A Fortress of Feathers

QUINQUE[5]

Perhaps it was evidence of my simple upbringing, but I did not think of the effects of this news until much later. First in my mind was Catherine, and then myself, Margaret, and Molly.

Catherine had loved Arthur with all of her heart. I who had never loved could not even pretend an understanding of such things, but I knew it would be dark days for my mistress.

Next, I wondered at my own position in the castle. Was Catherine still granted a place in court, now that she was no longer destined to be queen? If not, was I doomed to return home to my village, with only the shade of my dear Lucy making the journey back with me, her parents’ waiting embrace forever unfulfilled? I could not.

It was then that I realized what this meant for England. Arthur, sweet, docile Arthur, the Crown prince, the respite England needed after the tumultuous monarchies in the years prior, was dead. His brother, a boy without even the means to grow a beard, was to rule in his place.

His name was Henry the Eighth, named for his father, Henry the Seventh. He was a royal to the core, famed as a handsome lion of a boy with a reaching laugh and a mane of pure Tudor red.

The royal girls, older than Henry, seemed in no place to inherit the throne. Such things were discussed in secret, carefully probed and prodded but never brought into the light. However even they were not of ruling age yet, the younger being a mere two years older than Henry.

I was scared and ashamed of my instinct for self-preservation. I feared for Catherine, for her soul and her life. Anything can happen with a prince dies. The court was ever unpredictable.

I stayed far from the rooms were Catherine’s cries could still be heard. That evening I hovered about the doors, afraid to peek inside but instead fluttering about the halls nervously, bouncing on my toes and craning around corners to make sure I was not discovered, though I did nothing wrong.

Finally I tiptoed towards the door, my resolve dragging me forward, my hands just brushing against the dry wood. I stretched myself upward as much as I could, aching to peer through the bars at the top of the door but yet repulsed by the idea of it.

Finally my eyes crossed above the impermeable wood, taking in a scene of grief and death.

Priests were surrounding the bed like crows, their black mourning robes shrouding the body from my view. The curtains were drawn and the light that filtered through them came in a garish red color, dousing the room in blood.

Catherine, her back to me now, seemed to have folded into herself, her dress surrounding her on all sides, soft ruffles and curves sprayed carelessly about. Her coppery hair was hanging in a loose bun, her gabled hood having fallen to the ground. Her cries were lilting and forlorn, like the lonely wolf forgotten in the woods.

The cries broke my heart, and I felt every inch of my body wanting to be near her, to remind her that she was not alone. But I could not, so I left, the cries fading slowly behind me.

I sat with White Margaret and Molly, forming a small, silent circle, the air between us heavy with things unsaid. Finally Margaret, who had taken up a role as leader among us, stood, reaching out a hand to lift us both to our feet.

“Come girls, the best we can do is make sure that our lady is comfortable when she leaves the Prince’s rooms.” We were to tidy her rooms; tidy her rooms while she wept over the body of her husband.

It would be another day and a night before Catherine floated towards her carefully made bed. She seemed not to move, not to breath, as she drifted from the hallway and into the bed and under the covers with a hanging silence and lack of fanfare that made it as though she had never been there at all. Hidden below the covers as she was, she seemed to have simple disappeared.

When she woke, we were all standing against her wall, slouching with the weight of the hours spent standing. I flushed red, standing up and looking away from Catherine’s eyes, embarrassed suddenly of having stayed with her without her knowledge.

Molly, ever presumptuous, hurried forward and touched Catherine’s hand, running a hand through her hair and simpering condolences. Catherine dismissed her with a steely gaze, sitting up in bed and reaching out her hands. She spoke our names softly. “Isabel, Margaret.” The words were a prayer, a pleading sound, a cry from deep in the seas of despair, begging for a rope, something to anchor our Catherine to the world that seemed to spin out from under her.

We stepped forward, past the shunned Margaret who was busily braiding her deep brown hair in a failed attempt to hide her embarrassment.

Catherine’s hands were cold and clammy in mine, but her sickness was gone. This was a sickness of grief, one that had reached into Catherine’s heart and temporarily left a black shadow across her entire being.

She held our hands in hers for a moment, then released them with a sigh, retreating into herself with hands pressed flat against her blankets.

After a few days she cordially stood, put on a simple cream gown with an ebony black overskirt and a spidery black veil crossing over her face. In this was her only outward sign of grief as she left her rooms and stepped regally towards the audience chamber, carrying out Arthur’s business as though it were wholly natural.

The country was in mourning. News of the death was becoming widespread, and word had likely reached the King and Queen by now. Further instructions on how to proceed would be arriving any day.

The first night after Catherine left her rooms, she went to bed immediately and requested our presence the whole night, though she did not speak a word to us. Her muffled sobs shook the frame of the bed, short gasping breaths mingling with the wind from the windows left wide open.

Every day, her mood improved, until, when she was nearly back to her usual ways, word from the King arrived. It bore with it more news of grief, and Catherine’s fate, all in several contrite sentences.

First, my noble King Henry VII made it clear that Catherine was to marry young Henry VIII when the boy was of age, strictly for economical reasons. Second, the King commanded us all move to Durham House in London, a place not known for its glamour. At this I heard Molly muffle a little cry of despair.

Thirdly came, added as an afterthought, the news that Catherine’s mother, Isabella of Castille, had died. The king seemed to only share this knowledge to point out how Catherine was lucky to be marrying his son, as Isabella’s death should have lessened her marriage prospects.

Catherine did not seem to react to the letter, as White Margaret read it aloud to her. She sat, eyes unwavering, staring straight at Margaret. After a few moments of this Margaret became visibly nervous, shifting her long legs and brushing a stray golden-brown hair back into her simple hood. I could see the white powder from her face lining the collar of her gown.

What Catherine did next seemed to positively terrify Margaret, in her already nervous state. Catherine stood quickly, storming forward, never breaking her gaze away from Margaret’s frightened face. She snatched the letter from her hands and dropped it dismissively into the fire. Margaret stood frozen, hands still clutching at the air where the letter had been, but eyes fixed on the fire, its reflection dancing across her face, setting her green eyes alight.

“My lady—,” Molly began, reaching towards the fire as if to try to retrieve the letter, though its corners were already curled, orange flames flickering and shifting as they swallowed up the terrible words contained on the parchment.

“No need to worry, Molly,” Catherine sighed resignedly. She had no energy left to spend on disliking Molly. For this moment, we were all united as one. “No need to worry, I heard the words, and I shall do as the King asks. But I do not wish to read them again.”

And so it was that within days, my life in Wales was over and we were headed back towards London, Catherine again destined to inherit the throne of England, a boy king ruling at her side.