AN: I wanted to use a poem for a specific detail in this chapter, so I did some research. I wanted poetry that was authentic for the time. I ended up finding pretty much THE perfect poem, and by a French poet, written in Catherine's lifetime! Frustratingly, it was written in 1578, years after Henry died. But it was so perfect that I decided to overlook the detail and use it anyway! Just imagine that it's really from 20 or so years prior (what's a couple of decades in all these hundreds of years?!). I loved it so much for them! The poet is Pierre de Ronsard, and it's called 'Sonnets for Hélène'. I've since learned that Hélène was a lady, much younger than Pierre, who was actually a member of Catherine de' Medici's court! Wonderful trivia!

Thank you so so much for the lovely words in your reviews - I am literally overwhelmed reading some of them! I can hardly believe that what I write (little old me!) is appreciated so much! Thank you. :) I hope this chapter (longest one yet!) is to your approval also.

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Chapter Ten

The early morning sunshine cast long shadows across the dewy grass as Henry rode out of the stables, and spurred his horse into a canter. Once out in the open, he urged the animal to go faster, leaning forwards over the dark mane, his senses sharpening. He delighted in the sensation of becoming almost one with his horse, their shared speed blurring everything around them as their combined energy forged them ahead. His body softened to the lead of the powerful animal that carried him; powerful, yet ready to heed to the slightest of his commands by the twitch of his hand or heel. The steady, rhythmic sound of the horse's hooves thundering against the varying textures of the land beneath them. Henry especially loved the sensation and sound of horses' hooves galloping through leaves and soft earth.

Spurring his horse on towards the forest, he could already feel the tension and frustration beginning to dissipate. He filled his lungs with the crisp, invigorating morning air, and breathed out his troubles as he and his horse entered the forest, the soft ground muffling the sound of pounding hooves beneath them. The rich musky smell of earth and bark, and the zesty scent of evergreen firs flooded his senses. Henry forgot Richard, forgot thrones and castles, forgot regret and desire, and became rider, adventurer; just another part of the nature around him.

After a good ten minutes of hard riding through the forest, his troubled soul sufficiently soothed, Henry slowed his horse to a canter. He knew of a lake not too far ahead, and his horse needed watering after the strenuous exercise.

Dismounting at the clearing near the lake, he took the reins and led his horse to the water. They crossed the earthen ground softly and, taking the most direct route to the water's edge, emerged from a thicket to the perfect place for the horse to be refreshed. The King tied the reins to the outstretched branch of a lakeside tree and allowed his steed to drink, patting him with affection on his sleek neck. He turned his gaze to the lake, watching the reflection of birds skim the surface of the water as they flew overhead at intervals. It was a beautiful lake, irregular in shape, thick foliage leaning out over the water in places, and large rocks and boulders jutting out into the water to the eastern curve of the lake edge.

Henry's breath caught in his chest as his eye suddenly fell on something that he had missed when he first arrived at the lakeside. Around the curve of the lake, bathed in dappled sunlight, he saw someone sitting on one of the smooth wide rocks at the water's edge. Moving softly so as not to attract attention to himself, his curiosity urged him over the damp earth and towards the clump of bushes that had almost hidden the person from his view. Threading his way through the trees, his ears began to pick up the softest of voices, melodic and sweet, speaking in almost a whisper.

Treading carefully, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, as close as he dared get to the woman – which he had discerned from the voice – who sat beyond. Leaning around the rough bark slowly, he stifled a gasp as his eyes widened in surprise. It was Catherine!

His Queen sat on the rock before him, her back slightly turned towards him as she faced the open lake, the splendour of the scenery beyond her paling into insignificance against her beauty as he beheld her in the morning light. Her horse was tied to an overhanging tree at the water's edge a little way beyond, much as his own was. Her heavy riding cloak was spread on the rock upon which she sat. She was a vision in a soft dress of metallic earthen tones – perhaps why he hadn't initially spotted her. Her hair, usually arranged in sophisticated designs on the back of her head, was pulled into a simple ribbon tied at the nape of her neck, the many wisps of curls that had worked their way loose decorating her shoulders and framing her face as they caught the sunlight against the subtle browns of her dress. She was not here to be seen by others. She was here for solitude, and dressed accordingly. She looked, to Henry, more beautiful than ever.

Catherine was reading from a book that she held in her hands as she sat, knees pulled up towards her chest. Henry watched his wife sigh, and gaze out over the lake, before turning a page. Contemplative, he thought. He wondered if she was troubled, dwelling on things that he wished she would let him in to help her with. Or if this was the help she needed, some quiet and relaxation to ease her troubled mind. As her voice rose again, Henry recognized the words she was reading as poetry, modern poetry, by the sound of it. Catherine loved poetry – she loved all arts and literature, anything that would add to life's beauty, as she had once described it to him. He found her passion so endearing, and it made him smile to think of it now as he listened to her read. Another pause, and then a page turned to a new poem. She seemed to hesitate before starting this one. Her finger traced the page delicately, and she dipped her head for a moment, closing her eyes. When she lifted her head again, she began, her soft voice barely reaching Henry's ears as she whispered the words as if to herself. He could not make out the first verses, but her demeanour had changed. She seemed heavier, burdened, somehow. Henry strained to listen more closely, blocking out all other sound and distractions from his hearing to catch her emotion-laced tones.

"If to love is to pursue a happiness which flies me,
to lose myself in loneliness, to suffer much pain,
to fear greatly and to hold my tongue,
to weep, to beg for pity, and to see myself sent away,
If to love is to live in you more than in myself,
to hide great weariness under a mask of joy…"

Here, she broke off, her voice too strained to continue for the moment. She put her forehead to her knees and Henry held his breath, suddenly terrified of having to stand isolated to watch his beautiful wife break apart again. To his great relief, she lifted her face once more, passing her hand briefly over her eyes and intentionally breathing deeply, before continuing, her voice shaky but determined.

"To feel in the depths of my soul the odds against which I fight,
to be hot and cold as the fever of love takes me,
To be ashamed, when I speak to you, to confess my pain –
if that is to love, then I love you furiously,"

Catherine's voice broke, and the King watched her with anguish as she fought herself, even out here in her own space and to her knowledge unobserved, steadying her emotions to continue.

"I love you, knowing full well my pain is deadly.
The heart says so often enough; the tongue is silent."

She let out a long shuddery sigh, placing the book next to her on the rock, open at the page she had been reading from. Hugging her knees tightly to her, she rested her chin upon them and stared out over the lake, as still and reflective as the waters that she lost her gaze in.

Henry could see that the words had profoundly affected her, and he considered their meaning also. If speaking of love brought her such sorrow and such emotion, could it be a longing of her own heart? Whose love did she have sorrow over? It couldn't be his, because she was cold to him. Affection, perhaps. Longings for what might have been, if they hadn't lived out the last 20 years the way they had chosen to. But not love. Henry felt sure she didn't love him. Not since the early years of their marriage, and perhaps it wasn't love even then? He thought of his dream, unhappy resentment stirring in his heart once more at the memory. Perhaps it was Richard that she loved, as the Catherine of his dreams had declared? He considered – if she had loved Richard, and lost him when Henry took his head, could all of these emotions that were so unlike Catherine, be evidence of her mourning his loss? Because she had given her heart to Richard? That might even explain why she wouldn't let him in. It wasn't exactly a subject that either of them would want to discuss with the other.

Unable to bear the discomfort of his thoughts any longer, Henry stepped through the trees and out into the open lakeside behind his wife. They needed to talk about this.

Catherine jumped at the sound of his feet treading through the twigs and leaves behind her, hand flying to her mouth as she whipped round to see who was there.

"Henry! You scared me half to death! Whatever are you doing here?!" she gasped breathlessly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I was out riding and brought my horse to the lakeside to drink. What brings you out here so early in the morning?" Crossing behind her on the rock she was sitting on, Henry sat down, facing his wife a little, his knees bent casually as hers were.

"I – I didn't sleep well. I thought a ride would clear my mind a bit." She shrugged her shoulders up almost to her ears as she hugged her knees, and held them there tensely for a moment, an insecure mannerism that Henry recognized straight away for what it was.

"Another nightmare?" he enquired gently. Catherine nodded slightly, looking out over the lake, saying nothing. "You're not the only one." Henry's voice sounded more bitter than he'd intended. "I came for a ride to clear my head too." He smiled at her wide eyes as she turned them to him inquisitively.

"Oh?" Catherine wondered aloud, "What disturbs you so greatly in your dreams that you need to get away?"

Henry debated with himself for a moment. Should he tell her? She had been completely closed off about her own disturbing dreams and struggles, but that didn't mean he should follow suit. What purpose would it serve to answer her honestly? Dreaming about it was bad enough – telling Catherine about his insecurities about Richard, about their affair, well… that would be painful. He definitely did not feel like putting himself through that this morning. But on the other hand, he had been in such discomfort about it all that he had stepped out of the trees to talk to her because the alternative was too overwhelming. Perhaps sharing it would lighten the burden, even if it was sharing it with Catherine? It was probably long overdue anyway.

Attempting to look nonchalant and casual, Henry picked lightly at a dried speck of mud on the calf of one of his riding boots, flicking it off and then looking out over the lake with feigned calmness.

"Richard, actually."

By the way his wife tensed her hold on her knees, however slightly, he knew he had caught her by surprise. His fingers examined a rough patch on the rock they were sitting on, near his foot. After a moment of silence between them, he let out a short, humourless chuckle.

"It's funny… Killing the man hasn't made him go away." Henry looked up suddenly, his eyes meeting Catherine's as she glanced at him briefly, almost nervously, Henry thought. Perhaps she wondered what he would say next? He decided to continue, as she had remained silent.

"In my dreams, he's with you. Well, I'm with you, to start with, and then it's Richard. And I… I watch. I don't want to, but I can't do anything about it."

Henry paused, feeling as though he had said too much. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable. Catherine seemed unsure how to respond to such a revelation. She was silent for a moment and then spoke up softly.

"He went away years ago, Henry."

"No," Henry's voice was heavy, but not bitter. "No. He has been here every moment of every day and night." He looked up at his wife, whose eyebrows crinkled in confusion at his words. "I may not have known it until recently, but he won your heart. You can send the man away for years on end, I can even take his life, but as long as your heart beats in you - " Henry paused, reaching his hand out tentatively towards Catherine's chest, stopping short and retracting it, " – he can never be away. Ever. I can't compete with that."

"It's not a competition…" Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic in tone.

"Isn't it." His response was more of a statement than a question. "I understand why, Catherine, really I do. I know I am partly to blame. I've betrayed your trust as well."

Catherine dipped her head abruptly, her chin to her knees. She closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed deeply before opening them again. All at once she seemed less guarded, less cold, to Henry. But the subtle change brought about that unhappy weight that she had seemed to carry these last few days, as though relaxing her guard allowed it to show through. Although it gave him a surge of hope, realizing that she had chosen to loosen her grip in his presence on the mask he knew she wore, even if it was just for a moment, it made Henry feel uncomfortable. With her guard down a little, he could see that she was in pain, and he was unsure of how to handle it. After a few moments of silence, Henry spoke again.

"Did you love him?" He held his breath, training his eyes on the lake before them. He could barely get the question out, but he just had to know – to know if the Catherine of his dream was speaking the truth. How he hoped she would speak the truth to him now.

"Yes."

He let out his breath, deflating completely. How he wished she had not spoken the truth to him just now. But there it was. Out in the open, no doubts remaining. He wanted to turn his stinging feelings on his wife, to release the tension that had built up by accusing, blaming, berating. But for once, for every angry question that arose in his mind against his wife, the same question rebounded back – the accusing finger pointing at himself. He was no better. He had inflicted this same pain on Catherine, and not just once, not just with one woman, as she had with Richard. Anything he said to her now to express his hurt and his bitterness over the betrayal he felt, she could easily turn back to him, as she had that day in the throne room before he had had his guards take her away on Richard's heels. The last thing she had said in their heated argument was in relation to his hurt feelings over the news – "I know how that feels." – adding guilt to the sting he already felt.

"Why?"

"He loved me." Coppery curls caressed the side of her face in the gentle breeze, as Catherine turned slightly away from her husband, dipping her head to one side as she reached out to trace the leather edges of her book, next to her on the rock.

"As simple as that?!" The resentment and pain that welled up in Henry's gut at her uncomplicated answer spilled out into biting sarcasm. "I loved you too, for all it got me in return! Apparently just loving you doesn't guarantee your affection, Catherine!"

His wife made no movement, but the sudden volume of her walls snapping back into place could have been a thunderclap had it been translated into sound.

"Well, since I am not able to read your thoughts, and there was no evidence of such feelings in your actions, I was unaware that there were affections to be returned, husband!"

"I showed you affection! I was loving towards you before it became obvious that you had no such feelings for me!"

Catherine stood suddenly, impassioned by her anger. "Loving?! Once, perhaps! You showed me more than you think, Henry. You showed me my worth. You showed me how much you loved and valued me, when you chose to spend your nights in the arms of another instead of mine. Your love was so clear to me as I watched you enjoy hurting me with your mistress in your lap, in front of all French Court! And who could possibly have questioned your commitment to me as you paraded the women you chose over me, time and time again, year after year, letting the gossip run riot without putting a stop to it. That's what you showed me. That's what I was worth to you." She drew a shaky breath. "I don't think you even know what loving someone looks like, Henry."

Looking down at her hands, her temper cooling, she picked at her cuticles restlessly. Henry wasn't sure whether to say anything or not. Did she have more to say? Would he send her back into a rage if he spoke any words at all? In any case, perhaps she had a point. What was her definition of being loved? As if in answer, his Queen spoke again, more gently this time.

"Richard loved me not for what I could give him, but just for being myself. He loved me unconditionally. I could do no wrong in his eyes. He wanted to protect me from you."

Henry huffed scornfully, his hurt evident through his resentment. Catherine knelt down on the rock once more, and turned to look at her husband.

"I know it pains you to hear it, Henry, but you brought up the matter in the first place." She looked out at the lake, silence enveloping them for a few minutes while their feelings simmered.

Sighing, Catherine spoke with honesty in her tone, "Richard was never the great love of my life… It was not something that I sought. He – he loved me first, and then the way he treated me at such a troubled time in my life… The way he loved me and tried to take away my unhappiness, I – I just loved him for it, in the end."

She swallowed, sadness overshadowing her like a cloud. "I felt safe with him. I knew that he would never hurt me. He would always put me first. I never felt that way with anyone else…" Henry hung his head as he listened to his wife's words, their meaning striking his heart to the core. He spoke to her softly, "Do you grieve his loss? Is that what these dreams and difficulties have been about, Catherine?"

"I don't know!"

Henry snapped his eyes sideways to his wife, startled at the unexpected emotion in her voice. It had taken on that lost tone that he had heard while Charlotte comforted her in her bedchamber after her nightmare the previous day. Observing her uncomfortably, she seemed to be battling within herself. Her fists were clenched and her eyes trained furiously on the surface of the rock directly in front of her. Her breathing was short and ragged, and Henry could not tell if she was about to lash out angrily or collapse into rarely-seen tears. Either way he was not sure how to handle what she might do next. He decided to wait, to give her time to formulate what she wanted to say.

"He gave his life to protect me, Henry, I don't know if you noticed that. He loved me so much that he wouldn't even apologise to you for loving me when you told him to, even knowing that you would take his head." She lifted a shaky hand to her temple and rubbed at the tension that had formed there, closing her eyes. Henry could see that she was barely holding onto her emotions.

"You're upset because you didn't get to say thank you, or goodbye?"

"It's not that," Catherine's voice trembled, "I would have liked to – it was all so abrupt and everything happened so quickly. I understand that there is no time for niceties when a King has been betrayed…" A shaky breath. "He was faithful to me, loyal. Unto death. Not as a subject to his Queen, but as a man to the woman he loved." Her voice broke, and Henry couldn't bring himself to look at her, though he could hear her rapid breathing as she attempted to regain control. He found that his own emotions had settled and become calm as he listened to her talk. His heart softened towards her once again, despite the subject of their conversation. Something within him was relieved to hear that she loved Richard simply because he had given her the love she had needed - the love she should have received from him. It hurt, but he was glad all the same that Richard was not the great love of her life. He felt – dare he say it? – compassion towards her for her grief. His own feelings seemed to pale into insignificance, and his resentment lost its strength.

"I'm sorry you are dealing with the pain of loss, Catherine."

Henry meant it. His voice conveyed his sincerity. Something about that seemed to be a catalyst for his broken wife. Perhaps she had needed someone to say those words, never mind who they were. She caved, cradling her face in her hands and leaning forwards to rest upon her knees which she had pulled up to her chest again. Henry steeled himself against the pain that was seeing his beloved wife fall apart. He had seen it once this week, he would be stronger for her this time.

Her voice came muffled, heavy with sorrow. "There is so much loss, Henry. I don't even know how to sort it all in my head…" she wept, unable to put words to her feelings. Her husband inched closer to her on the rock with the beautiful view of the serene lake before them, sitting close to her side as she sobbed quietly.

"Tell me."

Henry listened as his wife quite uncharacteristically poured her heart out to him. She mentioned nothing of their relationship, so perhaps it was easier for her to talk of others than to talk of their marriage when she was feeling vulnerable. He could understand that. She told him parts of her recent dreams, her guilt and grief over Clarissa, and her panic when their little sons were almost murdered before her own eyes. Tears still flowing freely, she pushed them away from her face in frustration as they ran down.

"I can't seem to escape it! Every day is the same. No matter the tears I shed, the weight of it just won't leave. Every day is a battle against, against this!" Catherine gestured with open palms towards her chest, expressing how frustrating she found it to be overcome by emotion without giving herself consent. "I don't understand…"

"It's just grief, my love."

Catherine startled at his unexpected words and the gentle, loving tone that he spoke them with, but she allowed him to lay his large hand on her back and rub slow, soothing circles. Unthinking, she leaned her head towards him and rested it on his broad shoulder. Hope leapt in Henry's heart at the gesture of acceptance from his wife. She was allowing him to comfort her! He shifted slightly, letting her head slip into the curve of his neck, to rest on his collar bone. Running his hand around her shoulders to cradle her more comfortingly against him, he spoke again.

"Grief doesn't have a plan. You have to go with it. It'll be alright."

Catherine sniffled a little. "It feels like it will never end. Like I'm not myself and I never will be again."

Henry smiled, loving her childlike vulnerability, and at the same time hating the anguish she was going through, and his part in it all.

"I promise you're not going mad, Catherine." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that I have caused you pain. I'm sorry that beheading Richard has caused you grief. I mean that."

Catherine turned her head to look up at her husband. "I believe you do," she said, her teary eyes wide with surprise.

"I'll never be sorry for killing him."

Catherine gave a sigh. "I know," she said tiredly, "and I do understand. I never should have betrayed you. I shouldn't have allowed myself to stoop to that level." Her eyes lifted to his briefly, full of meaning in the hurt and bitterness that accompanied her words. Henry shifted uncomfortably, but his wife's gaze fluttered and then she leaned back into him.

They sat together on the rock for another half hour at least, husband and wife, apart but side-by-side for the first time in a long while, she to share, and he to comfort. Henry was glad of the opportunity to be there for Catherine in a time of need, as he had felt so wretched the day before when he had been unable to do anything for her despite longing to. He loved her. He really did. Everything seemed to make more sense when he was focused on loving Catherine. How could he have forgotten? He was glad of her willingness to be close to him, and to share what was on her heart, but once again he felt sure that she no longer felt love for him, if she ever had. His anger towards Richard seemed less after their emotional conversation, as though somehow he had released some of his own pain and tension over the matter in the process. Still, he felt a pang of jealousy that Richard held her love. Even if it wasn't the greatest love in the world, it was still love. He wondered if it would ever be possible for Catherine to love him again the way she had loved Richard. The man had shown her love in ways that Henry didn't seem capable. Perhaps he could work on that.