“Catherine, I am so tired.”
She knelt at his side and dared to put her hand on his knee. “Then you must grow strong. So that we may have children. Your heirs.”
He touched her hand. A thrill went through her flesh, like fire. So much feeling in a simple touch! But his skin was ice cold.
“I am telling the truth,” said the boy who was her husband. “I remember nothing of any woman coming here. I come to bed every night and fall into such a deep sleep that nothing rouses me but my own coughing. I do not know of what you speak.”
This woman had put a spell on them all.
“Your father is sending your household to Ludlow Castle, in Wales,” she said.
He set his lips in a thin, pale line. “Then we shall go to Ludlow.”
“You cannot travel so far,” she said. “The journey will kill you.”
“If I were really so weak my father would not send me.”
“His pride blinds him!”
“You should not speak so of the king, my lady.” He gave a tired sigh. What would have been an accusation of treason from fiery young Henry’s lips was weary observation from Arthur’s. “Now please, Catherine. Let me sleep. If I sleep well tonight, perhaps I’ll be strong enough to see you tomorrow.”
It was an empty promise and they both knew it. He was as pale and wasted as he had ever been. She kissed his hand with as much passion as she had ever been allowed to show. She pressed her cheek to it, let tears fall on it. She would pray every day for him. Every hour.
She stood, curtsied, and left him alone in the chamber.
Outside, however, she waited, sitting on a chair in the corner normally reserved for pages or stewards. Doña Elvira would be scandalized to see her there.
In an hour, the woman Angeline came. She moved like smoke. Catherine had been staring ahead so intently she thought her eyes played a trick on her. A shadow flickered where there was no flame. A draft blew where no window was open.
Angeline did not approach, but all the same she appeared. She stood before the doors of Arthur’s bedchamber as regal as any queen.
Catherine was still gathering the courage to stand when Angeline looked at her. Her face was alabaster, a statue draped with a gown of black velvet. She might as well have been stone, her gaze was so hard.
Finally, Catherine stood.
The princess would not be cowed by a commoner. “By the laws of Church and country I am not a child, I am a woman.”
“By one very important consideration, you are not.” She turned a pointed smile.
Catherine blushed; her gaze fell. She was still a maid. That was certainly not
“I demand that you leave here,” Catherine said. “Leave here, and leave my husband alone.”
“Oh, child, you don’t want me to do that.”
“I insist. You are some witch, some demon. That much I know. You have worked a spell on him that sickens him to death—”
“Oh no, I’ll not let my puppet die. I could keep your Arthur alive forever, if I wished. I hold that secret.”
“You … you are an abomination against the Church. Against God!”
She smiled thinly. “Perhaps.”
“Why?” Catherine said. “Why him? Why this?”
“He’ll be a weak king. At best, an indifferent king. He won’t be leading any troops to war against France. He will keep England a quiet, unimportant country.”
“You do not know that. You cannot see the future. He will be a great king—”
“One need not see the future to guess such things, dear Catherine.”
“You will address me as Your Highness, as is proper.”
“Of course, Your Highness. You must trust me—I will not kill Arthur. If his brother were to become king—you have seen the kind of boy he is: fierce, competitive, strong. You can imagine the kind of king he will be. No one in Europe wishes for a strong king of England.”
“My father King Ferdinand—”
“Not even King Ferdinand. From the first, he wanted a son-in-law he could control.”
Catherine knew it was true, all of it, the chess-like machinations of politics that had ruled her life. Her marriage to Arthur had given Spain another playing piece, that was all.
There was no room for love in any of this.
She was descended from two royal houses. Her ancestors were the oldest and most noble in all of Europe. Dignity was bred into the sinews of her flesh. She stood tall, did not collapse, did not cry, however much the little girl inside of her was trembling.
“And what of children?” she said. “What of the children I’m meant to bear?”
“It may be possible. Or it may not.”
“I do not believe you. I do not believe anything that you say.”
“Yes, you do,” she said. “But more importantly, you cannot stop me. You’ll go to sleep, now. You will not remember.”
She wanted to fling herself at the woman, strangle her with her own hands. Tiny hands that couldn’t strangle a kitten, alas.
“Catherine. Move away. I know what she is.” The command came in the incongruous voice of a boy.
Prince Henry stood blocking the chamber’s other doorway. He had a spear, which seemed overlarge and unwieldy in his hands. Nevertheless, he held it at the ready, feet braced, pointed at the woman. It was a mockery of battle. A child playing at hunting boar.
“What am I, boy?” the woman said in a soft, mocking voice.
This only drove Henry to greater rage. “Succubus. A demon who feeds on the souls of men. You will not have my brother, devil!”
Her smile fell, darkening her expression. “You have just enough intelligence to do harm. And more than enough ignorance.”
“I’ll kill you. I can kill you where you stand.”
“You will not kill me. Arthur is so much mine that without me he will die.”
She’d made Arthur weak and subsumed him under her power. If that tie between them was severed—
Catherine’s heart pounded. She could not stop them both. They would not listen. No one ever listened to her. “Henry, you must not, she is keeping Arthur alive.”
“She lies.”
The woman laughed, a bitter sound. “If Arthur dies, Henry becomes heir. That reason will not stay his hand.”
But Henry didn’t want to be king. He’d said so …
Catherine caught his gaze. She saw something dark in his eyes.
Then she tried to forget that she’d seen it. “My lord, wait—”
The woman lived in shadow—was made of shadow. She started to flow back into the hidden ways by which she came, moving within the stillness of night. Catherine saw nothing but a shudder, the light of a sputtering candle. But Henry saw more, and like a great hunter he anticipated what the flinch of movement meant.
With a shout he lunged forward, driving the spear before him.
The woman flew. Catherine would swear that she flew, up and over, toward the ceiling to avoid Henry. Henry followed with his spear, jumping, swinging the weapon upward. He missed. With a sigh the woman twisted away from him. Henry stumbled, thrown off balance by his wayward thrust, and Angeline stood behind him.
“You’re a boy playing at being warrior,” she said, carrying herself as calmly as if she had not moved.
Henry snarled an angry cry and tried again. The woman stepped aside and took hold of the back of Henry’s neck. With no effort at all, she pushed him down, so that he was kneeling. He still held the spear, but she was behind him pressing down on him, and he couldn’t use it.
