Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Hearing him say Simon’s name hurts more than I anticipated. For his own safety, I reveal nothing in my features, remaining completely blank. “The only words I ever exchanged with Simon Gainsford were of the love I bear to my husband, the king.”
The duke takes a close look at me. I wonder if, deep down, he knows that no one actually loves the king. “And Gainsford is not the first, is he? There was also Francis Dereham before him.”
“I have no idea who that is,” I tell him. “Wait, wasn’t he the Dowager Duchess’s secretary at Lambeth?”
“He was,” the duke answers. “I was at Lambeth just a few days ago and spoke to my stepmother. She didn’t recall ever having seen you in company with Dereham.”
The Dowager Duchess said she’d help me. It seems she’s making good on her promise.
“That’s because I never was.” I keep my expression saturated in na?ve honesty, and the duke rests one of his ankles on a knee.
“I interviewed her staff as well, and every one of them went on to say what a modest, sweet girl you were. Indeed, you dedicated your days to embroidering and praying to God.”
“The two most important things,” I agree.
For a second, the duke looks as though he’s actually trying to subdue a smile. “Then we searched the residence. Mistress Marshall mentioned letters that might be hidden, detailing the depths of your former relationship.”
“More lies on her part. Such letters don’t exist.” And this time, I’m being truthful. They don’t exist anymore.
“Nothing of note was discovered,” the duke admits. “And on top of that, Francis Dereham has mysteriously vanished from court and has yet to be found. Which is remarkable since he was here but days before your investigation began.”
“I hope that he’s all right,” I reply. “Though as I said, I didn’t really know him.”
“Indeed,” the duke commiserates. “From Lambeth, we then went on to question your ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor here at the palace. All of them spoke at great length of your piety, generosity, and infallible purity.”
I love my Tudor girl squad. Just saying.
“One lady-in-waiting, Joan Harrington, stated that it was through your unending dedication to the king that she learned to be a more obedient wife and that she will name her next-born daughter Catherine.”
Hope swells in my chest. Our plan is working. We’re changing the narrative.
“Joan is a fine woman. I’m glad I was able to inspire her.”
“And another lady-in-waiting, Lady Wessex, says that thanks to your dedication to the church, she now attends mass four times a day. She even briefly considered entering a nunnery so that she could serve the Lord as faithfully as you do.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’ve prayed long and hard for Lady Wessex. I’m honored that I could lead her back into the light.”
The duke continues to watch me, but I only grow more confident under his stare.
“A number of inquisitors have been at work within the palace, but no matter who we ask—servants, cooks, musicians, scullery maids—they all speak of the love and admiration they bear to you. One redheaded flutist went so far as to refer you as the most noble and loyal queen to have ever lived.”
Oh, William. It’s always the quiet ones who make the most convincing liars.
“If I’ve pleased the people, it is only because I’ve followed the example of the king, who they love above all others.”
My uncle doesn’t try to hide his smile now. “You’re very good,” he says quietly. “You’re a Howard through and through, aren’t you?”
He bops me on the nose with his index finger, and I’m very tempted to bite it off.
“All right then, my interrogation is complete. I’m sure Lady Rochford is parroting the same pretty words in the next room. You ladies have done a good job for yourselves.”
He gets up from his chair and heads to the door. And I jump up before I know what I’m doing.
“Wait,” I call after him. “Where are you going?”
“I’m off to relay the details of our conversation to the privy council. You wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork that goes into deposing a queen.”
Shocking. I never knew that state-sanctioned murder was such a tedious task.
“Where does that leave me?” I ask. And I hate that fact that this horrendous man knows my fate and I don’t.
“That’s up to the king,” he says after a pause. “If you have any witchcraft left in you, you best prepare to summon it.”
He moves closer to the door, and I step after him. “Why would you even suggest that?”
His eyes are coy as he turns to face me. “Because the king wishes to see you. You can expect him within the hour.”
I go immobile at his words, knowing that this isn’t part of Henry’s typical game. He cut all contact with Catherine of Aragon once he wanted her gone, and he never spoke to Anne Boleyn again after her imprisonment.
I want to ask the duke more questions, but he’s gone before I can utter another word.
He closes the door behind him, and I listen as the guard locks it from the outside.
I need to think. I need to get ready. If Henry is coming to see me, then our plan must be working.
He’s going off script, and it’s a welcomed change.
The most important thing is that I play this right.
And I need to play Henry if I’m going to survive.
Two hours later, the door opens again. Henry walks inside, with his classic puffy sleeves and his too-tight hose.
Then I hear the key being turned in the lock, and it’s just the two of us now.
The room feels smaller with him in here with me.
Not just because of his stature, but because he seems to drink up all the energy and air wherever he goes, leaving nothing for anyone else.
I stand from my chair, clasping my hands together over my skirt.
“Hello, Henry.”
His eyes flash with rage. “You dare speak my name after what you have done to me?” He steps farther into the room, his limp more noticeable than ever.
Gone are his love-bombing, mirroring ways from the beginning of our relationship. We’ve now advanced to the blaming stage. The part where he devalues and discards and seeks revenge. He’s angry and assessing, and I’m not at all surprised by his shift.
Henry is a shining example of narcissistic personality disorder. All the traits are there: the unquenchable thirst for admiration, the constant feelings of self-importance, and the almost complete lack of empathy for others.
Without a detailed social history, I can’t give a definite assessment, but I’m sure both medical and environmental factors are at play.
Henry and the rest of the world see him as handpicked by God to rule England and now the church—and anyone who wouldn’t display at least some degree of narcissism in his position would be a rare find.
I’m also pretty sure his traumatic injury in the joust must have affected him.
From what I gathered, his mental health went into decline almost immediately after, and I’d be shocked if the two weren’t connected.
But Henry takes his narcissism to a different level—a decidedly murderous one.
This is especially true in the arena of love, or what he perceives to be love.
He puts women on a pedestal only to shoot them down.
Affection is performance based. If I’m not giving him the self-affirming fuel that he needs, then I’m a mistake that needs to be punished.
“I’m so pleased to see you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and turns away, walking past me to stand nearer to the hearth. “Every word from your mouth is steeped with lies. You have made a fool of me!”
I stay calm. I need to be calm if I’m going to do what I need to do. “No one could ever make a fool of you.”
“You tricked me into marrying you,” he accuses. “You used dark magic to enchant me and then took poison to keep me from giving you children.”
This would be the ideal moment to mention that we’ve never actually had sex, but unfortunately, I have to keep the words bolted down. Instead, I go with “Is that what you believe?”
His eyes flash brighter. He’s looking for a fight. “It is what I know to be true. You pursued me! Every look you gave, every word you spoke, told me that you loved me.”
In true narcissist fashion, he’s making himself the victim. Placing the blame solely with me rather than taking responsibility for his own actions. He literally has had me locked in a room for over a week, and he wants me to believe that he’s the one being treated unfairly.
“And what is love to you?” I ask, slowly stepping toward him.
His eyebrows go up in surprise at my approach. “Do not speak to me as if you are my equal. You are being held prisoner for your deceitfulness and betrayal. And should I so choose, you could rot in the tower for the rest of your life. If I am merciful, I will grant you a quick death.”
He doesn’t like my questions. He wants me to remember who’s in control. Message received.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I only ask you questions because I’m so relieved and overjoyed to see you. These past days without you have been the most painful of my life.”
His eyes soften a degree then. He’s happy that I’m suffering.
When dealing with a narcissist, confronting them head-on will only make matters worse. I have to feed his ego. I need to convince him to be the savior that he believes himself to be. And I need to do it now.
Slipping into damsel-in-distress mode, I inhale a quivering breath.
“Your Majesty, husband, you are more important to me than anything in this world. I’m sorry that I disappointed you.
I’m sorry that you are unhappy and that I’m the cause of it.
And I’m the so sorry that I’m not the wife you rightfully deserve. ”
He pauses, my honey-sweet repentant tone once again capturing his attention. “I know well why you are undeserving of me. But I would hear it from your own lips.”
“Because,” I tell him, “I cannot give you a son.”
Henry turns to face me, his eyes totally transfixed. “How do you know that?”
I go over the script we came up with in my privy council meeting.
“The day you left on your travels, I prayed and prayed that we conceived on our wedding night. But when my monthlies began a few days later, I knew that we didn’t.
And that’s how I know that God couldn’t have blessed our union.
He didn’t bless it because I’m not worthy of you.
All the blame lies with me. And I know that I can’t remain married to you because it, despite the fact that my heart yearns for you with every single beat. ”
Flattery. Validation. Remorse. Acquiescence.
“I’m consumed with shame for the pain I caused you. All I ever wanted was to prove my love for you, but I know that I hurt you in unimaginable ways.”
Henry sits down in one of the chairs, eating up each of my words like delicious morsels.
“You have hurt me, Catherine. You have hurt me more than you could ever comprehend.”
It’s time to go all in now, and I kneel down by the side of Henry’s chair. “I know that,” I tell him. “You were and are everything a husband should be. It was me who failed. Only me.”
He hunches over the table, bringing himself close to me and trying to read my gaze. If he could see what was really in there, he would read the words: fuck you. He sits back with a sigh.
“My astrologer told me as much.”
Shock thunders through me as I rock back on my heels. “What?”
“My astrologer, Matthias, came to see me a week ago, before he fled the palace. It was early morning, still dark. He told me that he was studying the star charts from the day you were born, and he had a prophecy that you would bear me no heirs. He said a thick mist covered your womb, whatever that means.”
I stare wide-eyed at Henry. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.
“A mist?” I ask, making sure I heard the king correctly.
Henry only nods. “He claimed it was through no fault of your own and that God had grander plans for me. He believed that if I spared you, an army of sons would follow with my next wife.”
Matthias, you beautiful bastard. He didn’t abandon me. At least, not without corroborating my story first, which I absolutely never told him. I must have the mist to thank for that.
The king turns to me then, gauging my reaction before he goes on. “I have also been told by many that everyone at court knows of Mistress Marshall’s love of me. And that is what led to her coming forward against you.”
Holy shit. Our story as traction. The king has heard it.
“It’s not her fault. No one can help their love for you. I couldn’t, even when I knew you should marry someone far above me.”
Flattery. Validation. Remorse. Acquiescence.
Henry places his hand on mine as it grips the armrest. “Are you afraid?” he asks carefully. He really is enjoying this.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Do you wish for me to show you mercy?”
It’s now or never. I need to make him want to rescue me at this crucial moment, even though he’s the one who put me here. It really is do-or-die.
“I wish for your mercy, but I seek your forgiveness above all other things. The world knows that you’re a just and honorable king, with unparalleled strength and wisdom.
I pray that you can show compassion to a scared young girl who loves you, so that all can see you as the righteous, merciful ruler that you are. Only you can save me.”
Try as I might to be mentally strong, I’m only human, and I’m not immune to the potential horrors of my situation.
I don’t want to be imprisoned here forever.
I don’t want to be executed. I don’t want them to touch Simon.
I let my genuine fear of death flood my senses, squeezing me tight and bearing down on me.
My breath turns heavy as tears flurry in my eyes.
“The world could have been yours,” Henry says, pushing himself up to stand. “You could have had all of it. Now, you shall have none.”
He turns and makes his way to the door, and I jolt upright, pushing past the emotion in my throat to speak once more.
“Your Majesty,” I say softly to his withdrawing form. He stops walking and turns back. “I hope that you find happiness someday. And the love that you seek.”
He stares at me for several seconds before he leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and it’s terrifying to know that he holds my fate in his hands. I’ve played the game the best I could, and now I have to wait to see the outcome.
I also wait for Lady Rochford to return, but she never does.
I’m alone again.
In time. In this room. And the truth of it is, I might not ever get out.