Tudor Pavanne: The Snare

"You know what this is, don't you, My Lady?" Belle, expecting Fray Diego to be speaking, was startled to realize it was still the Archbishop, his smooth voice slipping into the suddenly thick air between her and those damn pages. She realized dimly that her very stillness had given her away, her breath dying in her lungs.

"Belle?" came John's whisper. She couldn't bear to look at him, even if she'd been able to tear her eyes away from the scraps of paper. "What is this?" he demanded from the court in a louder voice.

"You do not recognize them in their current state, My Lord?" Again the Archbishop spoke with mock innocence that fooled no one, rising to his feet at last and walking around his table to come stand a few feet away, studying their faces. Fray Diego might as well have turned to stone for all he moved not a hair's breadth. "They are the remains of the Devil's Contract you and Boleyn drew up, with the spells and charms to bring about your evil plan, cast into the fire by your wife, either to hide the evidence or as part of the ritual to complete it – "

That was as far as his increasingly-fevered recitation got. Belle couldn't stop herself from bursting out laughing at the sheer lunacy of the situation, fueled with relief that the switch had apparently not been discovered after all. She got herself under control in seconds, though – brutally aware that her outburst hadn't helped, and may have done the opposite. Once you get into accusations of witchcraft, ANYTHING is taken as confirmation. The thought instantly chilled her to the bone, and she started fighting back.

"It was a story, My Lord, a fiction, a silly tale from some writer's fevered imagination of what might happen – insulting to Their Grace's honor and dignity, and badly written, at that. Yes, I burned it – I burned it to spare my Queen's embarrassment at such a lurid fiction, should it become known."

"And how did it come into your possession in the first place?"

"I found it," she began earnestly, spinning the tale of her life, relying on years of playacting with clients for verisimilitude. "In the garden of the castle where the court was staying, propped up against a tree near Her Grace's chambers. Apparently the author was too timid to present it directly, and thought that method would get it to her. I prevented it from reaching its target, to spare her the humiliation, as I said."

"A fiction, Madame? I think it is you who are telling the fiction. Those papers clearly lay out the plan, concocted between you, your husband, and Boleyn, to depose the Queen on trumped-up charges and replace her with Boleyn's own daughter, Anne!" The words rang off the stone walls.

"An eleven-year-old girl," she replied sarcastically into the silence, wondering fleetingly precisely which lines from the book had escaped the flames.

"Just the right age for marriage, by the time the Queen had been – forgive me, Your Grace, disposed of." Suddenly realizing he was sharing the spotlight, the Archbishop motioned abruptly for Fray Diego to stand to one side, so that the jury and the monarchs had clear views of the accused once more.

"This is ridiculous." John had finally recovered his voice. "Have you truly hauled us here to answer for a badly-written bard's tale, which neither of us is responsible for?"

"You still deny your guilt?"

"Absolutely! Is this the evidence you used against Sir Thomas?"

"Boleyn was convicted of far more than this plot. He was involved in a very great many machinations designed to increase his own power at the expense of the King's. To which, I will remind you, he confessed before his execution."

"After torture," Belle put in acidly.

The Archbishop looked at her sharply. "Torture reveals the truth in men's souls." He paused, then tossed off, "and women's," as if in afterthought.

Belle wasn't put off, though. She shook her head. "Torture only gets false confessions; there is no truth within them. A man – or a woman – will say anything to make it stop. Some day you will figure that out."

"Guilty people always deny their own words, even to their death. But when they face their maker, they learn from their misdeeds. And even here on Earth, their guilt comes out. Always." The Archbishop's eyes had fastened on John's face again, predatory. "Their own words – or lack of them – confess their guilt."

"What do you mean?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"'Tis a strange thing," came the mock-musing reply. "You claim to have no knowledge of Boleyn's deeds – and yet, your own letters contain warnings against his plans. You claim to have no knowledge of his arrest and execution – and yet, suddenly your letters stopped, at precisely the same time he was arrested. Why the sudden silence, My Lord?"

John's harsh breathing sounded for a moment, then his sub-zero voice. "I was burying my son." Belle felt him shaking with rage and pain beside her.

"Your son?" came the soft, silky reply. "I wonder..."

Belle felt the ground fall away under her feet. Here it was, after all. She knew one of them had to say something, but she couldn't speak – and apparently, neither could John. The Archbishop allowed the silence to drag out just long enough to be noticeable, his eyebrows flaring.

"A very strange thing, indeed," he repeated. "Two babies, born at the same time, yet one lives... and the other dies... But which was which?"

"That is preposterous." The entire court jumped at the sound of this new voice, unheard till that moment. It was Catherine. Every head swiveled towards the Queen, seeing that she'd raised her eyes at last and was staring at the Archbishop in outrage, color flooding her cheeks. "How dare you, Your Reverence? Are you implying that I do not know my own child? You have seen the Prince yourself – and remarked several times on his resemblance to the King. He no more resembles the Viscount than I do!"

Peeking at the Archbishop out of the corner of her eye, Belle saw him realize he'd gone way too far. He bowed low to the Queen, his voice at once obsequious. "Forgive me, Your Grace. It was an idle speculation, utterly false and reckless, and I deeply regret the thoughtless utterance."

Catherine stared a moment longer, then gave her head a slight, jerky nod. As he stood upright again, Belle saw his face, and realized he had meant the apology. It was only an idle speculation. He didn't know.

Her eyes slid back to Catherine's again, trying in vain to catch her eye, but the Queen merely returned to studying the floor again, as if she hadn't said a word.

SHE KNOWS. The words screamed through Belle's brain, and she fought desperately to keep them off her face, dropping her own eyes to the floor. Somehow Catherine knew the truth – ALL of it. Belle had thought she and Henry had kept their affair strictly secret, that nobody outside of them and John knew her baby's parentage. But somehow Catherine knew. And knew of the switch.

And wasn't saying anything. Why? Why? Belle's head was whirling, and she lost track of what was being said around her. Why would she keep silent? A stray fragment of that bloody book bubbled to the surface: the image of Catherine years before, swearing that her brief marriage to Henry's older brother, Arthur, had never been consummated before his untimely death, allowing Henry to marry her with the Pope's blessing. Is she just saving her own skin?

Returning abruptly to awareness of her surroundings, she realized John had recovered from his own shock and was arguing once again. Apparently, though, he had realized the judgment was still against the two of them – had been since the moment they walked in the door.

"This is all you have? A few burnt scraps of bad fiction, a few lines in letters of concern for a friend, and whispered lies? This is ridiculous! My Lords..." He flipped his gaze from one side to the other, addressing both the Archbishop and the jury, then turned once more to face Henry directly, pleading, his voice racked with emotion. "My Lord. Your Grace. We have been your most loyal servants, in all times, doing your bidding in all things. Are you going to withdraw your favor over these few scraps of nothing?" His voice broke. "Your Grace!" Glancing at his profile, Belle saw him silently mouth the forbidden familiarity: Henry.

And at long last, for the first time since the trial began, King Henry the Eighth spoke, just one single word. Not aloud, but as silently as John had spoken his name, he mouthed one word in return, his lips moving slowly under eyes that had never thawed, would never look warmly upon his sworn liegeman again.

William.

John's former footman – his former lover – had taken his revenge.