Chapter Five #2
“It’s from an earlier match. It doesn’t hurt.” I doubt he would tell me if it did.
“You should still have it looked at. It could get infected.”
He nods his head before turning it back up to me.
“I will, my lady.” This guy just molly wopped a dude off a horse with a wooden plank and now he’s calling me “my lady.” A quiet tremor winds through my belly, forcing me to partially recant what I thought about jousting not being my kind of foreplay.
Bessie clears her throat behind me, spurring me into action as I drop my handkerchief over the edge. Simon catches it as it falls, holding the dainty material in his hand before he safely stows it away in the armor at his wrist.
“Thank you, my lady,” he says. He turns his horse, and I can’t stop myself from calling his attention back.
“It was an impressive win,” I tell him, “even if it wasn’t bird-watching.”
Sunlight catches his faint smile as he meets my gaze. “I couldn’t let Bartholomew lose that two pence.” I suppress my smirk as I dutifully go back to my seat at Henry’s side, and he sits forward again to speak.
“Once you’ve cleaned yourself up, Gainsford, I have need of your assistance. It’s an urgent task on behalf of my beautiful bride.” The king takes my hand and kisses it. The ick it inspires is strong, but I don’t show it.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Simon bows his head and rides off towards a cluster of tents.
Henry turns to me, his expression stuck between amusement and regret. “I would that I could ride in your honor—that you could see me do so. But I’m afraid those times are over.”
I force my attention away from Simon’s retreating form and focus back on Henry. Maybe if the king had a physical outlet of his own, he wouldn’t be chasing the fountain of youth though “love.” He seems able enough to ride a horse. Why shouldn’t he get out there again?
“They don’t have to be over,” I tell him. “There must be other things you could do besides jousting to feel fulfilled.”
His features brighten with the hopefulness of a bridegroom. “You’re right, of course. My happiest days are still ahead.”
My stomach sinks.
He kisses my hand once more and stands to talk to someone in religious garb near the barrier. I’m considering just how I could have phrased my suggestion less suggestively when I feel Bessie leaning in over my shoulder.
“Brace yourself. Here comes your uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.”
Her warning barely registers before she disappears behind me, and the seat to my right is taken by a formidable man in his late sixties.
He’s in an immaculately tailored outfit of all black with decorative silver embellishments.
He could be attractive, but there’s a wiliness in his eyes and chin that stop him short of it.
“My dear Catherine.” His voice is light and carefully measured. He takes a pleasant breath in as he gazes around us. It smells like horse turds and spilled ale, but he sighs like he just caught a whiff of Christmas dinner.
“Our shining day is nearly upon us,” he says. “Another niece of mine will be queen. I pray that you won’t squander the opportunity as Anne did.”
Thanks to Cecily’s interactive puppet history lesson last night, I know exactly who he’s referring to.
Anne Boleyn was Catherine’s cousin and Henry’s second queen.
The king pursued her for seven years before he broke from the Catholic Church and divorced his first wife to marry her.
They had a daughter. He fell out of “love.” And Anne was executed three years later.
Thomas Howard—the Duke of Norfolk—was a driving force in putting Anne on the throne, then a driving force in marching her to the chopping block. Cecily teased that he would marry the king himself if he could, but since he can’t, it seems to be my turn next.
He looks at my dress, particularly my stomach, before speaking again. “I must ask you, niece, are you yet with child?”
I look back at him with thinly veiled derision. He either doesn’t notice or isn’t bothered. “Not that I’m aware of,” I tell him.
He shrugs and glances purposely around the royal seating area, waving to someone farther down the row. “No matter. If you’re not, you soon will be. And you must notify me immediately when the event comes to pass.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
I’m hoping he’ll go join whoever he was waving to, but my gynecologically inclined uncle only makes himself more comfortable, crossing his arms across his chest.
“You’ve done well, Catherine. Far better than I anticipated when I brought you to court. Indeed, you exceeded all our expectations.” He smiles at me in a way that seems heartfelt, but it’s hard to trust a pimp in tights.
“If you are ever unsure of anything with regards to the king, know that you can always come to me. His Majesty’s happiness is paramount, as yours is now, to a certain degree. The higher you rise, so does your family. Howards stick together. And Howards want what is best for their family.”
“Wasn’t Anne part of our family?”
The duke looks at me with something close to morbid approval. “Remember,” he says, “the sooner you give the king a son, the safer we all will be.”
He stands and takes my hand, bowing over it before walking away. I’m a little thrown and plenty pissed off by our interaction. So much so that it takes a few seconds for me to notice that Bessie has taken the seat he just vacated.
“You look pale. Am I to assume that you’re not too keen to perform your wifely duties?”
I take in her question, and my gag reflex lodges a strongly worded complaint. “No comment,” I answer.
“If you’re nervous, I could make a tonic for you to drink. It would relax your muscles and steady your breathing. All my sisters requested it before their own wedding nights.”
I give her an astonished sideways look. Did Bessie just offer me the Tudor equivalent to medical marijuana?
I shouldn’t be surprised. In any other life, Bessie would be the department head at a thriving ER, but here, she’s an under-the-table healer with the smallest sprinkle of drug dealing. The more I consider her offer, the more intrigued I am by it—only not in the way that she proposed.
“Hey, Bessie?” I ask. “Just how good are you at making tonics?”
She follows my gaze, looking over at Henry, who is still talking to Archbishop Something-or-Other. When she turns back to answer, her eyes are fucking fearless.
“I’m very, very good.”