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
“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
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