My sympathy for the Council surges somewhat after my blunt question is dropped like lead into the room. They glance to each other and fall silent, clearly at a loss.
With fresh air in my chest and food in my stomach, I register that this situation is unknown to all of us; MuCullough is a man of three and thirty, Douglas is in his mid-twenties, and Lord Tomlinson is only a year or two older than Harry. In our lifetimes - other than the death of Queen Anne - we have suffered no hardship. We have only known peace and prosperity. None of them knows quite what to do about the Queen.
Although the law of the kingdom does give them the power to rule in times of war, they clearly do not want to order her death without a trial that involves Harry's oversight. And I understand: executing the Queen, a princess of Spain, would surely escalate the war.
"Let us send word to the King," Tomlinson says. "He is aware that Spain was funding the rebels, but does not yet know the full involvement of the Queen, nor that she imprisoned Cathryn and the princess."
I wince, hesitating at this plan. "I do not know whether it is wise to tell him of our imprisonment. I worry he will be enraged. I do not want to compromise his safety. He would be distracted with worry."
Douglas agrees, nodding quickly. "He would return at once."
My heart soars at the thought; it hadn't occurred to me. Harry returning home immediately would be ideal. "Well then I change my mind. We must tell him."
"Lady Cathryn," McCullough says, and I startle at the new title, "the war continues. We require the King out there, leading the front."
"More than we require him here, determining how to handle grand treason committed by the Queen?"
I can see McCullough beginning to lose his patience, and I am not surprised. I have no say here, no station. Already I have committed great disrespect by breaking into the conversation at all.
"Cathryn," Douglas begins, cajoling. I turn my fiery gaze upon him and he shrinks somewhat. "The responsibility lies with us to determine the best path forward. Zayn will see you out."
I try to swallow my rage that Maria is not thrown to the dungeon this instant: her prison remains her opulent tower suite.
I try to swallow my panic that she will escape somehow.
I try to not feel powerless to bring Harry back to me.
Instead, I focus on the relief that I am free, and the anticipation of seeing my family. I take Anne from Zayn's arms, and we make for the door.
Just at the threshold, I am halted by McCullough's words: "Where will the princess reside?"
Turning, I look at him, bewildered. "With me, my Lord."
"Given that much of the village knows she is the daughter of a king, I am not convinced that is the safest course of action. We would prefer she live under guard in the castle."
Lifting my chin, I tell him, "I shall strike you a deal. When the queen is either in the dungeon, or dead, the princess and I shall move into the castle."
The Council do not respond, and I take it as tacit agreement. I nod to Zayn, and lead us out of the room.
~~
I practically run through the village, ignoring the way everyone seems to come out of their home or place of occupation and stare at me, clutching Anne in my arms.
Bursting into the cottage, I find only Mary, sitting at the table near the kitchen. She stands with a gasp, rushing to me and throwing her arms around my shoulders.
"You're here!"
This is a far happier cry; this time, we are home together. She pulls back, gazing at my face.
"Aye," she says with a smile, "you are much prettier in the daylight."
With a laugh, I follow her out of the house and we run down the dusty road to the ale house.
When she sees me, Mother startles with a scream, dropping her long stirring spoon and rushing over.
I have never seen my mother cry, but her sobs wrack her body. I pass Anne to Mary, and pull Mother into my arms, promising her over and over that I am all right. Wordlessly, Da comes and puts his arms around us both.
It seems to take many minutes for my parents to release me, but when they do, they barely give me another glance before they turn and pull my daughter from Mary's arms.
Mother coos to the baby; Da's eyes are shiny with tears. "So here she is," he whispers.
"She is his spitting image," Mother whispers, awed.
"Are you even sure she's yours?" Da says, and we all laugh.
But the laughter seems to slide away abruptly and Mother looks up to me. "Why did you not tell us, Catie?"
"Tell you of my affair with the prince?" I ask, horrified.
"The king," she corrects, nodding. "Aye."
I do not quite know how to answer this. To me, the reason is obvious: it would have been shameful. The only reason it is not shameful now is that I birthed his child, the Queen will be tried for treason, and everyone seems relieved rather than angered that there is a tiny princess in our midst.
So, I tell them, "I think we are rather lucky with the way it turned out. Had Maria not been corrupt, Harry would always remain wed to her, and my child would be a bastard without Liam."
They say nothing, and it takes me several breaths to realize it is because I have so casually used the King and Queen's given names.
Blushing, I murmur, "Forgive me. I fear I've left my bloody manners in the dungeon."
Mary claps a hand over her mouth. Mother's eyes go wide. I blink up to my father who's eyes begin to water anew, and I realize it is not from tears of joy or sorrow, but from restrained mirth. Finally, he cannot keep it in anymore, and his loud laughter breaks free. With it, comes the light back into this dark ale house.
~~
Despite the war, celebration roars through the village. Ale is poured freely, we roast a lamb and surround the meat with ample fruit and root vegetables, eating until our stomachs are near bursting. Music spins from the musicians' instruments and high into the night sky and the stomp of dancing feet is a rhythm that steals into my chest, becomes one with my heartbeat.
I look around for Zayn, but do not see him out here with everyone. I want to tell my family what he did for me, and hope that we can repay him somehow, but it will have to wait until the morning.
So instead, I dance, and I sing, and I greet everyone who comes up to wish me well. Perhaps it is unwise to make such noise; perhaps it is unwise to carry the princess out in the open, swaddled against me.
But I do not feel danger. I feel only the safety of the people remaining in the village. For as much as the villagers always wanted Harry to belong to them, he never truly did. When he looked at us, we knew he saw us, but he wasn't allowed in our midst. So as the village comes up to me, one at a time, and kisses Anne's tiny head, or gives her a small gift of a blanket, a rattling gourd, or simply their wishes for health and happiness, I can tell they know what I am telling them by bringing her here: she belongs to all of us.
Still, even with all of the warmth in my blood, there is a shadow lurking. I long so desperately for Harry to come home, for us to find a life both down here in the road and up there in the castle.
~~
Exhausted, Mary and I return to the cottage to the diminishing sound of well wishes and drunken cheers. Mother and Da follow shortly after, retiring to the back as Mary takes the cot beside mine. I bring my child with me into my bed to nurse as she will through the night. But a bit of red catches my eye in the corner, and I lay Anne down, careful not to wake her, and move to inspect it.
It is the red dresses, all of them. As he promised he would, Zayn brought them from the dungeon to me. I bend to touch one, and I realize he washed them, too.
But when I pull the top one up, the rest come along with it.
I gasp, covering my mouth as tears fill my eyes.
I had believed Zayn did not know what my intentions were, but he did.
He knew, and he made it for me, for her.
A long, thick red noose.