father to strike her for her insolence but instead, after the briefest of pauses, he says with a small smile of his own, "As are you, Anne." He pats her elbow as he guides her from the room. "Take it as a compliment."
Anne's laughter peals forth as she quits the room.
I don't know why, but I am jealous. Certainly not at the exchange of insults. Perhaps it is of the familiarity, the fact that they can vex each other and still retain some strange favor with one another. Of course Anne is very useful to my father...
I sigh, chastising myself for these uncharitable thoughts as I, too, quit the room, trying to chase away the feeling that I really am not useful at all.
I have mixed feelings. I begin to suspect that I am not on the right side. I think of the queen not as the princess dowager, as we are told to refer to Catherine of Aragon now, but as the queen--the sad, gentle queen who greeted me at Westminster when I first arrived. Now she is alone in her northern castle, suffering as it seems her fate to do. She is denied almost everything and retains the smallest of courts; a handful of loyal maids whose devotion I applaud. She is further punished for her stubbornness by being kept separated from her daughter, who is also in exile until she agrees to sign a document acknowledging the invalidity of her mother and father's marriage and thus naming herself a bastard.
I am expected to make merry at the expense of such misery. I am not to express even the smallest amount of sympathy for the dethroned monarch or her poor rejected daughter. I am to celebrate the victory of the Howards.
Our victory seems so precarious. What is viewed as triumph one day can be looked upon as tragedy the next; everyone's fate depends on the fluctuating moods of the increasingly cantankerous king.
"And what would you do if you were Queen Catherine?" asks Madge Shelton one night as we draw the covers over us. My dog, Fitz, sleeps between us; he is spoiled and content, innocent of treachery or plotting.
I do not answer right away. The queen has no friends here, and it would do me no good to offer sympathy of any kind. I measure my words with care. "I would grant the king his divorce; say what needs to be said even if it isn't true, just to have peace."
"Do you think it's true? Do you think Catherine and Prince Arthur consummated their marriage?" she asks with a wicked gleam in her eye.
I shrug and turn my back to her. "Only she knows. I think it's silly, really. Jesus says if your spouse dies you are free to marry again, which means it was divinely permissible for her to marry King Henry--"
"The Church goes by the Old Testament, clinging to the claim that a man cannot marry his brother's widow," Madge reminds me.
"They should go by what Jesus says, not some nameless scribe from Leviticus." I am surprised at my passion regarding the matter. But I feel the queen has been wronged, so terribly wronged...I must watch my words.
"Don't say that too loud," Madge says in a conspiratorial whisper. "They'll put you in the Tower for being too sympathetic to the qu--I mean, the princess dowager."
I shiver and she rubs my shoulder.
"Don't worry, Mary." She laughs. "You're Norfolk's girl; your interests are attuned to Anne. No one could accuse you of papist sympathies." She pauses, then returns to the original topic. "I'd love to know if it were true, though--about the consummation, I mean. Wouldn't you?"
"Not really," I say, not only because it seems a sacrilege to think such about the noble Queen Catherine, but because I already know the answer. No one who behaved with as much conviction as Queen Catherine could be clinging to a lie. She is the most pious, devout woman I know, as well as the most honorable, which means it is exactly as she insists. The marriage to Arthur was not consummated; her marriage to the king is valid.
I sigh. "It doesn't matter if it is or isn't," I say. "Because the king will get what he wants in the end."
"He always does,"
Anne's laughter peals forth as she quits the room.
I don't know why, but I am jealous. Certainly not at the exchange of insults. Perhaps it is of the familiarity, the fact that they can vex each other and still retain some strange favor with one another. Of course Anne is very useful to my father...
I sigh, chastising myself for these uncharitable thoughts as I, too, quit the room, trying to chase away the feeling that I really am not useful at all.
I have mixed feelings. I begin to suspect that I am not on the right side. I think of the queen not as the princess dowager, as we are told to refer to Catherine of Aragon now, but as the queen--the sad, gentle queen who greeted me at Westminster when I first arrived. Now she is alone in her northern castle, suffering as it seems her fate to do. She is denied almost everything and retains the smallest of courts; a handful of loyal maids whose devotion I applaud. She is further punished for her stubbornness by being kept separated from her daughter, who is also in exile until she agrees to sign a document acknowledging the invalidity of her mother and father's marriage and thus naming herself a bastard.
I am expected to make merry at the expense of such misery. I am not to express even the smallest amount of sympathy for the dethroned monarch or her poor rejected daughter. I am to celebrate the victory of the Howards.
Our victory seems so precarious. What is viewed as triumph one day can be looked upon as tragedy the next; everyone's fate depends on the fluctuating moods of the increasingly cantankerous king.
"And what would you do if you were Queen Catherine?" asks Madge Shelton one night as we draw the covers over us. My dog, Fitz, sleeps between us; he is spoiled and content, innocent of treachery or plotting.
I do not answer right away. The queen has no friends here, and it would do me no good to offer sympathy of any kind. I measure my words with care. "I would grant the king his divorce; say what needs to be said even if it isn't true, just to have peace."
"Do you think it's true? Do you think Catherine and Prince Arthur consummated their marriage?" she asks with a wicked gleam in her eye.
I shrug and turn my back to her. "Only she knows. I think it's silly, really. Jesus says if your spouse dies you are free to marry again, which means it was divinely permissible for her to marry King Henry--"
"The Church goes by the Old Testament, clinging to the claim that a man cannot marry his brother's widow," Madge reminds me.
"They should go by what Jesus says, not some nameless scribe from Leviticus." I am surprised at my passion regarding the matter. But I feel the queen has been wronged, so terribly wronged...I must watch my words.
"Don't say that too loud," Madge says in a conspiratorial whisper. "They'll put you in the Tower for being too sympathetic to the qu--I mean, the princess dowager."
I shiver and she rubs my shoulder.
"Don't worry, Mary." She laughs. "You're Norfolk's girl; your interests are attuned to Anne. No one could accuse you of papist sympathies." She pauses, then returns to the original topic. "I'd love to know if it were true, though--about the consummation, I mean. Wouldn't you?"
"Not really," I say, not only because it seems a sacrilege to think such about the noble Queen Catherine, but because I already know the answer. No one who behaved with as much conviction as Queen Catherine could be clinging to a lie. She is the most pious, devout woman I know, as well as the most honorable, which means it is exactly as she insists. The marriage to Arthur was not consummated; her marriage to the king is valid.
I sigh. "It doesn't matter if it is or isn't," I say. "Because the king will get what he wants in the end."
"He always does,"
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