Diego paced the corridor outside Catherine’s chamber, listening for any hint of noise. All was silent, except for soft murmurs. All was blank except for glimpses of firelight when the door opened or shut a precious inch. Maidservants came and went, bearing trays of food and wine, fur blankets from Queen Mary herself, as well as the royal physicians in their black robes.
Jane Dormer appeared and stopped to give him a reassuring smile. ‘She has a fever, but the Queen’s doctors have bled her and given her a tisane for sleep, so she is resting now. I’m sure all will be well, Don Diego.’
‘Will you tell her...?’ he said, but then just shook his head. What could he tell her? That she had utterly transformed his lonely life?
That he couldn’t bear the thought of being without her now. Of ever losing her smile.
Once he’d thought marriage to be a necessary duty, that partnership could be all to hope for, especially after Juana. Love was something only in poems. When he first beheld Catherine, first touched her hand, he realised he had been so wondrously wrong.
What if he lost her now, when he had only just found her? What if he could never walk with her in the sunshine of his home, never tell Yule tales with her, Isabella, and their own children? Never have a partner in his duty, a friend, a love.
No, he swore. That could never be. She had to live.