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
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
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