not. He made no mention of what had happened last night, made no recognition that he had even seen her. Could he not remember?
Say nothing of what you have seen, and you will keep your husband. Catherine dared not speak at all. She would be called mad.
This country was cursed, overrun with rain and plague. This king was cursed, haunted by all those who had died so he might have his crown, and so was his heir. Catherine could tell her parents, but what would that accomplish? She was not here for herself, but for the alliance between their kingdoms.
She prayed, while the priest chanted. His words were Latin, which was familiar and comforting. The Church was constant. In that she could take comfort. Perhaps if she confessed, told her priest what she had seen, he would have counsel. Perhaps he could say what demon this was that was taking Arthur.
A slip of paper, very small, as if it had been torn from the margin of a letter, fell out of her prayer book. She glanced quickly around—no one had seen it. Her ladies either stared ahead at the altar or bowed over their clasped hands. She was kneeling; the paper had landed on the velvet folds of her skirt. She picked it up.
“Convene me horto. Henricus,” written in a boy’s careful hand. Meet me in the garden.
Catherine crumpled the paper and tucked it in her sleeve. She’d burn it later.
She told her ladies she wished to walk in the air, to stretch her legs after the long Mass. They accompanied her—she could not go anywhere without them, but she was able to find a place where she might sit a little ways off. Henry would have to find her then.
Here she was, in this country only two months and already playing at spying.
Gravel paths wound around the lawn outside Richmond, the King’s favorite palace. Never had Catherine seen grass of such jewel-like green. Even in winter, the lawn stayed green. The dampness made it thrive. Her mother-in-law Elizabeth assured her that in the summer, flowers grew in glorious tangles. Around back, boxes outside the kitchens held forests of herbs. England was fertile, the queen said knowingly.
Catherine and her ladies walked to where the path turned around a hedge. Some stone benches offered a place to rest.
“Doña Elvira, you and the ladies sit here. I wish to walk on a little. Do not worry, I will call if I need you.” The concerned expression on her duenna’s face was not appeased, but Catherine was resolute.
Doña Elvira sat and directed the others to do likewise.
Catherine strolled on, carefully, slowly, not rushing. Around the shrubs and out of sight from her ladies, Henry arrived, stepping out from behind the other end of the hedge.
“Buenos días, hermana.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “You learn my language.”
Henry blushed and looked at his feet. “Only a little. Hello and thank you and the like.”
“Still, gracias. For the little.”
“I have learned something of the foreign woman. I told the guards to watch her and listen.”
“We should tell your father. It is not for us to command the guards—”
“She is not from the Low Countries. Her name is Angeline. She is French, which means she is a spy,” he said.
Catherine wasn’t sure that one so naturally followed the other. It was too simple an explanation. The alliance between England and Spain presented far too strong an enemy for France. Of course they would send spies. But that was no spy she’d seen with Arthur.
She shook her head. “She is more than that.”
“She hopes to break the alliance between England and Spain by distracting my brother. If you have no children, the succession will pass to another.”
“To you and your children, yes? And perhaps a French queen for England, if they find one for you to marry?”
He pursed boyish lips. “I am Duke of York. Why would I want to be king?”
But there was a light in his eyes, intelligent, glittering. He would not shy away from being king, if, God forbid, events came to that.
He said, “There is more. I touched her hand when we danced. It was cold. Colder than stone. Colder than anything.”
Catherine paced, just a little circle beside her brother-in-law. She ought to tell a priest. But he knew. So she told him.
“I have been spying as well,” she said. “I went to Arthur’s chamber last night. If she is his mistress—I had to see. I had to know.”
“What did you see? Is she