Chapter Eight
“Hello.” His voice is inlaid with a quiet confidence, and he moves with incredible grace for his size.
“Hello,” I answer, trying to conceal my smile.
The men do a turn, and the ladies turn next.
I haven’t fully gotten my equilibrium back after seeing Simon and spinning when I suddenly stop short.
Bessie is standing along the perimeter of the dance floor.
My eyes stay on her as she subtly slides a small vial from the sleeve of her burgundy dress, the glass twinkling in the candlelight of the room.
Simon and I switch places as the other dancers do the same. My heart is pounding with jittery energy as I turn to make meaningful eye contact with Cecily. She gives me a nod and moves through the crowd, holding her wine jug securely as she weaves in and out.
I’m a little breathless when Simon and I face each other again, bringing our palms together and stepping forward.
“How is our Theo?” he asks.
Our Theo? His question somehow spikes and soothes my rising nerves. I do what I can to sound level as I answer, “He’s living his best life nestled on a pile of pillows.”
Simon presses his lips together, amusement slipping through. “As he should. I’m sure he’s content in all his finery.”
“I like to think so.”
We turn and pause with my hand on top of Simon’s as a pair of dancers sashay around us.
I scan the space until I find Bessie and Cecily.
They’re on their way to each other, though no one else would notice it.
To anyone else, they’re just two women sifting through the sea of guests.
But as they pass each other, Bessie casually drops her hand and passes the vial to Cecily.
Cecily stows the little glass in her apron pocket, and it’s the most beautiful drug deal I’ve ever seen.
My heart soars, drunk with success. From here, Cecily will sneak into my new bedchamber and tuck the draft into a hidden pocket she’ll sew inside my robe.
I keep eyes on her as she slips from the hall, but my concentration shatters when Simon’s hand moves deliberately under mine.
My gaze snaps down to look, and I pull in a breath as the rough pad of his thumb brushes the skin of my palm.
For a split second, I feel it absolutely everywhere.
In one spot beneath my skirts in particular.
“Are you content?” he asks. “With the events of the day?”
His features stay neutral, and it makes his ghost of a touch feel even more brazen. My breathing stays spiked as we walk in a slow circle.
“I’m more content now.” My words come out a little unevenly. His thumb draws along my palm in another slow slide. “Are you content?”
“I hardly know what I am anymore.” We move apart. The men and women stand in two parallel lines until we move together, and Simon speaks again. “I must ask you something.”
I nod my head. He dips his voice low so no one else can hear. “I never existed to you before. We rarely spoke. I doubt you would have called me an acquaintance.”
Each couple breaks off to stand in their own small section. Simon and I take two steps in a diagonal to reach our spot. “And your question is . . .” I move the smallest bit closer to him, my arm pushing into his. No one can see it. Only we can feel it.
“What changed that day I came upon you in the gallery? Why do I exist to you now?”
The music is building. It’s almost the end. Now that Henry and I are married, I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to speak to Simon like this again. I take a breath before I answer. “Maybe I lost my memory—and I found you instead.”
Just for a moment, Simon’s eyes are completely unguarded, flashing with fire, and they’re achingly, painfully beautiful.
So beautiful that I don’t hear when the music stops.
So beautiful that when everyone else bows and curtsies to each other, we don’t.
It isn’t until a trumpet blares, almost shaking the room, that we reenter reality.
Following the gaze of the crowd, we see that one of Henry’s councilors is now standing on the dais.
I catch a glimpse of Simon looking between me and Henry, and his eyes flash with something dark.
“My lords. My ladies. It is time for the king and queen to retire to bed!”
Rowdy cheers sound through the room. Simon bows over my hand, gripping it so tightly that it hurts, but I cling to the sensation, if only for a moment.
Slipping my hand away and walking past him is so difficult, I’m not quite sure how I do it.
My feet feel weighted down with sandbags as I make my way back to the dais, going up the two small steps and placing my hand on Henry’s waiting arm.
We turn out to face the applauding crowd.
Simon has disappeared, but then I see Cecily standing in a corner.
“Are you ready?” Henry asks, seeming almost nervous in his humming anticipation.
I catch Cecily’s eyes once more, and she gives me a nod. I turn to Henry with a dutifully sweet smile. “More ready than you know.”
Some of the fancier ladies-in-waiting are the ones who dress me for bed.
The wives of earls. The daughter of dukes.
Dressing me is an honor now, and the nights of just me and Cecily are a thing of the past. But Cecily is here in spirit, thanks to her handiwork with my robe.
As deft with a needle as she is with shadow puppets, no one would ever suspect or notice the little pocket she sewed in.
But I feel it. And the little glass bottle waiting inside feels as heavy as a brick against my hand.
The ladies flutter off after a minute or two, sharing sly smiles among each other. Lady Rochford is the last to exit, and she’s suddenly holding a small cup like the one Cecily gave me before the ceremony.
“Some servant girl said you asked for mead. Is that true?”
“Oh, yes,” I answer, picking up the drink and tossing it back. I need all the liquid courage I can muster. I hand her back the cup, thanking her before she swiftly walks out.
Henry arrives at my bedchamber no more than a minute after she’s gone, walking through the door wearing a long nightgown and a fur-lined robe of red and gold.
“My sweet Catherine,” he says softly. “What a sight you are.” The door closes behind him, and I get the sense that we’re two fighters who have just been shut into an arena.
Only Henry has no idea.
“And what a sight you are,” I answer in return.
He crosses the room, taking my hands in his and looking deeply into my eyes. He goes to speak, but I beat him to it. “How about some wine?”
I slip my hands from his and move to a table near the hearth.
A restless fire hisses and snaps, keeping the room from falling silent and casting me in silhouette as I stand with my back to Henry.
My hands are shaking as I slip the vial from my pocket and uncork the stopper with my thumb.
I look over my shoulder. Henry has his eyes on the large four-poster bed as I hold the draft just above his glass.
I’m about to pour it in, but then I hesitate.
What if Bessie got the measurements wrong? What if it doesn’t work? What if it works more than it should? What if Henry tastes the difference and has me hanged or tortured for attempted royal murder?
If I’m going to do this, it has to happen now. Yes or no. In or out.
Fuck it.
I dump the draft into the cup down to the very last drop. I pour the wine in over it with my other hand next, slipping the empty vial back into my pocket in the process. I swish the cup in a circular motion as I face Henry once again.
When I cross the room to return to him, my insides feel like a broken elevator that’s plummeting to the basement. I offer Henry the cup, and I’m close enough that I feel his breath between us. The rise and fall of his chest is inches from my face.
“I hope you like it,” I tell him.
“What a sweet little wife you are.” He takes the cup with a tender grin and lifts it up in a toast. “To you, my lovely Catherine.” Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a sip as his gaze drops to mine. I wait on bated breath until he sighs. “This is delicious.”
Like about-to-kill-you delicious or normal delicious?
He downs the rest of the drink, and I lock my jaw to keep it from dropping. It is entirely possible that I just poisoned the king of England.
Henry hands the empty cup back to me, then rests his palms on my shoulders. “Are you ready to lie down, my heart? I have thought long and often about our wedding night.”
My mind goes blank. Bessie said the draft would take a few minutes to kick in. I need to stall him until then, and somehow I forgot to plan for it.
“Sure,” I answer weakly.
Henry is all smiles as he makes his way over to the colossal bed. He takes the side that’s farther into the room and stands just off from the mattress. He unfastens his robe and drops it to the floor with his eyes trained on mine. It’s the striptease that no one asked for.
He lowers himself down with a tired groan, stretching his injured leg out on the mattress.
When I eventually reach my side of the bed, I unfasten my robe slow enough to enrage a sloth.
I ease the material from my shoulders, and Henry’s eyes trail up and down my gossamer nightgown.
As they do, I notice the bandage wrappings on his injured leg.
The dressing is damp with yellow stains, and this is only on the outskirts.
“When did you hurt your leg?” I ask, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. I’ve only ever seen him limping, and as I breathe in, I catch the smell of rotting flesh and a stronger scent of men’s perfume emanating from around the wound.
“It’s an old injury. I was unhorsed in a joust many years ago, and the results were quite severe.”
I pause. “How severe?”
The king sits up straighter against the pillows, settling himself in the center of the bed. “I was told that I was unconscious for more than two hours. Many believed I would not survive it, but I proved them all wrong.”