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They looked sickened, as well they might.

“Yes, it belongs on French soil,” I said. “See that it returns to its true source.”

I hated Louis. Such a calculated insult must have reply! Yet I would not, must not, upset Katherine. I must laugh at it, belittle the insult. For the time being.

XVII

That night was the appointed time for the “impromptu” invasion of the Queen’s quarters by myself and my attendants. (Perhaps you are not aware of this today, but the Queen had her own set of chambers, quite apart from mine. This was, I am told, traditional only in England and had, through the centuries, facilitated adultery on both sides. I record the custom here simply because I foresee its passing into disuse soon. If only Anne Boleyn had not been apart from me ... or Catherine Howard....)

Twelve of us had costumes of Kendall green, all velvet, with silver visors. We were to invade Katherine’s room, to burst in suddenly with a great fanfare of trumpets, to pretend to be Robin Hood and his men abducting the fair maidens. Then, after a mock struggle, we would dance by torchlight. It was arranged, of course, that eleven of Katherine’s attendants should be present to make the numbers even.

It went according to plan. We waited outside the Queen’s door, then, of one accord, flung open the door. The women shrieked. Katherine dropped a jewel-box, a carved ivory thing, and it broke on the floor. Her hands flew up to her mouth. She had been preparing for bed and was wearing a wine-colgleamed in the torchlight. I thought her extraordinarily beautiful, in spite of her thickened figure.

“Ah!” I said. “The Queen yields herself to me.” I held out my hands (with rings that surely Katherine recognized) and nodded toward the musicians. “Play a pavane, if you please.” I took Katherine’s hand, and we began to dance.

“I know it is you, my Lord,” she whispered, as we came close in one measure.

“Do you?” I was enjoying the game. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, as she passed me, her velvet cloak brushing mine. “I would know your hands, your touch, among ten thousand.”

I smiled noncommittally. I had always been fascinated by legends of kings and princes who wandered about disguised—the Roman Emperors and Henry V, before he came to the throne. It could be dangerous (if only for what one overheard), yet I longed to do it.

Suddenly Katherine went pale and reeled against me. She clutched her belly. The music went on, insistently, but she stood rooted. Then she cried out and crumpled to the floor.

We all stood where we were. Only Wolsey (ever-present Wolsey, who had stepped in to oversee that the midnight repast was adequately prepared) knew what to do.

“A physician,” he said quietly to a nearby page. He issued orders in a calm voice. “Take Her Grace to the lying-in chamber. It is not prepared? Then to her own bed.” The erstwhile Merrie Men picked Katherine up and conveyed her to her own chamber. Attendants, physicians, servitors—they all converged on the Queen’s chamber, bringing clean cloths and medicines and instruments, while Katherine cried out in the ancient pain of childbirth.

At dawn all was done: the child was born, a hideous, half-formed thing, three and a half months before its time. Dead. They carried it away in the early blue light and buried it—I know not where. It had no soul, and needed no churchly offices.

Alone in the blue-tinged light, I made my way to Katherine. She lay, white and sweat-stained, upon a couch, while her attendants changed the blood-soaked linen upon her bed. She grasped a crucifix and looked near dead, her mouth half open. I had a dreadful thought: how ugly women look in childbirth. This was not my Katherine, but a woman of fifty, a hard-faced stranger.

I knelt by her side, but she was deep asleep and did not stir. At length I rose and left the room. Although I had not slept, I did not feel tired, but quite the opposite: possessed by an abnormal alertness. I walked stiffly out into Katherine’s audience chamber, where the torches from the