21
The friendship

DAYS COASTED BY on the ragged October wind whose chill kept Kate indoors much of the time. She was able to steal away after Chapel, on occasion, to see the wolf cub, but a trip to the stables, considerably farther, did not easily materialize. Her thoughts of home seemed windblown as well—and she sank deeper and deeper into the richness of living each day in the moment.

To everything there is a season, she thought one day as she picked at her sewing—or were these Katherine’s thoughts? To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. She remembered with sudden clarity her father saying these lines, the rich timbre of his voice, his smiling eyes. Dad, she thought, with a longing that she’d nearly forgotten, a surge of memories threatening to break free. And then, as one might close a book, she stopped the tide, turned her back on the ocean of thoughts in which she knew she’d drown. Reaching for the sewing basket, she deliberated: Which red would be best …

Henry was compulsively busy, hawking, hunting, or working on various activities within the palace with which he insisted Kate assist him. It was clear that everyone admired the Prince, and, wherever he went, praise for his accomplishments rang loud and long. No wonder, thought Kate, in one of her few quiet moments, that he thought so much of himself. Everyone else so obviously does, or has to say so.

Yet, indeed, there was much for Henry to be proud of. He did have a bit of a temper, but if Kate were careful, she could manage to let sleeping dogs lie. Henry was creative and inventive, and while Kate doubted his experiments with mechanics would lead to the motor car, she was sure his designs for innovative plumbing were quite functional. He had plans for new weapons, and his passion for astronomy was admirable, along with elaborate maps he had devised of heaven and earth. The Prince confided one day to Kate that even though Martin Waldseemuller had recently published a new world map, naming in honor of Amerigo Vespucci the continent of America, his own maps would one day grace the world stage.

Kate wondered at her own lack of skills. What had she been doing all these years? Skipping school came first to mind, but she concluded that her whole life had seemed bent on avoidance. Had she really been pushing life away, as Willow had accused, securing herself where she imagined nothing could touch her? There seemed to be so much to learn, and time, as Henry said, waited for no one.

The desire to see Willow again had diminished into a faint hope that was easy to set aside. Kate wondered occasionally about how things were back home, but her memories had become as thin as the winter sunlight that left faint warmth on her skin. Indeed, it was truly as if this had always been her real life, and that other life the dream.

She was aware of time passing, but complacent. In the few stolen moments when she encountered William at the side of the wolf cub, she enjoyed hearing his stories of rural life, piecing together information about life outside the palace, the details of which even Katherine was ignorant. William knew a great deal about sheep farming and Kate asked many questions. In the spring, it was he who had cared for any orphan lambs on the family farm. He would at first tempt them with a moistened cloth, then slowly lower the cloth to the surface of a pail of milk so that they would learn how to drink. When the lambs were ten days old, he would introduce them to tender grains.

“You should see them jump,” he laughed one day, speaking of the young lambs. “They run forward, then leap into the air with such lightness of being. At times I used to think them airborne creatures, just waiting for the right wind to set them on their course. Would that we all had such joy in motion.”

“Don’t you find it hard to butcher them, when the time comes?” asked Kate.

“No,” said William, without a moment’s hesitation. “They have had what is, for them, a good life. No matter how long it lasts. That is the best any of us can wish for—to make use of the time we have. To fill our place. To create joy for others. That is our calling.”

Kate, at the time, disregarded his words, but later they returned to her again and again. To create joy for others. A different take on life than the idea of simply reaching for joy. Perhaps a richer take, she thought, but more difficult. How could she create something for others when she had known so little of it herself?

Yet Henry seemed to be working hard to even the score. He brought her poems and many little notes expressing his delight with her, each visit seeming even more pleasant than the last. Days passed, then weeks. Occasionally Kate recollected how Henry had cuffed the young page, and she soon had other similar incidents to compare, but these thoughts were not entertained for long. Henry did have a bad temper but you just had to stay on his good side, and Kate got quite competent at doing just that.

Kate wondered vaguely one Saturday, if it was still Saturday at 2 PM back home, or if it was already into November, as it was here. Whenever she asked exactly what day it was, Doña Elvira snapped that it was the day after yesterday and that Kate should start paying attention. She knew with some certainty that she had been here over a month, that the year was 1507, and that fall had shifted fully into winter with weather dark and depressing. The passage of time was less important, somehow, when one was living each day for its best moments.

Her constant comfort was the hours she spent in the library on the Queen’s side, a room unused by most of the palace but which contained a long shelf of books—more books in one place than Kate had seen anywhere else here in Tudor times. Many of the books contained religious content written in an English she found difficult to comprehend, but the inscriptions were fascinating. To my Little Jewel, from Grandmother Neville; This book I give to my Treasured Daughter; To my Little Niece, Ever yours, Uncle Richard. In contrast to the latter note, she found a book of love poems inscribed To my Own Dear Darling, Your Richard. Were these Richards one and the same? Had King Richard ever been romantically inclined toward his youthful niece? Yuck, thought Kate. That’s not even legal! Then there were other books that read, To an Intelligent Reader, Your Faithful Servant, Sanctorius; To my own dear Wife; To my Dear Daughter-In-Law, with kind regards, Lady Margaret. This latter was a glossy collection of Bible verses in Latin alongside their English translations. Another title given to Elizabeth from her mother-in-law and lavishly illustrated was a Book of Hours, published in 1494. Like many of the books on the shelf, it contained tiny annotations along the inside margins—the sign of a studious reader, thought Kate. Henry’s mother was more than just a pretty face. She’d clearly had an intellect to be reckoned with.

Kate’s favorite titles turned out to be a series of stories about Robin Hood, whom she gathered must have been a real fellow and a hero even in this century. These were boldly illustrated with crude black-and-white prints, although some included very complicated cross-hatching, where sections were shaded in with numerous fine lines. The stories were refreshing, taking her out of the day-to-day world, if only temporarily.

“I hope Mother is working with Charlotte on her sums,” William said one evening as they shared a companionable hour in the library. He had begun to join Kate there when the days began to shorten, and Kate sensed in him a loneliness that grew with each passing week.

“Is that how you learned?” Kate asked. “At your mother’s knee?”

“No, I went to school in the village,” reported William. “But that won’t do for Charlotte as she is a girl.”

“So girls’ learning is less important?” asked Kate.

“No, not necessarily. It’s just done differently,” answered William. “Father would have seen to it had he been home. Or Mother, were she not so busy. But now I fear poor Charlotte will much be going without.”

“Stop scratching!” Kate said, frowning at him. “Pour on a little vinegar to ease the itch.” She had never known anyone as susceptible as William to flea bites. Hard to believe he’d lived on a farm for most of his life.

“Didn’t you have fleas back home?” she asked.

“They didn’t bother me as much,” said William. “Maybe they preferred the animals and stayed off the people.”

“Is life here in court very different from what you were used to?” Kate probed.

“Court life is indeed different from real life,” said William. “In my family, both my parents have equal responsibility for the farm, unlike court where it seems as if the duties of men and women are altogether separate. A good thing, too, that my mother has such skills, for she manages much during my father’s absence.”

“And your brothers and sisters?” Kate asked.

“The two eldest brothers work the land and a third manages the sheep,” William answered. “It isn’t easy without Father. If I were there, I’d help with the lambs, but I did not have much choice in the matter. When you’re called to court, you must seriously consider the offer.”

“Would you rather farm, then, than study with the Prince?” asked Kate.

“I do appreciate most of my studies,” responded William. “And, God willing, this learning may help me in my dream of writing a … a book. A book about general farming.” He dug furtively at a spot on his side, the color rising in his cheeks.

“A book?” Kate heard the surprise in her voice.

“And why not?” he replied, a little defiantly. “Just because the technology is new, there’s no reason to think common people should not have access.”

“Oh, of course,” Kate said quickly. “Like tractors and stuff, right?”

“Tractors? What are you talking about?” said William.

“Oh, I thought—when you said technology …” she stumbled.

“The technology of printing. The printing press. Have you not heard of it?” he asked more kindly.

“Oh, I see! Of course,” said Kate. “I understand you now. That is a … a wonderful idea.”

“People have no way of getting information about farming without literature,” said William. “Only wealthy gentlemen can travel and, other than gossip at inns and alehouses and watching closely the activities of one’s neighbors, the spread of ideas about good practice is slow, indeed. Of course, we need to have more people learning to read, but I believe that practices are changing. Since Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press, more people have access to written texts, and the desire to learn to read has thus increased.”

“And what exactly would you include in such a book?” Kate pressed him.

“Well, I had an idea some years ago that my father took seriously. There were a lot of lambs in our flock each spring and not enough fresh grass for feed. I said it would be good if we could somehow bring river water over the grassland all winter, keeping the soil warm as water does, and then drain it off in the spring so there would be an early lush crop of grass on solid ground.”

“And that worked?” asked Kate.

“It did, indeed,” said William. “Father found a way to channel the water just as I’d suggested, and we were able to feed our lambs and sell them at the market before most other lambs were ready. In fact, in his last year at home, my father made a trip to Eastcheap, one of London’s premier meat markets, where he was well rewarded. This and other ideas I have ready for publication when the time comes.”

“So, couldn’t you just write the book now?” Kate asked.

“First I must attend university, which I hope to do as a student who receives a free education by serving at table. Once I have a degree, I believe I would be in a better position to write. However, if my mother needs me at home when I am allowed to leave this place, I will heed her wishes.”

“Your mother must really miss your father,” Kate said.

“They were inseparable,” said William. “I used to hear them talking well into the night, planning family activities, laughing together about some small joke. They were true partners in every sense of the phrase.”

His words made Kate think fuzzily of the couple on the train, the businessman and the Goth. Two people so different and yet so in tune with each other. The recollection was blurred, almost as if she had imagined it. Much of the time spent in London and before had become hazy, as if those memories were covered with a cottony cloth that let light through but not much else. She sighed and thought of Henry. How she longed for more of the closeness she felt when they were together. Henry’s attention was constant, but he was so busy with his tutor and his father’s lessons in politics that he did not have a great deal of free time.

“Mother lives for Father’s return, and the hope of returning to her is what keeps Father alive in prison.” William brushed his hand across his eyes and then picked at the flea bites along his arm. “So far, I have not been much use to them. But I hope that soon the King will authorize a pardon. I must just keep trying to plead Father’s case with the Prince.” Kate and William sat for a short while in silence, each thinking of goals that lay unrealized. When they resumed their reading, Kate gratefully welcomed the chance to put aside heavy thoughts. You couldn’t be anxious all the time!

As time went on, Kate slipped further and further into the routines of day to day, lulled into the rhythms and expectations of life at court. Although she could separate Katherine’s sentiments from her own if she tried, she generally stopped distinguishing one from another. It was easier to act as one person. The only secret she studiously kept from Henry was the existence of the wolf cub. She and William took charge of the animal, their unspoken agreement to silence covering more than just the wolf cub’s care. It wasn’t suitable to be seen in each other’s company, especially as Kate was engaged to the Prince, and both of them knew it.

As they waited one day for the wolf to finish a romp in the woods, Kate found herself telling William about missing her mother. “The way she left us, so suddenly, was the worst of it,” she said.

“I’ve heard that royalty have many expectations placed upon them,” said William gently. “Perhaps your mother wanted to be with you but it just wasn’t possible. And death, you know, comes someday for us all.”

She didn’t die, Kate thought, but then Katherine’s memories flooded her mind. Isabella had died, and quite suddenly. But Isobel—the confusing juxtaposition of two mothers gave Kate a headache and she tried to drop the subject.

“Perhaps,” she said. But she remained unconvinced and unforgiving.

“I’m sure my little brothers feel I’ve deserted them,” William went on. “We used to play all sorts of games. The youngest, Fred, was only three when I left. Dear little Freddy. I’d pull him on a sack around the yard and he’d crow with joy. And Richard, just beginning to learn his sums. How I miss them. After breakfast, my mother would gather the little ones and say, ‘Now, what must you NOT do?’ and they would recite their previous exploits so earnestly. I recall when a particular chasing game was in high favor, and somehow they had tumbled down on a neighbor come to tea. The next morning, they replied to mother, ‘We must not run down Lady Whittington.’ My older brothers and I rocked with laughter at that.”

“How many brothers do you have?” asked Kate.

“Six. Five living. I once had three sisters but two have already gone with the angels, leaving only Charlotte. She is four years younger than I am and very keen on her studies. We had hoped that Father would be able to tutor her as he did the boys before they went to school, but prison has prevented that dream from coming true.”

“So you come from a family of ten children,” said Kate.

“Yes. And you?” asked William. For a moment, Kate couldn’t remember. Then she answered, “Six. Joanna and Maria are my only living siblings.” She smiled at William. “Isn’t that silly? For a moment, I couldn’t think of their names. I am the youngest.”

“Do you miss them?” he asked.

“To everything there is a season,” said Kate, copying her father with surprising ease. “As Queen, I will be Ambassador to Spain and have much work ahead of me. I do hope I will see them, Maria especially, but I am not counting on it. My life is here.”

William gave her a look she could not read, and the gaze from his brown eyes remained soft and questioning.

“I do miss my dog, a spaniel,” she continued. “He was to come to England with me, but just before we sailed he disappeared. He was a lovely black and white creature with long silky fur, and such a good listener.”

“I also grew up with a dog,” said William, looking down at his hands. “Rover.”

“You call your dog Rover?” asked Kate, chuckling that anyone would give an animal such a common name.

“Why, yes. What’s so funny about that?” asked William, as she laughed harder. “Actually, called would be more appropriate. He died a few weeks after I arrived here.”

Kate sobered instantly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, touching his arm.

“So maybe your mother couldn’t help it,” William repeated, his plain and honest face gentle and concerned. “My next eldest brother and two younger sisters were taken by the fever. I am sure it was not in their minds to leave us, as it was not in Rover’s, but, indeed, they were all called to a greater good.” He scratched at his arms until Kate gave him a warning look.

“I don’t know if she could help it or not,” said Kate. Then she sighed. “I just remember waiting for her and then for my father all one afternoon, my hand bleeding from a cut I’d gotten on some broken glass. I can’t help wondering if her leaving was all my fault.” Then Kate thought about her father’s death. That had been her fault, too.

“Is that how you got this scar?” asked William, carefully turning over her left hand to display its palm.

“Yes,” said Kate, her skin tingling strangely at his touch.

“K for Katherine?” he asked, smiling a little.

“K for … Kate,” she said, startling herself at this revelation. Where had it come from?

“Ah, Kate. A noble name,” he said, reaching out and formally shaking her other hand. “Of course, you know that none of it was your fault,” he went on gently, returning the hands to their owner. “To everything there is a season … a time to be born and a time to die. We cannot control the fates any more than we can prevent them. Rest easily. It was not your fault.”

Kate looked at him, feeling as if pent-up darkness were draining away until all that was left was a heady sensation of light.

“Do you … do you really think so?” she asked, knowing the answer even before he nodded.

“K for Kate, we had best be getting back to the castle,” he said, drawing her to her feet. “The sun is on its downward slide.”

She stood and leaned on his arm, wobbly for a moment, happiness enveloping her like a warm wind. They saw the wolf safely back indoors and William whispered into the darkness of the shed: “Soon. Soon, you’ll be free.”

With freedom comes danger, Kate thought, steady again. Was it a chance that was worth taking?