A great carriage had entered through the main gates and was coming down the path. As it took the gentle turns, the girls could see the badge that identified it, a coat of arms with a ripe pomegranate spilt open, its seeds too many to count, set below a magnificent crown. The wood was polished and dark, and its wheels turned without noise. Rose had never seen such money in one carriage.
There were several litters behind it, smaller carriages with cloth canopies. When the queen’s carriage stopped, these stopped too. Rose laughed to see the attendants popping out like baby birds, with their high-pitched voices and bobbing heads, their straining eyes taking in Rose and the estate with wild interest.
Catherine waved them off and walked alone to the house. Sir Thomas and his attendants rushed to receive her. She looked to be a woman in a dream, ignoring their attempts to escort and support her, and simply walking into the house as if it were her own. When she was inside, the birdlike attendants began their twittering and fussing again, and Rose stole a last look at them as she followed in behind Margaret.
They found the queen in the family room, hastily swept clear from the lessons that had been in progress. Rose could hear the cook flying about in the kitchen to prepare something suitable, and the servants of the household stood about stupidly. The royal family had visited before, but always with notice, and always with enough time to remove traces of their everyday lives. To be seen like this, without preparation, was to be unmasked in an unnatural way. Rose noted that no one was comfortable, save the queen.
She looked entirely mortal, which surprised Rose, who kept searching her face and person for some hint as to who she truly was. She was a daughter of kings, which should have imbued her with great mystic quality, but Rose could not pinpoint it. It was enough, she decided, that this woman had seen what she had not and lived a life she would never know. To Rose, Catherine was a mystic—one who inhabited another place. Rose hung on every word and gesture as if it had great meaning.
The queen was not terribly big, but beneath the enormous skirts and great pointed hat with a train, she filled the family room disproportionately. Her forehead was broad and tall, with the hairline plucked for several inches so that her hat sat upon her hair but revealed none of it. She had a tiny nose, with a slight bump and upturn at the end. It must have been a darling effect as a young girl, but it was offset by a frown etched below it and deep wrinkles around the puffy eyes. She absently pulled at her eyebrows and wiped her eyes again and again. Rose realized the queen was waiting for everyone to finish staring.
Sir Thomas ushered everyone from the room, sweeping them from it like they were children. Only Margaret did he allow to stay, when she gave him a heartfelt look, and since Margaret held close to Rose’s hand, Rose did not move. All others were gently banished and Sir Thomas closed the door behind them.
“There is a man being dragged through the streets behind a horse,” the queen began, looking only at her skirt and picking at it. “He carries a faggot of wood for burning, and a placard around his neck saying he is guilty of heresy.”
Sir Thomas nodded.
The queen stared at him. “You are too merciful.”
Sir Thomas bit his lip and nodded. Rose did not think he nodded to agree, but to encourage the queen to speak more.
“Do you know the source of my troubles?” The queen stood, looking at the girls as if she had just noticed them. She spoke to them directly. “Do you know the source of my troubles?”
No one moved or spoke. Catherine continued, her voice gaining edge and pitch. “I have lost children. What woman has not?”
Rose’s joints went cold, fearing the queen’s gaze would linger on her.
“I have borne the king many children and God’s mercy has been to receive them. Am I to blame for God’s will? Do I stand in His place? No. I stand in my place, beside Henry, doing Henry’s will. I am a good wife and a good queen. Am I not a good queen?”
“Your Majesty,” Sir Thomas began, but she cut him off. Rose wondered how Sir Thomas thought that was a real question. For a man of learning, he was woefully ignorant in this subject.
“Henry was content to obey God and honour me as queen until he found this verse, this one verse, in Leviticus, and claims the marriage has been inalterably voided by God’s Word. The Pope himself validated our marriage, and Henry thinks to upturn it because of one sentence! He is a learned man, but he read without instruction and will not take counsel from the church on its meaning. He is like a crazed dog with a bone. No one can reach him on this.”
She was wandering about the room, looking at their lessons thrown into haphazard piles, turning vases and adjusting the decorations. She was setting the room in order with a vengeance.
“You were too gentle with that heretic. I want them burned alive with all their books. Find them and destroy them, every last one.”
“My queen!” Sir Thomas said.
She burst into tears and sat. “I am the daughter of Isabella, no less. I know what things must happen to preserve an empire. These books, most especially this book by Hutchins, do you not see? What has happened to my home will happen in every home, until the realm is destroyed from within! We are in such danger!” She cried for a few moments.
No one knew what protocol would allow to comfort her, so they all watched her cry but did not move.
“I have lost him. He has decided to send me away to a nunnery, to pretend he never loved me, to pretend we have not spent a thousand nights and more together. He wants a new wife, a wife young and able to give him sons. I am finished bearing children—this is what Dr. Butts has confirmed. I cannot compete with a young girl like that Boleyn witch.”
Sir Thomas waited a long moment before speaking. Rose thought it demonstrated wisdom.
“My queen,” he began, “you are a gentle and good monarch, well loved by the people. They have wept with you as you buried your sons and would never consent to be ruled by another woman in your place if they knew how cruelly you were handled. I cannot judge between you and our king in matters of marriage; it is not my place. But I can speak of this Boleyn girl and the mischief she is causing. My counsel to you is to find evidence that she is meddling in the royal marriage, evidence that her intention is to steal Henry from you and you from the people. Bring this to me. With the Pope’s decree that the marriage is lawful and the people’s outrage at Anne Boleyn, will you not be secured?”
Rose knew the servants would be straining outside to hear every word. His voice was so low they would hear none of it.
“And the heretics?” the queen whispered back. “This man … Hutchins?”
Sir Thomas began to speak, but she cut him off.
“Do not be weak. This is the work of an empire. You will burn them all and their poisonous books. I will leave you with a sum—” and here she removed a sack of coins from her skirts—“to begin. Pay anyone who can help us. I do not care if my money lines the pocket of a filthy tramp in Southwark if it buys me a heretic. I have set aside another sum of cash for you, which will be delivered by messenger every fortnight, until the country is cleansed. And for Hutchins, for his arrest and a very public death, I have set aside a sum that will stagger you.”
She whispered it to him and his eyes grew wide.
“Keep what you do not use,” she said, “and may it bless your family.”
“Am I Catherine’s heir?” I asked the Scribe. “Is that why you’re giving me this story? Because of what I did?”
“Let’s write your story together. David brought you his best work—”
“It wasn’t good enough. Not for David. He was brilliant. I loved him too much to let him settle.”
“So?”
“So I stole the galleys and sold them to a tabloid. They ran them, watered down, stripped clean, in monthly installments under someone else’s name. I thought if he saw his work watered down, stripped to the bone, he’d see its flaws. He’d write again—bigger, bolder. We’d both make a killing.”
“Oh, you did.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“What has happened to David?” I cried out.
But the story burst into play again, and my scream was lost.