Thank you a lot for your feedback!

To clarify this: Talbot is not a character on the show, but from history. I wanted someone of noble blood, like Surrey, who is Charles's natural enemy, and I wanted him to be young and handsome too. (The real Earl of Surrey was Catherine's nephew and ~10 years old at that time^^) So I imagine him to look like Matthew Goode in Downtono Abbey, but with dark eyes, if that helps you.


Christmas at Greenwich

~o~

Charles

He had allowed himself to get carried away. It had been Talbot with his smooth English aristocracy face, the finely-tuned insults, the way he had put a hand on Catherine's, as if she was his betrothed or wife. And she had let him. Worse, she seemed to have enjoyed it. He was heir to the Earl of Shrewsbury, with Stafford, Talbot, Neville and Hastings grandparents. A drop of Howard and Percy blood and he would call all the finest families of the country his immediate ancestors. She was one to fall for old blood and new tricks, for a smooth face and audacious yet polished manners. Charles himself had grown up with the king, had learned to read and write from the best teachers England's universities had yielded, had learned French, despite the mockery of Talbot and his own little ward. Yet, when it came to manners, he was only a knight's son who had risen high, always been aware of his low social rank until Henry had raised him above all others in the realm, save Norfolk and old Buckingham. Charles knew well what Talbot wanted: The girl's pretty white hand, her noble blood, her fortune, that most of all. And he wanted to humiliate Charles, like so many others of old blood and name. You all came from somewhere, too. Charles admitted it freel, he was no authority, he was and always had been a man in service to his desires, not a politician, not a diplomat, a bon viveur. The king liked him for this, their friendship rested on their similar personalities, their interests in sports and fighting, their thirst for glory and honour, but Charles was no was not one to debate on theology or fate or law, that much was true, but he did read, he had written his share of poor poems and songs, he had learned to dance and read music just like the king although he lacked the natural talent.

Indeed, he did lack the refined polished manners other gentlemen could put forward, but he was honest, loyal, straight-forward, what was more than you could say of most other noblemen at court. That was the open secret behind his high position: Unquestionable loyalty. He noticed that the time at court had changed him, too. He took part in courtly intrigues as well, his seat on the privy council almost forced him to, and he had developed a taste for power, only natural. But most of all was he still Henry's friend. I am more loyal to him than I was ever to any of my wives. He had his weaknesses, but who did not? 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.' He did not remember much from the bible, but this was a quote, for sure.

The day lingered in its small hours, a dark night, the darkest of the year if he remembered correctly. He wondered whether Henry had taken the Boleyn girl to bed. Not the pretty one but the other, Catherine's confidante from France with her dark hair and colouring, those black sultry eyes. Charles knew how desperate Henry was these days. The queen had stopped bleeding, everyone knew, and Henry had no heir. There was a paragraph in the bible apparently, that forbade a man to marry his brother's widow and Henry was now trying to convince himself and everyone that his marriage had never been legal. And he will succeed. Charles did not like it, he had always admired the queen, strong and calm and serene as she was, but he knew that Henry's father had won the throne in a hard war and had seen his first son die. Thrones were rocking chairs, one never had a secure seat, alway rocking to one side or to other, someone always wanted to take over. Charles had never understood this thirst for absolute power but he knew that Henry had to have a son, or better, more than one, to make sure that his father had not fought for nothing, that Charles's own father and so many others had not died in vain.

Buckingham had died so that Henry could feel safe again, and no one mourned for him. Not even his young daughter, for she had known him not at all. He had been too harsh yesterday, wine and anger had guided his tongue and he cursed himself thrice now. He wanted her to respect him, at least, if not like him, but somehow, when they happened upon each other, he could not bring himself to be kind. He enjoyed fighting with her too much, he feared, and he did not want her to think him weak, did not want her to think that she could play him like a fiddle like all the other gentlemen. The king had fallen for her charms, too, and Charles was thankful that the second Boleyn girl had stepped in before Henry could develop a serious interest for Catherine. Henry would stop pursuing her if Charles asked him not to, he had before, the king was a good friend. But then, Charles would have to admit that he had an interest in her, which of course, he hadn't.

Little wildcat. 'Cat', her father had called her that, and her sister Mary too when Charles had talked to her years ago. 'Little Cat'. She was not so little anymore and had not seen her sister in ten years. Mary Stafford had been pretty too, not quite as pretty as her younger sister, but far more flirtatious. If the rumours were true, she had allowed half the court into her chamber, but rumours rarely were. What was true was that the king had developed an interest in her, long before Bessie Blount, and only for a short time. And he himself had come to his aid, the staunch friend that he was...He still remembered Buckingham's beet red face when he had come in and found him in the girl's room, he remembered how spittle had sprayed everywhere when the man had shouted at him, he also remembered Mary's silly laugh and the sound when Buckingham had struck his own daughter so hard that her lip had bursted. He had punched the older man in the face for that and had taken a hit in return. Thankfully, someone had had the sense to call the king before they had started a full on fist fight. No doubt Charles would have won, but it would not have been very wise in hindsight. No one could ever accuse me of being wise.

He would apologise to her today, if he could. Sometimes, just the way she looked at him provoked him somehow and he always felt the need to keep her at distance while he also longed for closeness, for affection.

It was never like this with Mary. The king's sister had been in love with him most of her life and he had fancied himself in love too, for a while. She had been lively and convincing and had talked until he was so certain of loving her that he had happily risked his head to marry her. She had had a gift for that, his dead wife, had been very convincing, very charming, quite like her brother. But at some point, Charles's infatuation had been over. Mary had moved to Westhorpe with the two daughters and a son and Charles had stayed at court. His son had died in the cradle, just like his daughter from his first marriage, but the two girls were still at Westhorpe, sweet children of six and four who came running out of the front door everytime he came to visit. They were of royal blood and he feared for their safety should Henry not father more children. After Princess Mary, his own children might have a claim, considering that Margaret's children were heir to the Scottish throne already.

It would be best if Henry got an annulment from the Pope. Perhaps the Queen could hold state as Princess Dowager, and be first lady in the realm after the king's wife. Would he really marry a commoner? Kings were supposed to marry princesses, and the kings of England normally chose a bride from one of the great dynasties on the continent. But he did not know how far Henry's infatuations would go, he had kept Mary Boleyn for near on six years or thereabouts. He no longer called for her though, Charles knew, and the king had a healthy appetite. This Mistress Boleyn was different, quick of wit and sharp like Catherine, ambitious and shrewd. Charles could understand their friendship well, they seemed to be alike, just like him and Henry. But Catherine is not as ambitious. Nor is she so cunning. She had the Stafford's temper although she controlled it well around the king and queen, around everyone but Charles it seemed. And she was sweeter than that Boleyn girl, more innocent despite her years in France. He wondered sometimes, when he lay awake in his bedchamber, whether she was still a maiden. Is any girl that comes back from France? But she had been so dismissive of Bessie Blount, of her own sister, so judgemental that he thought perhaps she was.

He would have to protect her from Talbot. The man was utterly without moral, and single-minded when it came to pursuit and conquest, in romantic matters as much as in battle. Why, not unlike me. The young men at court belonged either in this category, like the king, or they were hopeless romantics like Wyatt or morally steadfast men like Thomas More. The former were too limp, too feeble to ever appeal to a woman, the latter had no interest in adventures of that sort. Poor devils. Charles had never had a reason to complain, he had always won the lady's favour. With her, though...The king's fool has better chances.

He would go downstairs now, and be kind. Be charming. He could be, he often was. If she just put in a little effort as well...trying to charm her had as much chance of success as trying to charm one of the sculptures in the Cardinal's new Greek garden at Hampton Court, his lavish palace.

Charles rose from his chair, pulled his fine grey brocade doublet straight, brushed his hair away from his forehead with his hand and then took the stairs down to the great hall where the queen's ladies were certainly breaking their fast now.

He saw her as soon as he entered, beautiful in Tudor green that complimented her eyes, with a hood in the French fashion. She stood out, not only because of her beauty but also because of her posture. She looked every inch a noble lady while most of the girls that surrounded her were just that: Highborn little girls with a thirst for excitement and gossip.

Catherine seemed to share an apple pie with another lady when he walked past. The chatter stopped immediately, some pulled their hoods back, their gowns down, others bit their lips to give them more colour. Charles was used to all that. He was, in the eyes of many, the best match after the king, A bachelor, still young enough, a duke with vast holdings and a considerable income, a man without a son and heir, charming, exciting, and handsome. In the eyes of many, but not in hers.

"Ladies." He bowed courteously. Some of the ladies bowed their heads, others rose to perform a small curtsey, but she had barely raised her head to acknowledge him.

"I bid you a very fine morning."

They all chattered their reply, trying to drown out the voices of the others, trying to be more creative. She still did not say anything. I was very rude yesterday. It almost seemed he might have to apologise later.

He looked at her directly now, and she smiled at him, a thin smile that did not reach her eyes, but it was a smile. His heart was a little lighter.

"A good morning for you, too. Your Grace."

It would be a good morning, he was almost certain.

Charles bowed again, then he took his seat on the lord's table, close to the king.

He, and everyone else surely, saw the second Boleyn girl come in, fashionably late in the French fashion, in a gown of dark blue silk that made her darkish skin look a tad paler, with a French hood pushed back so far that everyone could admire her silky black hair. The king did, for sure, while the queen at his side looked at Anne with mild curiosity, as if she was some sort of exotic oddity but nothing worth her full attention. Anne Boleyn took a seat next to Catherine, another girl moved out of the way without objecting. The dark haired girl whispered something into Catherine's ear, and both laughed sweetly, as if oblivious to all the eyes that were on them.

A servant came with a full plate. The queen's ladies ate well at court although Mistress Boleyn did not look like it. She does not have a great appetite, but Henry does.

After breakfast, Charles would join the king on the tennis court for a few games, perhaps go for a ride through the snowy woodlands later, if it was the king's wish. There were further celebrations tonight, plays, wine, games, dances, the usual.

She was laughing with her friend and Charles noted again how much it changed her face. She looked softer, sweeter with a smile, kinder as well. She had been lucky: There was no trace of Stafford in her features. Norfolk's wife, her sister, had the close-set brown Stafford eyes and the prominent nose, her other sister Mary had inherited the eyes and that nose as well, although it was not as prominent in her face and the lighter Percy hair softened her features. Catherine was prettier than both of them, in truth, Charles found her prettier than most ladies. Perhaps even prettier than Mary, his Mary, Henry's dearest sister.

He noticed that he was staring and quickly looked away but perhaps she had noticed. Worse was that Talbot had noticed, for he gave him a knowing glance. You know nothing, fool. It was often said that Charles was stupid. Simple. Perhaps he was, politics, religion, ethics, he left those topics for his betters. But he was not blind and not so great a fool not to see what Talbot was aiming for. He can't have her. She had been right the other day, he would not see her wed. And it was not only for her wealth, nor was it only because he liked to tease her. He did not want to see her with someone else, and that confession troubled him greatly. She is Buckingham's daughter, haughty, proud, arrogant, cool. She loathes me and I despise her. That is how it should stay.

~o~

Catherine

"The duke stares at you." whispered Anne Stanhope.

"Which duke?" she whispered back, although of course she had noticed.

"Suffolk."

Catherine detected both jealousy and admiration in her voice.

"He is my warden. Surely, he is just looking for something to reproach me for." He was, certainly. Why else would he look at her? Cat remembered his words from yesterday. Of course, he wants to know whether I am in any danger from Francis.

Quickly, she glanced over to where the earl's son sat, his dark eyes were fixed on her. Confused, she cast her own eyes down. His interest is sudden though not surprising. Suffolk is right, although I do not like it. It is my inheritance, once he has that, he won't be as charming, and he will shame me like the king shamed the queen, like Suffolk shamed Queen Mary, and my Mray too. But which man would not? Thomas More. she thought, drily. Bishop Fisher...but even the Cardinal has his mistress.

"He is very handsome", Anne Stanhope and Margery Horsman whispered in unison while Anne at Cat's side just rolled her eyes.

"I do not see it." Cat replied flatly, too flatly perhaps, judging by the look Jane Parker was giving her. Soon she would be Jane Boleyn, Anne did not like that at all. But with the Parker girl came a good income for George, and that was what Sir Thomas, now Viscount Rochford, was interested in.

"If you are finished, we could take a quick walk before service." Anne whispered.

Nothing would have been more welcome. Together, they walked out, Anne held her head high like a queen, curtseyed with grace and modesty, but never once looked at the king.

Once they were outside, the cold air cut through Cat's lungs.

"The king seems to be smitten with you, Anne." she smiled.

"He does indeed. He no longer visits Mary's bed, he no longer asks for her. But it won't be long until he will ask for me." She had always been self-confident.

"And what will you say?" Catherine asked.

"I trust you know me well enough to know what I must say, Cat." Anne smiled mysteriously.
"No. You will say no. Tell me, Anne, is it the crown you want?"

Anne's dark eyes darted around, to make sure no one overheard them.

"It is revenge I want. And never disgrace. I won't be shamed like my sister. If the king wants me, he has to marry me. If he does not wish to marry me, he does not want me enough."

"Henry is not like every other man, Anne, the game you are playing is dangerous."

"I know, of course I know. But I am almost twenty, Cat, and I won't go to Ireland. Father will allow me to stay here, for sure, when he sees that the king is in love with me. And I - I want to stay as well."

"Why?" Catherine thought she knew why but she would rather hear it from her friend.

"Oh, for you, dearest Cat, for no one else." Anne grinned.

"It is not Harry Percy, is it?" Cat grinned back.

"Harry Percy? Remind me, Cat, who was he again? Every man is eclipsed by the king."

"And every woman by you."

"I know well enough that that is not so. But I will make him believe so." There was anticipation in her voice, the thrill and excitement of France.

"You were always fond of risks." Catherine had to smile. "What do you think you will achieve?"

"Oh, you never know. Perhaps I might be queen one day. You would be my lady of the bedchamber, I promise." It was a jest but Catherine thought it might very well end that way. The king was very single-minded when it came to romance and Anne… Anne always got what she wanted. Almost always. "Or I will end up disgraced and forever a virgin in Hever, until my father finds a poor landowner for his second daughter, the one that aimed high but never scored. Promise me that you will write to me then, as I wrote to you."

"Ten letters every day, sweetest Anne. Once you're queen, remember my vows, I beseech you, and rid me of Suffolk." They both giggled like children.

Yes, Anne was aiming high. But if someone could win this game, then her.

"You like the king." Catherine guessed.

"Oh, he is the king. Everyone likes him." Anne replied carelessly but Cat saw through it.

"You lie even to me, Anne?"

"That is no lie." She gave her an apologetic smirk. "Yes, it might be. I would be an utter fool to be led by feelings alone. You know that I am not so simple. Passion is a weakness only men can afford. In women, it often has disastrous consequences, my sister Mary's desire made her a discarded whore, your sister Mary still pays for her amorous adventures. Our old mistress, Mary of France, she married for love, followed her feelings, and nothing good came out of it." Anne shook her head and Catherine bravely ignored the odd tension in her stomach when Anne spoke about Suffolk's two Marys so carelessly.

"No. If I were wiser, I would go to Ireland and spend my days in some draughty old keep." she said, her voice laced with irony.

"It would not be many days, you'd be most like to catch a chill and die. It would certainly come as a relief up there." Catherine japed and Anne laughed heartily.

Suddenly, she was serious again.

"You may never speak of this. My father thinks I follow his orders, my uncle thinks I do it all for my family. They both think feelings of inferior importance, a hindrance even, to their cause."

Cat understood that well...she remembered her father's harsh words in France, her desire to make him proud without feeling like a liar and a deceiver, without betraying Queen Claude who had been so kind…

"I will never." she vowed.

Anne took her hand affectionately. "If it pleases the Lord to make me so happy, I will use all my power to give you the same bliss." She smiled.

"But which gentleman would it be, if you had the choice? Talbot? Handsome indeed, and charming, and you would be Countess but I do not think that you have taken a serious interest in him?" Anne had always had the gift to see right through her.

"No. We cannot all hope for love matches, Anne, you have become a romantic, it seems."

Anne nudged her in the side.

"It is what I want for you. And if not with Talbot, then with someone else. The duke is handsome, and he would marry you, no doubt." There was an odd tone to her voice but Cat did not ask what exactly she meant. Perhaps she would much rather not know.

"He would, for my lands and income, and so that he could forever torture me. But he has proven in the past his inadequacy as a husband and gentleman, and I will not suffer that shame."

Thoughtfully, they walked back to the palace, arm in arm.

"Do you think Henry would? The king, I mean. Change his habits."

Cat told it true. "I do not know. He can surely, if he is willing. But he might not be willing forever. A queen has to look away. It has always been like this."

That was one of the many reasons why Cat had never longed to wear a crown.

"I will never look away, whether I will marry a stableboy or a king, I vow, I shall not be shamed so."

No. Anne would not suffer such a treatment silently, like Queen Katherine had. Like Queen Katherine did. Suddenly, Cat was uncomfortable about entering the queen's reception chamber arm in arm with her husband's new subject of desire.

It was Anne, thankfully, who pulled her arm free to rearrange her skirts and headdress, to smooth down the dark silk and pull her necklace straight. Perhaps, one day, she would wear a crown instead of the golden B.

~o~

Christmas was over, and a new year had begun. The king had been greatly pleased by his gifts but not by the continental development. After Pavia, there had been no new development and Henry was displeased with both the emperor and the French king. Another matter was on his mind, now that the queen was no longer in her childbearing years: Leviticus. He was certain, or at least inclined to believe, as he put it, that his marriage to Katherine was sinful and invalid and that God had punished him for entering this union by not giving him an heir.

Indeed, the man that took his brother's wife to wife was cursed with a childless union, it said in the Holy Book. And true enough, Princess Mary was not the heir Henry had prayed for all his life. There could have been no better time for Anne, and Cat was sure that, if Henry could convince the Pope to declare his marriage null and void, then he would marry Anne Boleyn, a knight's daughter from Kent. Her words had convinced Catherine that although it had started only on orders from her uncle, Anne was now also personally involved, aware of the risk feelings often entailed.

"Catherine!" Lord Francis Talbot had proceeded to calling her by her first name, a familiarity the duke was displeased with. But Francis was entertaining, kind, witty, and she was in no great danger from him. Her smile did not make her heartbeat quicken, and when they danced, she never forgot what she wanted to say.

"Lord Talbot." For all the familiarity he showed her, she was still a highborn lady, and well-bred.

"How is the queen?" He took her arm quite naturally and she did not mind. The weather was milder now, but he walked through the deserted corridors with her, down to the great hall.

"Her Majesty prays a lot." But God won't help her.

"I would, too, if I were her. The king is determined to rid himself of her. She failed him, he says. And a king needs a son, that much is clear as day."

It rankled with her, but she did not comment. Mary was only a young girl, and weak. She could not rule, not in the next ten years.

"It seems that she was not free to marry him. That it was Henry's love for her that made him disregard the holy book and now, he pays." She said nothing about Anne, who was ready to step into Katherine's shoes, and neither did Francis.

"No, indeed. The theologists in this country are divided but the Pope will send a legate to decided on this matter, Wolsey is most determined to give the king what he desires." Thereby he will seal his own fate. Anne would never be his friend, although they exchanged lavish gifts and respectful letters.

"The cardinal has always been eager." she agreed. Francis, like every other nobleman, was Wolsey's enemy.

He snorted, quite unmannerly.

"Eager indeed." Then he shook his head. "But enough of these stern topics. Have you read the book I gave you?"

"I have." she smiled. "And have you read mine?"

"I could not lay it aside, and knowing that it had been your fingers on the pages before mine, seeing the passages you marked with a fingernail, I read it in one night."

"In one night!" she exclaimed, amused. "You will not have been able to understand its meaning then, when you have read it so fast. Art needs time."

He grinned. "I only need a moment to understand when something is worthy of admiration….and then, I will admire it for a lifetime."

"So you plan on reading this book every night?" she asked, sweetly.

"No, my lady. There are other things on my mind at night." He left it at that but his tone and his smile still made her blush.

Generously, he changed the topic. "So you read mine? And my notes?"

"Even the poem, my lord." She laughed.

"And you find me a poor poet, I know. I did my best and see how I am shunned."

"Not at all a poor poet, my lord." She lied courteously. "A witty poem, no doubt. A perfect sonnet." It had lacked elegance and eloquence, but it had not been outright bad.

" 'The Rose with Thorns' I named it, and only for you my lady. And once again, I feel your thorns so sharp in my heart." His feigned wistfulness made her laugh.

"It is not a very charming poem, if that was your intention. Few ladies like to hear that they have thorns."

Few ladies do. Most of them are daisies, meek and easy to pluck and quick to wilt. You, Catherine, are neither. Indeed, I fear many a man has hurt himself when he tried to come too close."

He stopped her. It was the corridor to the king's chambers, where they were to dine, but right now, it lay deserted.

He stood half a foot taller than her, and his dark eyes were fixed on her face, darting from her eyes to her lips.

"Will you hurt me, too, my lady? I swear, I mean not to pluck you." Slowly, he lifted his hand and caressed her cheek. It was not a bad feeling. "My intentions are honest, whatever they might claim. You have bewitched me."

Catherine was suddenly uncomfortable. She did not want him to say what he was about to say, did not want him to do what he was about to do. She had had her share of admirers and suitors in France, had experienced her first kiss...and a few more. Not one of them had made her curious for the things Mary had been curious about, not one kiss had excited her.

"I do not mean to hurt you, my lord." she replied carefully.

His smile was disappointed, he had hoped for more.

"Ouch."

He bowed his head to kiss her, not on the lips but chastely on the cheek, as it was done in France all the time.

"Talbot." His voice was all controlled fury. Catherine whirled around. The duke stood half a foot taller than Talbot and his expression showed her that he was more than just displeased. She hoped devoutly that Francis did not have a moment of ill-timed chivalry again.

Whatever she had done to displease the Lord Father so, he did not fulfil her wish.

"Suffolk." Talbot put himself between her and her warden. His tone was cutting.

"It would be better if you removed yourself from my presence." The duke's tone was liquid ice. This is not good at all.

"I must be mistaken, but I feel like you are threatening me." Talbot straightened his back but he stood significantly shorter still.

"I am glad you picked up the threat so quickly." Suffolk spared him not another glance but stared at Cat angrily.

"The girl is my ward-" The girl is present. She opened her mouth but Talbot was quicker. Once again, they are fighting about something else entirely but need to involve my name.

"And God only knows what the king thought when he gave her to you. She is too fine for a man like you and you have not protected her but scorned her." Talbot said, aggressively. "You are a disgrace to the title you bear and worse even, you bring shame upon this noble lady and her name."

Suffolk's neck was red as a beetroot by now.

"We have very different opinions about disgrace, I am certain." He turned to Cat again.

"Catherine." He called her like a dog. "With me."
She was about to speak up angrily herself when Talbot did it for her.

"This is a lady you are speaking to, commoner. You are not familiar with the customs of the aristocracy, I am aware, so I will explain it to you this once, Suffolk. Lady Catherine is neither dog nor dressed monkey and she deserves to be treated like a lady."

"I know the way you treat ladies." Suffolk said with a sneer but Talbot laughed out loud at that, bitterly.

"This is an outrage. Your history is well known to me, but how much does your ward know? Does she know how you disgraced her own sister? Does she know-"

"I warn you, only this once, Talbot. Get out of my sight."

"So she doesn't. I wouldn't have told-" This would not end well, no, not at all. Quickly, she put a hand on Talbot's arm.

"My lord, I thank you but I do not need protection. Please, tell the king that I and His Grace will be late and pass on our apologies in advance."

Talbot shot Suffolk a quick glance but then he nodded briskly. "As you wish, Catherine."

He strode away quickly and left the two of them alone.

"You take my warnings to heart, I see." he said, no less angry, but less aggressive.

"I took your kind words into consideration, Your Grace." she replied.

He replied nothing, just snorted.

"You can make mooneyes at him all you like, you won't be Lady Talbot anytime soon." he assured her grimly. She had never wanted to be Lady Talbot, in all honesty, but she would not tell him.

The duke seemed to struggle for words.

"About your sister-" he started but Cat was really in no mood to think about Mary and him, about their intimacy.

"That is no concern of mine." She interrupted him quickly but he looked as if she had slapped him across the face so she forced herself to smile.

"The king will be waiting, Your Grace. Should we not go?" She used her sweet voice, the one that was reserved for the king and other gentlemen. On the duke, it had no effect.

"You are as dishonest as your father, girl." he said sharply. "But prettier, that is why they are all mad to support you. But I'm not falling for your farce, so spare me the smile and the sweetness. The king's waiting."

Unhappily, she followed him to the king's private chambers, where a small group of courtiers dined tonight. Anne was there, and her brother and father, her sister-in-law, Jane, and her own sister, Mary. Talbot and Suffolk were the highest peers at the table, also present were Francis Weston and Henry Norris, who had succeeded William Compton as Groom of the Stool, with his wife Mary Fiennes Norris.

Next to Henry sat Anne and Sir Thomas Boleyn, the duke sat next to Anne's father while she found herself next to Anne. And next to Francis Talbot who put the chair in place for her with a provocative look to Suffolk. The king did not seem to notice the tension between the two men, he welcomed them with sloppy courtesy while his attention was on Anne at his side.

It could have been a merry dinner, the Boleyns were all good at entertaining and Sir Thomas had a lot to say about different courts and monarchs and many anecdotes from his ambassadorial career. Anne was witty and quick and lively and Henry was as jolly as he had last been at Christmas. Henry Norris and his wife, Francis Weston and Mary and Jane Boleyn were all willing to be jolly and cheerful, and Francis Talbot was determined to enjoy his evening at her side. The duke was still angry though, and never looked at her once, something even the king in his state of bliss seemed to notice. When he called for music and a dance, Talbot was quick to ask Cat. There were more gentlemen than ladies present, and only because neither Sir Thomas nor George Boleyn felt the urge to take to the floor did the duke have a partner. He found himself with Mary Boleyn, no doubt the most beautiful lady present but he did not seem to be overjoyed. Sir Francis danced only once with Jane Boleyn and sat down with her husband then while she took to the floor with Sir Thomas. Only Henry and Anne seemed to enjoy themselves truly.

"My lady?" Talbot smiled. "I have lost your attention, it seems, how can I win it back?"

With confusion, she tore her eyes away from the duke who had not honoured her with a single look.

Forgive me, my lord." She smiled back. Then she whispered. "I find this whole affair rather tedious."

It was not the whole truth, yes, she did, but she was still preoccupied with what the duke had said previously, with his reaction.

"Did he say anything?" Francis had of course seen that she had stared at Suffolk though he misinterpreted her gaze.

She shook her head. "He has, but nothing that is worthy of repetition."

When she glanced over to the duke again, she found his eyes on her, to her surprise, and only a moment later did he come over and asked her to dance. Talbot could hardly refuse in front of the king, so he took Mary Boleyn's hand with the greatest courtesy, although he gave Catherine a wounded look.

The duke was not a bad dancer, though not as quick, not as whirling as Talbot.

"Forgive me." It was not more than a whisper in her ear, not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but she had certainly not imagined it. There was no way she could ignore it or mock it, and she did not want to. It would be no fair fight: He had laid down his weapons, was waving a white flag. All she could do was accept it gracefully.

"I will, if you forgive me." Apologies had never come easy to her, but it was only a whisper, and he had said it first.

The dance forced them apart before he could reply, but when it brought them back together, he was smiling the charming smile he had reserved for the pretty ladies of the court. He had never once directed it at her before.

"Perhaps I should write you a poem, too, my lady?" He grinned and she understood that he had apologised for the comments in the hall, for what he had said at Christmas...but that they were no friends and that their battle was far from over.

"Please, do not exhaust yourself so, my lord. Every gentleman has his talent, and you fight far better with a lance than with a quill."

"And your tongue is sharper than my sword...or a rose's thorns." He heard Francis in the hall.

"He who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose." She smiled sweetly, feeling triumphant.

"I do not crave the rose, Mistress Catherine."

He had won this duel, and he knew he had. But it would not be the last.