belly visible beneath her glistening gown.
“It is more difficult than that.”
“What is difficult about it?”
“I cannot ask him until I know that I am pregnant.”
“I think you had better ask him about it sooner than that. There is no use wasting time, Catherine. He was well prepared to hold a coronation for that German lass just a month after their wedding, if only she had lived up to his expectations.”
“The king has very high expectations.”
“As well he should, Catherine. He is the king. My question is this: if last winter he was so eager to have a queen that he planned to crown a German, why is it that he is taking his time in crowning you?”
“I do not know,” I tell her. “Perhaps it is the heat. Perhaps he will change his mind in the colder weather.”
The duchess sighs briskly, her nostrils flared.
“Think, Catherine: if you were to be crowned and bear a son, your triumph would be greater even than that of Queen Jane, who was never officially crowned. Your triumph would be the greatest of all the queens.” Her eyes turn glassy for a moment, as if gazing at the brilliant tableau she has just conjured in her mind.
“You must broach the subject with him. You know what I mean—cajole him a bit. Be flirtatious. Surely you’ve learned those tricks by now.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
“Use your feminine wiles, Catherine. They are very powerful if used deftly, very powerful, indeed. And besides, they are all that you have.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
“And remember: every night. He must visit you every night. Do whatever you need to do to make that happen.”
I am only a young girl, I think to tell her. I am not a magician. I am not a witch. I can make the king feel young again, but I cannot actually make him young.
XV
To day we ride south to Bedfordshire, and plan to stay at Ampthill for a fortnight. It seems a large task to move so many people. A significant portion of my household and the king’s accompanies us on our summer progress, as well as an assortment of advisers, cooks, and additional servants. Still, I need do startlingly little. My role in this performance is all show, while my clothes, my jewels, my belongings are prepared behind the scenes.
A line of carts is drawn up before the manor, and the grooms of the stables walk among them and pass their hands over them to make sure our belongings are properly secured before we depart. The young men tug on rough ropes and tighten fat knots; their hands are dark brown with dirt and thick with calluses. I look down at my own hands—small, soft, and pale against my blue riding habit. The horses are tacked and ready, my silver mare bridling at the front of the group beside the king’s enormous hunter. The mare is a beauty; a groom brushes her flanks and her pale gray coat glistens in the early morning sunshine. The king chose her for me—a good, reliable horse for a long ride.
“You miss her, don’t you,” a low voice says, so close to me that I start at the sound of it. Thomas sidles up beside me, admiring the mare. I feel embarrassed, suddenly, awkward in his presence.
“Who?”
“Your little Molly, that brown horse you rode when you first came to court.”
“My pretty, perky Molly.” I sigh. “She’s asleep in her stable at Westminster. Not a proper horse for a ride such as this.”
“But you still miss her.”
I’m hesitant to admit this in earshot of the beautiful horse the king gifted to me. And why should Thomas be the one privy to my secret thoughts?
“Yes,” I tell him. He smiles and offers a low hand to cup my foot and help me onto the saddle. I pause, but only for a moment. Once mounted, I arrange my habit in a pleasing fashion for the ride.
“I understand,” Thomas says, handing me the reins. “It’s natural to miss something you love, no matter what it is. Even a little brown horse. Sometimes a replacement just isn’t the same as the original, but you’ll get used to her.”
He smiles and squints
“It is more difficult than that.”
“What is difficult about it?”
“I cannot ask him until I know that I am pregnant.”
“I think you had better ask him about it sooner than that. There is no use wasting time, Catherine. He was well prepared to hold a coronation for that German lass just a month after their wedding, if only she had lived up to his expectations.”
“The king has very high expectations.”
“As well he should, Catherine. He is the king. My question is this: if last winter he was so eager to have a queen that he planned to crown a German, why is it that he is taking his time in crowning you?”
“I do not know,” I tell her. “Perhaps it is the heat. Perhaps he will change his mind in the colder weather.”
The duchess sighs briskly, her nostrils flared.
“Think, Catherine: if you were to be crowned and bear a son, your triumph would be greater even than that of Queen Jane, who was never officially crowned. Your triumph would be the greatest of all the queens.” Her eyes turn glassy for a moment, as if gazing at the brilliant tableau she has just conjured in her mind.
“You must broach the subject with him. You know what I mean—cajole him a bit. Be flirtatious. Surely you’ve learned those tricks by now.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
“Use your feminine wiles, Catherine. They are very powerful if used deftly, very powerful, indeed. And besides, they are all that you have.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
“And remember: every night. He must visit you every night. Do whatever you need to do to make that happen.”
I am only a young girl, I think to tell her. I am not a magician. I am not a witch. I can make the king feel young again, but I cannot actually make him young.
XV
To day we ride south to Bedfordshire, and plan to stay at Ampthill for a fortnight. It seems a large task to move so many people. A significant portion of my household and the king’s accompanies us on our summer progress, as well as an assortment of advisers, cooks, and additional servants. Still, I need do startlingly little. My role in this performance is all show, while my clothes, my jewels, my belongings are prepared behind the scenes.
A line of carts is drawn up before the manor, and the grooms of the stables walk among them and pass their hands over them to make sure our belongings are properly secured before we depart. The young men tug on rough ropes and tighten fat knots; their hands are dark brown with dirt and thick with calluses. I look down at my own hands—small, soft, and pale against my blue riding habit. The horses are tacked and ready, my silver mare bridling at the front of the group beside the king’s enormous hunter. The mare is a beauty; a groom brushes her flanks and her pale gray coat glistens in the early morning sunshine. The king chose her for me—a good, reliable horse for a long ride.
“You miss her, don’t you,” a low voice says, so close to me that I start at the sound of it. Thomas sidles up beside me, admiring the mare. I feel embarrassed, suddenly, awkward in his presence.
“Who?”
“Your little Molly, that brown horse you rode when you first came to court.”
“My pretty, perky Molly.” I sigh. “She’s asleep in her stable at Westminster. Not a proper horse for a ride such as this.”
“But you still miss her.”
I’m hesitant to admit this in earshot of the beautiful horse the king gifted to me. And why should Thomas be the one privy to my secret thoughts?
“Yes,” I tell him. He smiles and offers a low hand to cup my foot and help me onto the saddle. I pause, but only for a moment. Once mounted, I arrange my habit in a pleasing fashion for the ride.
“I understand,” Thomas says, handing me the reins. “It’s natural to miss something you love, no matter what it is. Even a little brown horse. Sometimes a replacement just isn’t the same as the original, but you’ll get used to her.”
He smiles and squints
Similar Books
