Thank you all for your reviews, feedback really motivates me!

Lily: We are currently in February/ March 1528, the sweating sickness broke out in May/ June 1528... it will be in chapter 9. So much for spoilers :D

I know, Talbot's annoying. I think Catherine might notice it too, slowly... ;)


Richmond Palace

~o~

Catherine

Anne still served the queen with nonchalant grace and both played their parts like true mummers although the queen seemed to find it harder and harder to hide her antipathy.

Only the other day, they had played cards, Anne, Henry, the queen and George Boleyn.

When Anne had won with a king of clubs, Katherine got carried away and remarked sharply:

"My lady Anne, you have good hap to stop at a king, but you are not like others, you will have all or none."

Henry had roared in laughter, and the rest of the court had joined, only Anne and the Queen had smiled at each other faintly.

Cat was not sure whether the queen was aware of the threat Anne posed, whether she was aware that the crown would soon be taken away from her by a knight's younger daughter from Kent who was not half as beautiful as the queen had been in her youth, but twice as captivating.

Today, the weather was terrible, ice cold late february rain ran down the lead glass windows and dampened the mood. Especially the king's.

There would be a small feast in the evening but nothing to lift his spirits enough considering that Wolsey had still achieved nothing in 'The King's Great Matter'.

Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox were in Rome to try and convince the Pope to declare Henry and Katherine's marriage null and void but no favourable letter speaking of victory or at least a small success, had made it over the Channel yet.

Henry paid Anne as much respect as suitable in front of the ambassadors of Spain and France, both of whose enmity the king feared greatly. And Katherine was the Spanish Emperor's aunt…

Thus, Cat found herself with the king and Anne, and Henry's closest friend, playing chaperone for the loving couple that could not be together openly in front of so many foreign eyes. She tried as well as she could to be deaf to Henry's urgent whispers, to his pleas and compliments. Anne's will is true steel. She had strategically withdrawn to Hever more than oncenand Katherine had been only too pleased to let her go, but every time she came back, Henry's passion was only stronger than before, her absence fuelled his desire, his determination to make her his wife, although Anne admitted that he still asked her to give herself to him, soul and body. She never relented though and the tension between the two of them was palpable and obvious to everyone in the queen's spacious reception chamber.

Brandon spared his infatuated friend only a brief glance before he turned his eyes to Catherine.

"I wrote you a poem, my lady." He grinned lazily. Francis eyed him with suspicion from his seat close to the queen and she knew that he cursed Brandon's close friendship with the king in this very moment.

"I attempted to write a sonnet...though I must admit that I am not a very gifted poet."

"I am honoured that you deem me worthy of your first attempt but perhaps you should aim for perfection before you let anyone read it. One poor poem and all the ladies at court will make you the new fool at court." She replied with sweet poison in her voice.

"I have noticed that ladies can be rather cruel. But I fear neither their malicious tongues nor their cold eyes."

He handed her a piece of paper on which was written in a broad, powerful hand:

The Thistle

She is as prickly as a thistle

and though many do pick flowers

the purple bloom that is so bristle

remains there for the longest hours.

~o~

What does all great beauty mean to me

If she will forever not be mine

What is the prickly thistle to the bee

If the bee can never taste its wine.

~o~

A prickly thistle is not a rose

although both blooms do have sharp thorns

'Never dare to come too close'

the prickly thistle vainly warns -

~o~

But which man would ever crave the moon

in the presence of the sun in june?

Which man indeed?

It was a poor sonnet, no sonnet at all in truth, but the absence of formal requirements made it no less expressive. He is still angry about Talbot, I hurt his pride and now he hurts mine.

"What a beautiful poem, Your Grace. It is not a sonnet, strictly speaking, but I am sure you have done your best. I promise I will not compare it to those other gentlemen-" she looked over to Francis "-have written for me."

Suffolk stared at her with amusement in his deep blue eyes, eyes that she grew fond of, in all truth. "Oh, please do. I am aware of the differences between me and those gentlemen. Are you?"

He turned back to Henry and Anne abruptly and left her no time to reply.

It was Anne who roused her from her thoughts.

"Did you hear, Cat? We will go hunting in Oxfordshire in March, as soon as the weather warms up a bit. Only the king and I and a few of our closest friends. The rest can rot here in Richmond."

She spared the queen a fine triumphant smile, then her eyes darted over the gathered courtiers, she would choose her companions wisely. Howard loyalists, those of noble blood or high position, friends of her and not of the Queen or the Cardinal.

"What do you think?" she whispered. "Whom shall we take?"

"Henry Norris and his wife." Cat suggested under her breath. "Francis Talbot, your brother George, Francis Dereham, Francis Bryan." The latter was notorious, a gambler and a wastrel, but highly amusing and utterly without moral or backbone. Those were the men Anne attracted to her cause, the young and the wild, the wilful and those that had never like Katherine's quiet dignity.

"A good choice...but devious. My father and my uncle shall stay here, so will mother. I want you and Margery Horsman...and I must take Mary and Jane Parker as well. Oh, and the king will want to take his friend, your well beloved ward." Anne grinned at her sardonically. "You must be overjoyed."

"Oh, I am, for there is no man whose company I find more joy and diversion in than in the duke's." She replied to the sarcasm.

"Oh, say that not my lady, am I fighting a losing battle?" Francis Talbot had made his way over to the two of them unnoticed.

Anne liked him, Cat knew, although she shared her opinion that he was a fortune hunter, cunning and ambitious. Perhaps that was why she had taken a liking to him.

"Ah, Lord Talbot." Anne exclaimed. "The greatest songs are written for those who show bravery in the face of certain defeat."

Francis had to laugh. "Lady Anne." It was not her proper title, she was only the daughter of a newly made viscount, but given her position so high in the king's favour, even those of the old blood forgot the rigidness of title and rank. "That might be so. But I admit it freely, I dream not of songs and tales that will be told of my bravery after my death."

He looked at Cat now. She knew what she was supposed to say but didn't, so Anne chirruped in her place:

"Oh, and what do you dream of, my lord? Will you tell us? Under the seal of secrecy?" She whispered the last part like a lover's promise but Talbot only smiled at her. He seemed disappointed.

"You cannot ask that of me, my lady, I beseech you. Leave a dreamer to his dreams and hopes, for more it might never be." He turned to Catherine. "Did you write me a poem in return, Lady Catherine?" he asked, mockingly, while gesturing at the folded piece of paper she still held in her hand.

Cat blushed and hid the paper in her hand, something, she noticed only a moment later, that was terribly foolish for it would only fuel his interest.

"No, my lord, I fear I am not half as talented with a quill as you are." she quipped and Francis laughed.

"A kind lie, my lady. So if it no poem you wrote, it is a poem a gentleman wrote for you."

Anne joined now: "Which one was it, Catherine? Wyatt?" She laughed. Wyatt had fallen for Anne hand and heart, but he wrote poems for half a hundred other ladies as well.

She ripped the paper from Catherine's fist.

"The Thistle." She shook her head. "Not very charming, is it?" She laughed, at least until she had read the first few verses. Francis, who had looked over her shoulder, clenched his fingers into a tight fist.

"This was Brandon. Not enough that he treats you without due respect, now he goes so far as to try and humiliate you. Do not take it to heart, Catherine. Before long, you will be rid of him."

Catherine felt the inexplicable desire to defend him. Am I truly such a fool? Defend him. Why? Francis was right in everything he said. Brandon did not mean it that way though. It was a joke, a satirical reply to Talbot's 'rose' poem, not intended to truly hurt her but to mock her, as he always did, as she always did. But she could not say it now, or she would admit that she shared a special bond with the duke...which of course, she didn't. Not really. But neither Anne nor Talbot would understand. She had to hide her conflicting, her confusing emotions from both of them.

"I take it not to heart." She assured him and Talbot nodded stiffly and retreated back to his seat close to the queen but Anne was not so calm.

"He will regret writing this, Cat." Anne's dark eyes rested on Brandon who was joking with the king. "Henry told me that Brandon voiced his disapproval. He supports the queen in this. He has not been explicit yet, for he wants to bring down Wolsey as well, but once the Cardinal has fallen, he will turn against me."

Catherine was not surprised to learn this. Brandon had little interest in courtly intrigue and his one redeeming quality was loyalty. Never to his wives, not at all indeed, but to his king and queen. He had not reason to dislike Anne but he was a staunch supporter of Queen Katherine who, in the eyes of a friend, was the ideal wife for a king. Apart from the fact that she was sadly no longer in her childbearing years.

"Do not turn against him for my sake." Catherine beseeched her. "He will not turn against you, not against the king's will. He might not approve but he is not one to question Henry's choices."

Perhaps she had spoken too fervently for the look Anne rewarded her with was full of suspicion.

"You know, Cat, if I did not know better-" Cat never learnt what exactly Anne suspected and was quite relieved. She was her closest friend but there were things she could not share, not even with Anne.

"Lady Catherine." It was the king himself that addressed her now, so she sunk into a low French curtsy.

"I trust Mistress Anne has already shared our plans with you?" He looked at Anne and she nodded, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion as she glanced at Brandon.

"A long hunting trip, a fortnight perhaps. We shall dine in a different house every night, ride through a different forest every day. Will that please you, Anne?" He was greedy for her approval.

She got up without haste, she was ostensibly calm. Her face was a blank mask but for the tiniest hint of a smile.

"It might." she purred. "Who will accompany us, Your Majesty?"

"Whoever you wish. Lady Catherine here, surely, and Charles. Your brother of course, if you wish...whomever you want."

Anne's faint smile widened, her dark eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

"That sounds entertaining." she allowed. "When will Gardiner and Fox come back?" Her voice was sharp as a whip now and Henry knew that the fun part was over. "Later, sweetheart…" he objected but he had no choice. Anne insisted.

"Wolsey is almost certain that they will be successful." He assured her. "The Pope respects the Cardinal, you know he does-"

"Oh, I know." Anne agreed. "It must be terrible to have such a torn heart...it is an open secret that he loves Rome more than London and that he would sell his own children for the Pope's triple crown." His children and his king.

Henry was about to object but support came from an unlikely source.

"The Lord knows, Wolsey has always thought of himself first." Brandon agreed. "The most self-serving man the churches have yielded, no doubt."

Henry was suddenly uncomfortable.

"He has always served me well-"

"Oh, he has, he was always your most faithful servant for it suited his own needs well." Anne exclaimed but then her tone changed, from accusing to soft and sweet. "Your Majesty, you must forgive me. It only grieves me so that it takes so long."

Anne was clever. She planted the doubt so that the flower would grow, she led Henry to the water but did not splash it for him.

The king's expression softened. "I know, sweetheart, it won't be long now. The Pope will grant me the annulment and Katherine will move to Ludlow as the Princess Dowager of Wales. You will be crowned on the brightest day in May, with a crown of gold and a gown of pure white velvet and before the end of the next year, we might hold a prince in our arms." He looked down at her, his blue-green eyes clouded with love and desire.

Respectfully, Catherine and Brandon retreated to allow them a moment of privacy in the crowded room. Together, they shielded the couple from the queen's sharp eyes.

"Your friend is aiming high." Brandon observed. Oh, is she? It escaped my notice.

"Indeed."

His blue eyes scrutinised her. "It could be you, if you had played your cards right."

That made her laugh, really laugh. "It is not me, for I played my cards right." she corrected. "Forgive me, my lord, but you know me very little. Do not presume to understand me."

For a moment, something clouded his eyes but then it was gone and only a faint disappointment remained.

"I am not sure whether you have noticed, Catherine." He said in a low voice, merely more than a whisper and somehow she liked it that he used her Christian name. "But it is very hard to get to know you. Your thorns ward everyone off who tries."

It was good that the queen called for her that very moment because Cat was too confused to find an answer. I ward no one off. It is him, not me. He always mocks me, he always teases me, he finds pleasure in it. So did she, in all honesty. But she was unwilling to wonder about their motives. We are natural enemies. Talbot is who Father would have chosen, no doubt, noble born, educated, with an old name and new gold. Yet, she herself had grown tired of the man with his constant digs at Suffolk and others of lower birth, of his japes and follies, his arrogance and affectation. Father would have said that it is pride and polished manners that make a noble man and show the old blood. But her father was dead, executed for treason and Catherine found it increasingly hard to truly believe in his innocence. Perhaps he had not schemed to murder the king, Edward Stafford had not had the wits for that. But he had talked of it, she was almost certain and it disappointed her greatly. What am I going to fight for, if not for his legacy?

"Lady Catherine." The queen smiled, a warm smile that made the wrinkles around her eyes look even worse. Despite her demure English gown, she still wore the Spanish hood and her English still had the tones of the Spanish tongue, liquid and throaty.

"Is His Majesty enjoying his visit?" she asked, seemingly guilelessly but Cat knew that she could not afford a single misstep. It was difficult for her. Katherine had always been a kind, a gracious mistress, generous, forgiving, inspiring. But Anne was her friend, her only friend, her sister in everything but blood, as they had vowed in France. And she would win, Catherine did not doubt it. It would be easiest for the queen if she just stepped aside, moved to Ludlow and spent the rest of her days in the draughty Welsh keep. Easiest, yes, but she was the daughter of a king and a ruling queen, the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, and she would never take the easiest path. She was stubborn, rigid, righteous, with a backbone of steel and an iron will. Henry would not bend her, and it would all be a very inelegant affair.

"He is always enjoying his visits to Your Majesty's chambers." Catherine replied carefully.

"And yet, he spends more time with my maid of honour than with his wife." She smiled indulgently and absolved Catherine from the obligation to reply.

"I understand your difficulty, Lady Catherine. But a loyal lady should always be true to her queen."

"Indeed, Your Majesty. And a good subject will always be loyal to the king." The words were out and she saw that they hit the queen, this simple, evident truth that she and her husband were no longer on the same side.

"Which Englishman would not be loyal to their king?" she asked mildly but Cat heard her sadness, her pain. She had realised that she was all alone here. She was in England for far more than twenty years now, but she was still the Spanish princess, with few allies and even fewer friends.

"We all have to be loyal to God, though." the queen said with fervency, as if to reassure herself. "And the Pope speaks with His voice on earth… his word is binding." She thinks the Pope will decide in her favour, she thinks Henry will give up then.

Catherine was surprised how little she knew him or how much her fear blinded her. Henry would never give up. Sooner would he form an alliance with the Ottomans. She was certain that Anne would soon sit in Katherine's chair, read her cloth-of-gold bound prayer books and wear her crown and jewels. But the Queen was still fighting.

"Amen." Catherine agreed doubtfully and her mistress nodded, clutching her rosary like a drowing man would a rope.

~o~

Oxfordshire, March

Charles

The king's spirits were lifted, as they always were outside, and the constant presence of Anne Boleyn at his side did the rest. Under a clear blue sky the small hunting party had set off, followed by an army of servants and leaving behind a distressed queen and a despairing cardinal. Charles was sorry for the former and rejoiced at the thought of the latter. The Cardinal, haughty, proud, grasping, a thorn in the king's side, a flea in his ear, would soon go back to where he had come from. For that, this Boleyn girl was useful. It could have been an entertaining hunt.

The only thorn in Charles's side was Talbot, clinging to Catherine like a limpet, all charming smiles and witty remarks. He rarely left her alone and the girl seemed not to mind.

Her friend Anne was completely preoccupied with the king and likewise, so Charles found himself in the company of George Boleyn, as quick-witted, sharp-tongued and extravagant as is sister, and Francis Bryan, 'the Vicar of Hell', as he was often called, though rarely to his face. He hated Talbot even more for forcing him into this company.

He was better off than the others though. Mary Boleyn Carey, the king's discarded whore, was discussing something with her cuckholded husband while Jane Parker Boleyn rarely talked to her husband at all, although she stared at him for the majority of the time. Only Henry and Mary Norris seemed to be content.

It was already afternoon when they arrived at the clearing that Henry was so fond of, an island of green grass surrounded by tall pines and poplars, parted by a little stream. Musicians had come to entertain them while the food was prepared and Henry and Anne led a lively country dance. Afterwards, everyone was flushed and the ladies' hairnets and riding hats were in disarray.

Charles sat down by the brook, skimming stones and observing the tadpoles in the clear water.

"When I was a child, I capture one or two and watched them grow up. Mary found it appalling though and told Father, and that was the end of it."

She had knelt down beside him and took off her riding gloves.

"Have you written another poem, my lord?" She smiled and Charles was suddenly embarrassed. He had not meant to be so harsh. Anne had told Henry and Henry had been unamused, because his sweetheart was.

"I fear I lack the talent." He grinned.

"Has that ever stopped you from pursuing something?" There was mockery in her voice. "Anne read it, she was not at all amused and I fear she might have told Henry. I took no offense though. At least not more than usually. Thistles have always been a symbol for strength, endurance and pride, something I would much rather identify with than with the common English rose."

Charles was certain that it was no coincidence she looked over to Mary Boleyn.

"No. You are many things but surely not common." She grinned. "Are you going to pick one for me?"

It took him a moment to understand. There were dozens of thistles growing in the undergrowth around them.

"Only if you wear it behind your ear." He quipped.

"You should never dare me, my lord, I will always answer."

She got up. "Shall we?" She was still laughing. Charles felt a familiar twitch of excitement.

"I am ready." He took one long step and stood on the other side of the stream, offered her his hand to help her. Her fingers were warm and soft and when he felt her naked skin on his his, a strange sensation spread in his stomach, tingly and bubbly and unfamiliar.

He just helped her over the narrow stream, one hand at her waist the other still on hers, when a well-known, annoying voice rang over to them.

"I cannot allow you, Your Grace, to remove Lady Catherine from our presence." Talbot stood on the other side of the stream, she inbetween, and clearly uncomfortable with one foot on each side.

Talbot offered her his gloved hand but she hesitated. Charles pulled her over before Talbot could get his hands on her but he was not quick enough and the hem of her skirt got wet.

Charles would have expected her to get angry and Talbot was already preparing himself for a rant, he could see, but she only laughed.

"I got caught between two hardened fronts, it seems." She shook her skirt out. It was velvet, and costly, Charles knew, for he had seen her accounts, and the water had surely ruined it. I'll get her a new one.

"Forgive me, Francis, but I am off to pick a thistle now." She said, smiling slyly. Perhaps she is not as fond of him as I thought.

The earl's son looked at them baffled at first before he roared in laughter.

"I'll leave you to it then, my lady." He grinned and turned around to walk back to the hunting party where the ladies welcomed him with open arms.

"He's giving up quickly." Brandon muttered.

"Oh, he'll be right there waiting. Those blue blooded noblemen have a perseverance you cannot hope to match." She looked over to the king who was whirling Anne around.

"Oh, I think you might be surprised, my lady."


A/N: That terrible poem is mine because I could not find a suitable thistle poem. If you know one that might actually fit in here, please let me know so I can remove that evidence of my lack of talent.