Falling For Henry (12 page)

“You did not make the journey by yourself?” he asked, his voice concerned. “There are dangers about, especially for Arthur's widow. I will send word regarding your whereabouts, for when you are discovered missing, there will be great consternation.”

“Arthur's—” she began, then stopped. A sadness not her own squeezed her heart, preventing her from continuing.

“Katherine, you are some changed,” he continued, after a minute. “I heard you had not been well, but … my brother's widow would not normally look so—”

“But I'm not! I—” Kate interrupted, and then stopped. She couldn't let him think that she was a relative—and a widow, at that! But what could she tell him—that she didn't have a clue where she was or what she was doing here? And then something in her responded to his words, allowed her to say, “It is all right, Henry. What matters is that I am here now, and quite well.”

“But you are bleeding!” he exclaimed, examining her scratched hand.

One of the nearby gardeners, wearing a plain tunic and leggings, turned from his hoe and stared. Kate fell silent under his scrutiny. Her companion called, “Master Walsh, how are the apples?” and the gardener indicated, with a flourish of his arm, a basket of wizened fruit that stood near their feet. “Take what you want, Prince Henry,” he said. “With my good blessing.”
Prince Henry
, thought Kate.

“Bear them to the kitchens,” said Henry dismissively, “that they may be made into tarts for our supper.” Anxious to overcome her thoughts, Kate leaned over and took an apple, but before she could bite into it, Henry looked at her, aghast.

“You won't be eating raw fruit, Katherine!” he exclaimed. “Raw fruit causes an abundance of cold, wet humors … please, take care.”

Kate quickly dropped the apple back into the basket. Numbly, she followed Henry up the path to the palace, every now and then meeting his worried glance as he turned back to study her. As they passed into an inner courtyard, she had a momentary rush of claustrophobia, and, for reassurance, turned over her left palm, studying the white scar. Henry took up her hand and brought it to his lips, then unfolded it and looked at the palm.

“
H
for
Henry
,” he said, playfully.

With a sharp intake of breath, she looked at the scar. What she'd always thought of as a
K
now startled her in its resemblance to an
H
. Or maybe it had always looked like an
h
. Her head began to spin.

“We will hasten to your nurse,” said Henry, beckoning her under a stone arch. “I trust that she will know how to mend you.” Kate had the feeling that he was referring to more than the scratch from the pup, but she was too distracted by her thoughts to think about it very deeply. She looked up, trying to catch her breath. Picturesque brick work, mullioned windows, and stately gables loomed over her, along with gargoyles grinning down as if to share some secret joke.

At the same time as it all seemed grand and terrifying, she intuitively led the way through the maze of passages and doorways to the upper level, where she found the final doorway into rooms she knew well. She touched her hand to her aching eyes.

I must be careful what I say
, thought Kate feverishly, following Henry into a room hung with rich tapestries. An older woman was standing beside one of the walls, rubbing with a husk of bread a section of a large, intricately designed wall hanging. When she turned and saw Henry, she immediately threw down the bread.

“Well, well, imagine me, an old woman, cleaning our own tapestries.” She leaned toward the wall and brushed away a few of the leftover crumbs. “Do you not think that we deserve more help in these rooms? Whether Katherine is here or not?” Then she saw Kate behind Henry. Her snapping brown eyes took in Kate's expression with what might have been an answering look of fear. Then she lowered her eyelids and clicked her tongue, bustling Kate into the next room, where she bathed her face and hands in a bowl of rose-scented water and dabbed at the scratches with a handkerchief. The woman's skin was weathered dark and wrinkled and she looked about sixty, although Kate wondered if she might be younger on account of the jet black hair that was fastened under an embroidered velvet head piece. Kate's gaze fastened on dark hairs that erupted from the older woman's chin, but rather than seeing these with surprise, her reaction was instead one of familiarity.

This is Doña Elvira,
thought Kate foggily
. My nurse. She is married to Don Pedro Manrique, but she stays here with me when she's needed, and lives with him in their other rooms downstairs when I'm away. I wonder where the other maids are! They should be here, helping, unless they've been sent away with the sweating sickness
… She swallowed and put her hand back up to her throbbing eyes.

“Oh, it's not a good thing to see you back so soon,” Doña Elvira muttered. “There'll be trouble because of it, mark my words.” Although Doña Elvira's speech when she spoke to her privately like this sounded strange and foreign, Kate understood every word. It was as if the nurse were speaking in another language, but a language somehow very familiar.

After Doña Elvira had cleaned her up, she covered Kate's head with a blue silk hood and then tied a red ribbon around her wrist: “To ward off bad luck,” she muttered. Then she gave her something to drink—something tart and sweet at the same time—and sternly told her to sit down on the bed. Kate felt too heavy to resist as Doña Elvira removed her shoes, looking at them with a horrified glance.

“What have you got on your feet?” she croaked. Then her gaze moved upward to the jeans under Kate's dress.

“And what are you wearing on your legs! The cloth is thick, like bark!”

That could be used in an advertisement
, Kate thought, hysterical laughter rising in her chest.
Denim bark
,
the newest fad. Do not wash, but allow to weather appropriately
.
Grows along with the wearer.

“Not even fit for the grooms,” muttered Doña Elvira, tugging at the jeans. Kate dizzily assisted their removal and watched the old woman pitch them, along with the runners, into a corner of the room.

“Good thing I've aired your slippers,” muttered Doña Elvira. She left the room for a few minutes and Kate felt her eyes drooping shut. Suddenly Doña Elvira returned with a white cotton shift.

“Put this on and take some rest. We'll see what we can make of you this afternoon,” she commanded. Then she went back to Henry. Kate held the garment but didn't move, listening to their conversation in the other room.

“Henry, what has happened? Why is our princess back from Fulham Palace?” Kate heard the old woman's question very clearly but couldn't make out the answer. Something in the drink was making her very drowsy, and her only desire was to sleep as she had been commanded to do. She made a feeble attempt to undress, but her arms were too heavy; instead, she tumbled over onto cool linen sheets and shut her eyes.

13
The meal

WHEN KATE AWOKE, her body felt stiff and sore, as if she had been sleeping a long time. She was in the same strange bed and she could see by the window that it was dusk. The room was dimly lit by a single lantern in the corner and she could smell the thick aroma of burning oil. Kate's mind was immediately a hive for buzzing thoughts. Here she was in this peculiar place with people who thought she was someone else. Could she ever get home?

She looked at the nightgown in her hands and wondered if she should put it on, but she couldn't seem to make her body take orders. Pain ebbed and flowed in her left temple. When she moved, the headache worsened. Whatever she'd been given to drink, she'd best not drink any more of it.

“I'm going down to dinner,” she heard a woman say in a voice that sounded like dry reeds rubbing together. “Will she be all right if we leave her alone?”

“Yes, most certainly,” came Doña Elvira's distinctive cadences. “If she saw a cunning woman and the cat's got her tongue, there are remedies for that.”

“Do you think herself's a sorcerer?” a third woman cried. There was fear in her voice.

“No, of course not! Stop the talk this instant.” That was Doña Elvira again, speaking very firmly.

“I didn't mean … but will she soon be well?” It was Reedy Voice again.

“Soon, by St. Sebastian. She's a strong girl. It won't take long. We'll use the leeches if need be. It is good to have her home in these difficult times,” replied Doña Elvira.

Kate shivered under the damp covers and waited until she heard the women retreat down the corridor. Then curiosity and reason got the better of fear. She needed to get up and figure things out. These people were obviously suspicious of her and, wherever she was, if people thought she was a witch, that could be dangerous. Fenwick had made them study this at school, how witches had been burned at the stake. Kate rolled over and thrust her legs off the bed, her feet just touching the floor. Then, standing up shakily, her head pounding, she peered out into the sitting room. It was empty. The bread had been removed and the tile floor swept clean. A small fire glowed in some sort of fire pan, chunks of charcoal sending off an inviting warmth.

Kate determinedly took a deep breath, shook off the dizziness, and sneaked through the sitting room and down the stone passageway toward a thick stream of voices. Soon she was peering through a doorway into a great room whose roof timbers were painted yellow ochre. The smell hit her hard, and it wasn't a pleasant one. A bitter combination of human sweat and acrid odors from the rushes on the floor brought tears to her eyes. Long rows of people—about three hundred in all, Kate estimated—sat at trestle tables, and servants in aprons and caps came and went, carrying silver and gold serving dishes. There was a constant tide of laughter and clattering utensils, with boisterous conversations that rose and fell.

Kate turned her head away from the stench, her stomach turning unpleasantly. A thick fishy odor that wafted over from a nearby table made her wonder if the meat was entirely fresh. She wrinkled her nose, staring back at the throng as a gaudily dressed clown tumbled head over heels up and down the aisles. Music wove in and out of the sea of voices. At the far end of the room, a man was playing a tubby-looking guitar and singing. Kate gradually noticed other milder smells that were rather pleasant. Violets, she thought, looking down at the rushes. Then she glanced back at the tables, following the pungent scent of sage. She watched as a woman in a low-necked long gown cut her food with a knife, poked bits into her mouth with her fingers, and then threw the bones at her feet. Did nobody eat with forks? Kate looked around, her neck and back beginning to ache from the angle at which she stood in the doorway, trying to remain unnoticed. Decisively, she crept into the room and slipped into an empty chair. Either she could pass freely here, or she'd be undone—might as well find out.

At her right, a heated conversation seemed to be brewing between two portly gentlemen dressed in plain brown cloth.

“Kings of England have never had … never had any superior except God!” said the bald-headed one, his words slurring a bit because, Kate thought, of the ale he was thirstily gulping down. “What makes you think His Majesty … is any different?”

“I'm not questioning that his … that his superior is God,” said the second, his words equally slurred. He spat onto the floor and then used his foot to tread the glob into the rushes. He lowered his voice and Kate could hardly hear the next part. “What I'm saying is that His Highness seized the crown from King Richard, who also served God. Both served God, yet one triumphed and the other perished. How is that possible?”

“Mind your tongues and pass a little more of the venison,” brayed a middle-aged lady from across the table, burping loudly. “Remember, you're in the King's hall,” she chided, then smiled at Kate. “Have you eaten, luv? Try the venison; it is particularly good.”

“Of course, we meant no harm,” said the second man nervously, but the first had already poured himself another glass of ale.

“Now this is what my two lips are hankering for,” the woman said, pulling meat from the serving tray.

“Are you sure it's venison they'll be after, truly?” cried the first man with a loud guffaw.

“What about a kiss?” offered the second man, winking.

“Thank you kindly,” said the woman, her mouth full. “But I have enough kisses promised from …” Kate couldn't hear the name she gave, but the two men seemed chastened and poured themselves more ale. “And I even have some of the lamb left for the beggars,” the woman said. She beckoned over one of the serving girls, who scraped the meat from the plate into a basin.

Kate remembered the children crowded around the palace gates and hoped they would all be taken care of, although eating someone's leftovers wasn't her idea of healthy charity. The contrast between excess and poverty bothered her. And the smell, wafting over to her from the dining population, was less than encouraging—the odor of hot, unwashed bodies, old sweat on fabric, and greasy hair. Kate's stomach lurched. She stood up, afraid she was going to be sick, as a woman with long, thin arms held a gold-filigreed ball up to her nose and breathed deeply. Uncannily, Kate knew what it would smell like—a thick musk, temporarily taking away the unpleasantly human scents nearby.

She quickly went back to the corridor and leaned against its cool stone wall. After a few moments, feeling better, she peered once again into the room. Her attention was drawn to the jester's somersaults. In a moment, he began to do back flips, rushes sticking to his colorful cap. A couple of men hooted approval, and then another cleared his throat and spat onto the floor at the jester's feet.

“Pass the ale!” cried he. “Before it's emptied!”