No Will But His by Sarah A. Hoyt Page A

haunting sadness, of unattainable dreams—like Kathryn's erstwhile fancy of marrying a prince and being loved by all.
    She was closing on that song, doubtfully, with much hesitation, when she heard a tap upon the floor. The tap was almost imperceptible, just a touch of a walking stick, but it was recognizable enough that Kathryn jumped up and was making a curtsey before she was fully aware what she was about. "Your Grace," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" She stopped because she wasn't fully aware what she might be apologizing for.
    While the maids of honor had assigned duties and things they must do—at least in theory—they were light enough that the young ladies often had much time on their hands. And though the duchess's decree was that when they found themselves with time on their hands, the girls were to improve either their skills or their souls, by sewing or praying or learning some other art that would be useful to them as married matrons, she never checked to make sure they were thus occupied. Of course, it was the policy of the maidens to stay away from Her Grace if not required to be near, and to never give her a chance to wonder what they were about.
    In Kathryn's mind was some vague notion that she shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be doing this. But, to her surprise, the duchess's hand came down quite softly upon her inclined head, and she said, yet more softly, "Stand up, girl, I want to look at you."
    Kathryn rose and stood, uncomfortably, while the duchess's sharp eyes looked her up and down, then concentrated on her face for what seemed like an eternity. "There's something in you," she said at last. "Of your cousin Anne. Though I'll be cursed if I can say what. Your hair is auburn while her black hair is her greatest glory. And your eyes are not quite the same shape. You have the Howard nose, straight and fine, as does she, but your mouth and chin and the whole of it are quite different, and yet, when I saw you sitting there, playing, I vow for a moment I thought it was Anne herself when she was young . . ." She sat down beside Kathryn and rested her hands on her walking stick and her chin on her juxtaposed hands. "For a moment, I thought it was her—her soul . . . her spirit."
    The duchess's words were so chilly, so distant, that Kathryn crossed herself hastily. "Your Grace!" she said. "The queen has not died."
    The duchess lifted her head enough to shake it. "Not that I know, no. Though word is that she's with child once more, and you know . . . It is the destiny of women to suffer the danger of the childbed. I only had one son, and that easy, but . . ." She rested her chin again and said, "How old are you, Kathryn?"
    "An' it please your Grace, I think I am thirteen."
    "Ah, yes . . ." the duchess said. "Your father seemed none too sure of the ages of his children or even which children were his. He was odd that way. Between that and the gaming tables . . . No wonder he could never capture royal favor. Do you game, Kathryn?"
    "I never have," Kathryn said, wondering at the odd conversation, and considering in her mind whether the duchess's wits had gone wondering. For how could Kathryn gamble when she'd never had any money or anything worth gambling? Even her clothes were hand-me-downs, now supplemented at the hem with yet another panel of fabric, since she was growing once more.
    "Good. Don't you. It consumes the soul." A silence fell and for just a moment Kathryn wondered if the duchess had fallen asleep, till the words came, "Only there's perhaps another kind of gambling. Stand again, girl."
    Kathryn stood.
    "Turn around," the duchess said, and Kathryn obeyed, and obeyed once more when the duchess said, "Again."
    The duchess sighed. "Of course, Thomas Boleyn made sure his daughter had teaching and preparation, which you came to me without, and you must have got very little since you came to me as well . . ." She sighed. "I confess that I took you only because Edmund would