VIII

wouldn’t. Not many people do. Realise I’m at Richmond, I mean – I don’t sit in this particular place the whole time, obviously.” She lifts her chin to the window. “But I do like the view. It makes a change from my bedchamber, and I don’t seem to be needed anywhere else.”
    I smile, reluctantly.
    The sunlight from the window gives Catherine’s face a pretty glow. She is dressed in deepest black – dress, sleeves, hood, veil, all – and if the thought of why did not give me a sick jolt of guilt I could have said it suited her. As it is, my eyes stray to the only patch of colour: a tiny book resting against her skirts, the silk rope it hangs from lying slack, since she is sitting down. The book is enamelled and jewelled – and full of dirges for the dead, I imagine.
    Another knotting of my guts. Must I feel responsible for her grief, too? I say, “I am sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you. Your brother was kind to me.” She looks at me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry for your loss, too.”
    I bow, but say nothing. There’s a silence. The faint sound of rain drifts in through the windows.
    “It’s quite a change for you, isn’t it?” says Catherine. “For both of us.”
    Another silence. She smiles, still watching me. “You’re not ‘no one in particular’ any more.”
    I want to answer. I want to say something witty or at least interesting. But I can’t. I walk to the nearest window and stare out at the dripping hedges and herb bushes. I say, “I’m going back to Eltham in a moment. I’m just waiting while they prepare my barge.”
    Catherine plays a little, breaks off. “I’ve been addressed as Princess of Wales since I was three – did you know that?” she says. “I spent all my childhood expecting I would come here and marry your brother. I thought it was my destiny to be queen of England.”
    I think back to that day in Westminster Hall. The Spaniards never let on to my father that the deal was done and had been done for years; there was so much hesitation; we were made to feel there was so much to prove.
    Catherine is saying, “But none of us knows our true destiny, do we? We make plans… and God’s plans for us turn out to be quite different.”
    I think: That may be how it is for everyone else. But I know I am to be a great king . I say, “You must be disappointed.”
    “I’m sad for Arthur. Though I shouldn’t be, should I, because he’s past his pain and with God. But I’m not sad for myself. I’ll go home now. When I left Spain I thought I would never see my parents again.”
    In my mind, I am still in Westminster Hall. I remember shooting an arrow, and being distracted by a carved angel on the ceiling that looked for a moment like… like that boy in the kitchens just now. Am I going mad? Why do ordinary things I see suddenly remind me of someone – though I can’t think who ? Perhaps it’s someone I once knew and have forgotten. Perhaps someone from a dream.
    “Can you sight-read?” Catherine asks.
    “What?”
    She taps a sheet of music propped in front of her.
    “Oh. Of course.”
    The instrument she’s sitting at is a double virginals, with two keyboards side by side. She slides along the bench to make room for me. I hesitate, then come to sit next to her. I’m terrified at the thought that there may be some dangerous part of my mind that I cannot trust: something that produces visions; that recognises things I do not know. Now I concentrate ferociously on the notes written on the paper, trying to block out everything else.
    “You play well,” says Catherine when the duet is finished.
    “I’m not a baby.”
    “I know that! I’m not patronising you. You do play well, compared to anyone.”
    “I write too. Melodies.”
    “Play me something of yours, then.” She gets up and moves away, leaving me in charge of the instrument.
    I play. And play. Relentlessly. I play every melody I’ve ever written for my music master and some, too, that aren’t mine. Then I stop, and put my head down on the edge of the instrument’s wooden casing.
    Somewhere outside a dog barks. The duenna asks a question in rapid Spanish and Catherine replies.
    And I think: There was a dream… years ago… A boy came towards me on beams of light. He rescued me from a serpent…
    Catherine says in French, “It can’t be easy. For you now. I mean, I don’t imagine this is an easy time.”
    Without lifting my head, I say, “Do you want to go back to Spain?” My voice is