Chapter Twenty
“I . . .” My voice stutters as Henry’s eyes bore into mine. He’s really here in this room, and his presence is nearly overpowering. “Yes, I’ve missed you very much.”
He tilts his chin up, looking down his nose at me like he’s humoring a child. “If you have, then come here and greet me.”
I don’t feel my feet moving, but I’m slowly approaching him.
When I stand before him, he seems taller.
It feels like his arms could reach each wall.
I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing when I go up on my toes and kiss his cheek.
He takes my hand in return and kisses it, squeezing a little too hard before he lets it go.
I force myself to smile as I take a step back. He begins to slowly survey the room, walking the length of it and looking into the eyes of everyone who is here.
“I have heard many a tale of what has gone on at court in my absence,” he says. “You have all been having quite the merry time, have you not?”
No one answers, and I don’t blame them.
I wring my hands together, knowing that it’s up to me to deal with my husband. “We tried to put on a brave face. But it wasn’t the same without you.”
Henry turns to look at me, and his eyes almost cut through me. The doting “lover” who cared for nothing so much as my happiness is long gone, and a stranger is here instead. Although this isn’t really a stranger, is it? I’m simply meeting the real Henry.
“Really? I have been told otherwise.” His words are still hanging in the air when Mistress Marshall enters the room. She smiles at me like a friend never would, and I blink against my rising panic.
I wait for her to speak, but nothing comes. What would be the point of it? Her entrance said it all.
Once Henry’s taken stock of each guest in the room, he makes his way back toward the doors.
“The day has come to end,” he says. “Let us all seek rest or prayer.” He focuses his attention on me, and I don’t know if I should smile or run.
“After I talk a while with Mistress Marshall, I expect to see you in my chamber.”
I nod and curtsy in response. Everyone files out of the room one by one, until only Mistress Marshall and I remain. She walks toward me with slow, delicate steps.
“Did I fail to mention that I have known the king since childhood? He trusts my judgment in many matters, as he knows I am his most loyal of subjects.”
She’s literally radiating an after-sex glow. That’s how happy Mistress Marshall is right now.
“No, you never told me that,” I murmur.
She tsks me under her breath. “How forgetful of me. In any case, I’m glad to be telling you now.” She steps in close to me and takes my hands. “Consider it a peace offering.”
An unforgiving chill settles through my fingers as I pull my hands away. Lady Rochford appears at the door, looking more than ready to pull Mistress Marshall out by her pointy gable hood.
“Take care, Your Majesty,” the woman says quietly. “I will see to it that the king is illuminated to all your misdoings—past as well as present.” She turns and leaves after that, and she and Lady Rochford bump shoulders in the process.
I say nothing when it’s just the two of us left, and before I know what’s happening, Lady Rochford places her hand on the small of my back and ushers me from the room.
Back in the privacy of my bedchamber, Lady Rochford is the first to speak. “Let us remain calm. That is the most important thing.”
I snap out of my stupor, moving to my dressing table and grabbing three bottles of Bessie’s sleeping draft that I hid away in a drawer.
“I have to kill him,” I tell her, the bottles jingling in my shaking hands. “I have to kill him before he kills me.”
Lady Rochford actually goes pale. “Mother Mary, I need to sit down.” She moves to sit on the edge of my bed, rubbing her fingers into her forehead as Theo sniffs her waist.
“He knows.” My voice is trembling, but I’m resolute. I have to do this. “Did you see how he was acting? There’s no way that he doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?” she asks, looking up. Then she shakes her head. “Don’t answer that.” She stands from the bed, following me as I begin pacing around the room. “He could be tired, Catherine. His leg could be ailing him, and his mood is foul.”
I’ve never known Lady Rochford to be na?ve. “There’s more to it than that. And you heard Mistress Marshall, she’s going to tell him everything.” I’m still holding the bottles—so tightly that I’m a little nervous they could break.
“What will she tell him? As far as that witch knows, all you and we have been doing is drinking and dancing more than we should. That’s poor decision-making, not a crime.”
I stop pacing to face her with agitated eyes. “I’m pretty sure poor decision-making is a crime here.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Lady Rochford rips the bottles from my hands as the Dowager Duchess steps inside. “Good evening, Your Grace,” she says, curtsying to the older woman.
The Dowager looks us over, taking both of us in before she speaks. “Well, I’m glad I won’t be the one to ruin the evening. From the looks on your faces, it seems like it’s already been lost to hellfire.”
Her statement is ominous, but I don’t know what could possibly be more ominous than my current situation.
“Why would you ruin the night?” I ask.
She closes the door behind her and pushes down on her cane as she walks farther into the room. “The letters that Dereham was after. The love letters where he wrote that you two were as good as married—they’ve been stolen from my rooms.”
And my situation just got more ominous. I look to Lady Rochford, but she only shakes her head.
“It wasn’t me,” she says.
It feels like the room is tilting. My stomach lurches as I come to realize the truth.
“It must have been Mistress Marshall.” No one else says anything, and I go on, my voice surprisingly steady.
“She told me that she knew about my past. She was so confident. And she’s meeting with the king right now. ”
The room is quiet. No one tells me that I’m wrong. No one mentions an alternate possibility.
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” the Dowager says. “I should have given them to you when I had the chance.”
I swallow past the nerves in my throat as I look over at her. “It’s all right. You couldn’t have known.”
Seconds tick by in silence until the Dowager speaks again. “From here on out, I will help you in any way I can, as will everyone at Lambeth.” She makes her way to the door and is just beginning to leave when she turns and looks at me one more time. “Good luck, my girl.”
She closes the door, and no sooner does the latch fall than it suddenly lifts and opens again. A royal messenger walks in, scanning the room until he sees me. “The king requires your presence immediately.”
Lady Rochford moves toward him before I can even clock her location. “Enter this room without permission again, and I’ll see you bound and beaten.” She moves closer still, lowering her voice. “And not in the way that you like.”
The messenger turns red and disappears out the door, though he ends up leaving it open. I follow after him and pause in front of Lady Rochford. I carefully taking the sleeping drafts that she has hidden in her hands. She doesn’t stop me. She lets me go. The king doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
When I arrive in Henry’s rooms, the bottles are stowed in my tight gown sleeve as I step farther inside. The space is still beautiful, but there’s an oiliness to the air now. The crackling fire sounds sharp, and the meats on Henry’s table smell like they’re days too old.
“Hello, Catherine.” My eyes track to find him, and he’s unmoving in his chair near the fire.
“Hello, Henry,” I answer.
He looks at the flames in the hearth as they snap and dance. I watch him as he sits, and his facial expressions have changed since the party. They’re not pointy and shadowed. They’re more reflective. Like he’s somehow being pulled inward.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Repentant.
He finally cranes his neck to look in my direction. “Why would you think so?”
I shrug gently, my palms open. “You just seem different.”
Henry turns back to the fire. “Perhaps my time away has altered your memory of me. Or perhaps you hit your head once more and forget yourself.”
He sounds like a parent who’s saying “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” But I also see his right hand clenching into a fist against the armrest of his chair. The rage is in there, but it hasn’t reached a boil yet. It’s simmering for now.
“Tell me, how has your time been spent in my absence?” he goes on to ask. He’s still not looking at me, and I step closer to him, trying to signify that I want to be near him. That I trust him. That he can trust me.
“I’ve embroidered mostly,” I tell him. “I also made some changes to improve working conditions for the servants.”
“Aren’t you the perfect little queen?”
He isn’t talking to me like I’m perfect. And when he turns to look at me, it isn’t the look he gives. He continues to stare at me, saying nothing, and his hand is still balled into an unforgiving fist. My insides tighten as I reactively enter into fight or flight.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?”
Henry’s smile is forced and barely existent. “How you spoil me,” he says.
I take that as a yes and turn to walk over to the side table.
I twist my wrist as I cross the room, letting the bottles in my sleeve loosen and slide into my palm.
I don’t want them to jingle, so I pour the wine slowly before I empty the contents of each bottle into the cup.
My hands are shaking. My heart rate is in the stratosphere.
What the fuck am I doing? Am I actually going to kill the king of England?
I might hyperventilate. I steal a peek over my shoulder, but Henry is completely focused on the fire. I tell myself that it’s him or me. I have to choose. But why does he look so sad?