his mistress?”
Catherine wrung her hands. She did not have the words for this in any language. “I do not know. She was there, yes. But Arthur was senseless. It was as if she had put a spell on him.”
Eagerly, Henry said, “Then she is a witch?”
Catherine’s throat ached, but she would not cry. “I do not know. I do not know of such things. She said strange things to me; that I must not interfere if I wish to keep Arthur alive. She—she cast a spell on me, I think. I fainted, then I awoke in my chamber—”
Henry considered thoughtfully, a serious expression that looked almost amusing on the face of a boy. “So. A demon is trying to sink its claws into the throne of England through its heir. Perhaps it will possess him. Or devour him. We must kill it, of course.”
“We must tell a priest!” Catherine said, pleading. “We must tell the archbishop!”
“If we did, would they believe us? I, a boy, and you, a foreigner? They’ll say we are mad, or playing at games.”
She couldn’t argue because she’d thought the same. She said, “This woman made me sleep with a glance. How would we kill such a thing?”
Even if they wanted to kill her. What if the woman was right, and if they acted against her she would find some way to kill Arthur? Perhaps they should bide their time.
“Highness? Are you there?” Doña Elvira called to her.
“I must away,” Catherine said, and curtsied to her brother-in-law. “We must think on what to do. We must not be rash.”
He returned the respect with a bow. “Surely. Farewell.”
She hoped he would not be rash. She feared he looked upon all this as a game.
“His Highness is not seeing visitors,” the gentleman of Arthur’s chamber told her. He spoke apologetically and bowed respectfully, but he would not let her through the doors to see Arthur. She wanted to scream.
“You will tell him that I was here?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the man said and bowed again.
Catherine could do nothing more than turn around and walk away, trailed by her own attending ladies.
What they must think of her. She caught the whispers among them, when they thought she couldn’t hear. Pobre Catalina. Poor Catherine, whose husband would not see her, who spent every night alone.
That evening, she sent Doña Elvira and her ladies on an errand for wine. Once again, she crept from her chambers alone, furtive as a mouse.
I will see my husband, Catherine thought. It is my right. It should not have been so difficult for her to see him alone. But as it was the palace swarmed with courtiers.
She wanted to reach him before the woman arrived to work her spells on him.
Quietly, she slipped through Arthur’s door and closed it behind her.
The bed curtains were open. Arthur, in his nightclothes, sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over. She could hear his wheezing breaths across the room.
“Your Highness,” she said, curtsying.
“Catherine?” He looked up—and did he smile? Just a little? “Why are you here?”
She said, “Who is the woman who comes to you at night?”
“No one comes to me at night.” He said this flatly, as if she were to blame for his loneliness.
She shook her head, fighting tears. She would keep her wits and not cry. “Three nights ago I came, and she was here. You were bleeding, Arthur. She hurt you. She’s killing you!”
“That isn’t true. No one has been here. And—what business is it of yours if a woman has been here?”
“I am your wife. You have a duty to me.”
“Catherine, I am so tired.”
She knelt at his side and dared to put her hand on his knee. “Then you must grow strong. So that we may have children. Your heirs.”
He touched her hand. A thrill went through her flesh, like fire. So much feeling in a simple touch! But his skin was ice cold.
“I am telling the truth,” said the boy who was her husband. “I remember nothing of any woman coming here. I come to bed every night and fall into such a deep sleep that nothing rouses me but my own coughing. I do not know of what you speak.”
This woman had put a spell on them all.
“Your father is sending your household to Ludlow Castle, in Wales,” she said.
He set his lips in a thin, pale line. “Then we shall go to Ludlow.” “You cannot travel so far,” she said. “The journey will kill you.” “If I were really