He smiles and squints up at me in the sun, patting the neck of the mare. I return his smile—placid, revealing nothing. That is all Thomas will get from me.
The king has arrived, mounting his hunter. I’m glad that Henry is looking well, and I’m glad that he was well last night. I am tired this morning, and my ladies shared knowing looks in speculation over the cause of my weariness: Was I kept awake late into the night by the king? Or am I already with child and in need of rest? I can only hope the latter is true.
Last night I lay beside Henry wondering why I wasn’t asleep, only to realize my eyes were wide open in the darkness. And I woke this morning with an odd feeling, which clung to me even as the ladies dressed me and my trunks were carried out for our journey. I feel a dim recollection of things imagined in my sleep; the residue of dreams clinging to me when I know it would be best not to dwell on them.
I am aware of the futility and the peril of dreams, but they prove difficult to restrain once given free rein in your mind.
AMPTHILL IS A LOVELY PLACE,
offering Henry further opportunities for hunting expeditions. I’ve heard the ladies in my chamber whisper that Katherine of Aragon was sent here for part of her exile, after she was banished from court. I felt wary of what ghosts might reside in these halls, but I think the summer sunshine, the music, the mummers’ dances, and the fool’s tricks have swept any ghosts from their hiding places. The king sat all last night with his arm wrapped around me at dinner, and even placed kisses upon my forehead, cheeks, and lips, for all to see. Hopes for another heir for England have been renewed.
All manner of games are played in the gardens at Ampthill—it is truly a summer haven. There is archery and tennis, as well as fishing and hunting. Today, Henry has urged me to join him on a hawking expedition. We attend Mass together and then make our way out to the mews, where the cages of hawks and falcons are kept.
“You look very pretty today, Catherine,” Henry remarks, smiling.
“Thank you, my lord. I did not know what a person should wear for falconry. I am glad to hear I’ve chosen rightly.” I
have
chosen rightly: the gold and copper highlights in my hair burn bright in the sun in contrast to the creamy lavender silk of my gown. I twirl for the king, and he applauds in appreciation. We mount our horses in the company of councillors, grooms, and the royal falconer and make our way to a hillside overlooking a glen filled with trees.
Thomas is with us, for he is an expert falconer. I find myself wishing he had not joined us, to allow my confused heart some diversion. He helps the king put on enormous leather gauntlets, and sets the hooded hawk upon his hand. The falconer removes the leather hood to reveal the hawk’s round, piercing golden eyes. I wince at the sight of those long talons gripping the king’s wrist.
“Do not worry, Catherine, she cannot hurt me.” Henry laughs and gently strokes the bird’s sleek, russet feathers. With a launch of his arm the bird takes flight, soaring and dipping and swaying over the canopy of shimmering trees. For a moment she seems to vanish entirely, blotted out by the sun’s brightness.
“That’s my girl,” the king exclaims approvingly. The hawk is diving, beak down and wings pulled back, a dark stream against the blue sky. A moment later she has disappeared into the leafy greenness below us.
Moments pass, and the king sends out a whistle—a line of high, sharp notes—and the hawk emerges from the greenery, her great wings flapping, streaked with gold in the sunshine. There is something grasped in her enormous talons, which Thomas skillfully grabs just as she releases her hold in order to settle again upon the king’s arm. Henry offers her a small piece of meat from his hand, and she works it in her curved onyx beak.
“Come now, Catherine. It is your turn. All you have to do is hold her, and I will do the rest.”
I edge forward cautiously. The hawk is looking at me keenly. Her eyes are yellow fire.
“She will not ruin my dress?”
“No, no, don’t worry about your dress. Here, these will look quite lovely on you.” He gestures to Thomas, who holds open a large gauntlet for me to wear. The leather is thick and has an earthy smell. I look away from Thomas as I put my hand in the glove; inside it is soft and warm. I hold out my arm as the king has done, and take between the fingers of my other hand a pinch of meat. The hawk hops lightly from Henry’s arm to mine, snatching the meat from my grasp. I jerk back at this, but Thomas holds out his hand to steady me.
“That’s right, that’s right,” Henry says. “Now with one thrust upward, she will take flight.”
“I—I don’t know how.” The bird is light, a delicate weight on my arm. But her curved beak seems dangerously close to my face, and I can feel her thick talons shifting with her movements.
“You can do it, Catherine.” Thomas whispers. “Just one motion, graceful, like a dance.”
Thomas moves toward me, as if to cup his hand beneath my elbow. I push upward suddenly to escape his touch, and I feel her push off from my glove, unfolding her wings like the sails of a great ship. She glides off into the sky before me, her wings spread wide as she rises and swoops low in a great circle.
“Oh, did you see that? Did you see it? Oh, how wonderful,” I breathe.
As the hawk continues her circles in the air, Henry and the other grooms have turned to admire another bird perched upon the falconer’s arm. I turn back to watch the hawk dive and spin over the trees.
“She is beautiful,” Thomas remarks. I turn slightly, just enough to look at his face: his eyes fixed, his mouth set, resolute.
Did you put me in the king’s way?
I wish I could ask him.
Is this how you wanted things to happen?
I feel his hand graze mine: his long fingers against the back of my hand, fingertips brushing my knuckles. I stand perfectly still, as if carved from stone.
“Catherine!” The king calls my name. “Come look at this beautiful creature. No doubt you’ll want a dress to match her feathers, my sweet wife.”
The king laughs; everyone laughs. I walk over to appreciate the chocolate-brown falcon perched upon Henry’s wrist. My legs are trembling so violently I worry they will crumple beneath me.
I hear a shriek in the distance. I look up in time to see the russet hawk dive toward her prey.
SUNSHINE STREAMS into the bank of arched windows in this tiny chapel, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. In spite of the heat outside, today the light seems pale, chilling, penetrating my skin and bones and alighting upon the secrets of my soul. I kneel beside my husband, mirroring his pious movements with my own, but inside I feel naked before God’s judgment.
I can’t stop thinking about the touch. It was an accident, of course, and means nothing. Or, at least, it should mean nothing. Had Thomas meant to touch me; does he still have that longing? I imagine the moment again and again. The very hand that holds my rosary beads burns with a hidden shame.
Confession is not an option: my husband is the supreme head of the church, and could be privy to such secrets. No, there is no sanctuary reliable enough that I may unburden my soul. I can only pray that God will listen and accept my mute plea:
It was unintended. I will never do it again. I will cease thinking of it, altogether.
But I know that God has seen it all, has seen the dreams I nourish in my head and the love I harbor in my heart. My soul is translucent as glass, and perhaps as fragile.
I cross myself at this thought.
AFTER MASS, the thought of returning to my chambers repels me. The confined rooms will no doubt allow my mind to wander to places it is not allowed to go. I announce instead that I shall take my horse out for a hard ride, and walk directly to the stables.
“But it is hot out today, Your Grace.”
“The roads are very dusty.”
“Your pink silk will be ruined.”
“Then be of some use and fetch me my riding habit,” I snap, and continue on my way to the stable. By the time Jane returns with my habit, my horse has been tacked up, ready for mounting.
“You need not come with me, Jane. I’ll not be long.” I think she will be relieved at this, but instead her brow crinkles in concern. I swing myself easily into the saddle. I’m in no mood for a rebuke or a warning—I need to venture out, to not be watched for a while. I set off at a gallop before she can formulate a response.
The meadows around Ampthill are vast and sloping, all of them crisscrossed with narrow roads and footpaths. I urge the mare down a path toward the trees, where we feel the relief of relative coolness beneath the leafy bower, protecting us from the sun’s glare. By the time we’re deep in the greenest part of the trees, I realize I’m panting, my lungs constricted and my throat dusty and dry.
The mare slows to a canter over the soft grass, but I hear a pounding of hooves behind me. With a sharp tug on the reins, my horse wheels around. Thomas is before me, mounted on a dark brown hunter. I gasp—a sound of terror—at the sight of him.
“Your Majesty,” he says, pulling back upon the reins. He swings one leg over and drops gracefully to the ground. “I apologize—I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I—I was taking a ride,” I tell him, looking down at the horse’s silver mane fluttering in the wind. Thomas steps closer, warily.
“I pray that I have done nothing to offend you, my queen.” His eyes linger upon my face. They are so dark, those eyes, nearly black, and piercing. His face is even paler than usual. I know what he is thinking about: the touch. Perhaps it haunts him, as well.
“I would like to die if I thought I had offended my queen.”
“Those are pretty words,” I chide.
“They are not meant merely to be pretty.” He reaches out and rests his hand upon the neck of the mare, dangerously close to my leg. “They are true.”
A loud shriek pierces the air high above us: a hawk circles the trees, hunting for her prey. I look up, craning my neck to see where the hawk swoops over the trees, her wings outstretched against the blue sky. The branches tremble; the sun flickers over my face. Between the branches, the top of the hill above us is revealed. A group of courtiers stands there in the distance, accompanied by the royal falconer. Can they see us here, in the trees? My vision reels: a young lord leans over and whispers to one of the others—a lady, no less, who cranes her neck elegantly to listen. Then the branches move again, obscuring the tableau. I only hope they cannot see us. I fear what they would be able to see. Wordless, I give the horse a sharp tug—Thomas flinches, pulling his hand from the mare’s neck. She turns abruptly with a snort, and we ride away.
Now I realize what I’ve done. I was supposed to burn my life, all of my life before my wedding day, as if none of it had happened at all. When I put those letters on the flames I thought that I had triumphed over memory.
But burning the letters has only given them more power. They’ve risen from the ashes of that fire like a brilliant phoenix, a symbol of my loss and regret. Memory distorts with time, like air rippling over a fire—what is gone becomes only more precious, becomes a yearning, a perfect dream. Every word of those letters, every moment I shared with him, has been memorized in the language of a dream, continuously visited, revisited. The letters are gone but only haunt me more; I close my eyes and remember the words by heart. I have nothing of the girl I used to be, aside from those old dreams. I have become a ghost of myself.
XVI
I lie upon the royal bed beside the king. Spent and exhausted from the exertions of making love to me, Henry fell immediately to sleep. I only wish that I could so easily find respite.
We will be leaving Ampthill soon, and I am glad of it. We are traveling next to the More in Hertfordshire, another manor once owned by the late Cardinal Wolsey. We will spend much of October there, and then make our journey to London for my first official entrance to the city as queen. I watch the moonlight filter through the curtains into the dim chamber. The air is heavy and warm, no fire blazes in the cold hearth.
The king’s arm shudders against me, and I leap from the bed in fear. The room is dim, the floor cold beneath my bare feet.
“Edward . . . he is . . . Arthur. He is—it is Arthur,” Henry mutters. It must be a nightmare, but I can hear the distress in his voice. I think to call the men of the king’s privy chamber, but the words stick in my throat: Thomas would answer the call. I look down over my naked body, my hair flowing over my bare breasts. I creep closer to the bed and climb upon it, my legs folded under me.
“Edward,” Henry wails. The panic in his voice frightens me.
“Henry, please wake up, my love, please.” I try shaking him gently, my hands on his arms.
“Edward! Edward!”
“Henry! Please wake up! It’s only a dream.”
His eyes fly open suddenly. He stares at me as if he’s never seen me before.
“It’s only a dream,” I repeat. “It’s only a dream.”
“Oh.” His eyes roll around in the dimness, he tugs distractedly at the bedclothes. I pull back a bit, trying to seem relaxed. I don’t want him to see the fear in my eyes, nor do I want to see the fear in his. He rustles for a bit and then sighs, lying quietly in the darkness.
“History repeats itself, Catherine,” he says, and the bitter edge in his voice chills me. “Do you understand that?” He sighs again and rests his hand upon my knee. I press my hand on top of his.
“What history?”
“My history, England’s history. I had a dream about Arthur, again.” He rubs his face with his hand and yawns broadly.
“He was always so thin as a young boy, so pale and weak. Sickly.”
Our eyes meet in the darkness.
Pale and weak
—the same words he has used to describe Prince Edward.
“History repeats itself,” he whispers thickly, “England needs another heir.”