Elizabeth's paternity, her sister was still an important personage in the eyes of the world, and also meant something supremely special to her, to the extent where she would not tolerate any disrespect towards her.
Obviously this is another one who wonders as to why Beth and I are so dear to each other, when our mothers had been the bitterest of foes…
"It has been long since I have reconciled myself to what has happened between my father, my mother, and the Lady Anne Boleyn. There is no value in thinking of old scores and old wrongs. What one must take note of is the future that lies ahead of us. I trust that you, Lady Howard, would already know that I have been entrusted with the total, absolute care of my sister, the Princess Elizabeth, ever since she was but a child of three. I had cared for her, watched over her, taught her myself, and prayed and wept for her. And I can say that, despite all the crimes which the Lady Anne had been found guilty of, her daughter – my sister – is innocent. A thorough innocent in this dreadful matter. As innocent as Our Lady Herself. There is no trace of witchcraft in her blood, nor is there any stain of sin on her soul, nor is there any shadow of malevolence in her nature. And I know her to be worthy of the title of "Princess" in everyway, in spite of what some might think and feel."
"I understand, Princess," was all Katherine could muster, and she felt so much like a fool that she wished that the ground would crack open and swallow up this infuriating, insulting half-foreign Princess, who had the gall to make a joke out of her, when she herself was hardly any better, having been a bastard for half her life and still unmarried even at the ripe age of twenty-three. Since she could not even afford to show any disrespect, she settled for gritting her teeth and weaving pride-soothing fantasies in her mind. "I have heard they say that you have raised the Princess Elizabeth well, and I agree with that with all my heart. For she is, without a doubt, the loveliest child I have ever seen. As radiant as the fullest moon of a star-splashed, black-velvet night. Her smile is absolutely delightful; one really cannot look away from her. And she has a tender heart, and a soul as pure as that of yours, Princess."
"Thank you, Lady Howard." Mary replied graciously, her courtier's smile as warm as the summer sunshine. Anyone would think that she was born to be a great and accomplished Queen instead of a worthless royal bastard; she has all the style befitting a Queen of Heaven, and a charm that perhaps did not surpass that of her sister's, but certainly rivaled it in every imaginable aspect. Katherine could not help but think that this Princess had been named well: in all her charm and her grace, her wit and her learning, and especially her serenity and her peaceful calm, the Lord Himself, she was sure, would have definitely chosen her for His mother and wished to be born of her if she had been in existence when He was made man. "Perhaps I cannot speak for everyone, but to me, Elizabeth certainly is a soul as pure and fair and sweet as the lilies in the field."
For a woman who is doomed to either make a lowly marriage to some minor noble or spend the rest of her days in spinsterhood and infertility, she sure has a witty sharp tongue, an insufferably brilliant mind, and an abominable sisterly pride…for a moment, Katherine feared the contempt would show on her face, but upon seeing no sign of anger or display of having taken offence on Mary's face after she ventured a quick glance, she relaxed and did her best not to make direct eye-contact with this most infuriating of Princesses. "I am sure, Princess, I am sure," was all she said, with all the obedient meekness that she was capable of. When I am Queen of England, I will make her bitterly regret making a fool out of me. I will make her inexpressibly sorry for looking at me, and speaking to me in this manner. I will not tolerate her at court; I will not tolerate her in any part of my country. I will send her to a nunnery in Spain. She can read and fast and pray till she rots there, for all I care…
Philip wanted to break something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Don Luis eyeing Mary as if he would devour her on the spot.
Oh, yes. He definitely wanted to break someone.
The Spanish Prince was fancily dressed in Tyrian-purple velvet and rich black fur, with a mother-of-pearl crucifix at the end of a gold chain around his neck, and his hair and face were immaculate. He looked every inch a respectable, sensible and dignified young man, but Philip found him repulsive, disgusting in the extreme. For the German Duke, being himself a man of high education and vast worldly experience, saw in the Spanish Prince the secret, unmistakable look of a man to whom women existed only to give him pleasure. A man who might feel desire, might feel lust, but was always more alert to advantages and ambition than sexual passion. A man who would only spare a woman a second, more thoughtful look, if she surprisingly proved to have something between her ears, and was more than pleasant and pleasing in both appearance and behaviour.
From the look of things as they stood now, pleasant was the richest dish on the table, and pleasing looked excellent. After all, his Mary was more than engaging, more than desirable, an incredible woman the like of which had never been seen, and it was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone. But if Don Luis thought he would sample the pleasures that Mary might have to offer, Philip had a sharp objection to make. He grinned and glanced at the dagger at his belt.
A razor-sharp objection.
If he could keep his mind off how Mary would look in his bed, that wealth of lush, fragrant chestnut hair spread across his pillow, her eyes shining with love for him, her sweet mouth warm and willing, and those ripe beautiful breasts for his hands and mouth to touch and taste.
Or how she would look when he wed her, wonderfully gowned in silver and white, bedecked with fabulous jewels that paled in comparison to her loveliness, her rich hair let down for the last time in public, and his ring on her adorable finger.
She was his. His and his only. And he would not allow anyone, anything to change that.
Ever.
Author's Note:
Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks to the few encouraging reviews that I had received from my last post, I have decided to give this another try. My gratitude towards all of your support and belief in me is beyond expression and knows no bound. Thanks! Thanks so much for everything! And remember: Please Review and Tell Me what you all think of this. Suggestions will always and forever be appreciated. Thanks again!