VIII

later
     
    “She has land,” says Brandon, trailing one hand in the fountain as we pass it. “My father always told me to find a rich widow.”
    Harry Guildford wipes the spray off his jacket. “But you are contracted to marry her niece.”
    “A technicality.”
    “I thought the niece was pregnant?”
    “A slightly more, um, inconvenient technicality.” Brandon smoothes his hair back with his wet hand. “I did things in the wrong order.”
    “It sounds to me like you did them in exactly the right order,” says Compton, and gets Brandon’s racquet handle shoved in his gut. “Ouch.”
    “Sorry, it slipped,” says Brandon sunnily. He shrugs. “I don’t think, if I’m honest, that the aunt will live long. Then, you see, I can make things right with the niece.”
    Beside me, Bryan says under his breath, “Oh, that’s fine, then.”
    I slap the back of my hand into his stomach. There’s a party coming the other way.
    Crossing the sunny courtyard towards us: a strange bouquet of Spanish maidens – one tall and thin, one plump and ruddy, the duenna sour-faced and suspicious – as well she might be, I suppose… and, in the centre of them all, the small, upright figure of Catherine herself, her eyes angled down to the flagstones as she walks.
    She sees, therefore, our feet first: a straggling row of fine leather tennis shoes. The sight makes her stop. She looks up.
    I haven’t seen her in ages. And though it’s three years, now, since I signed a formal document in front of witnesses rejecting our marriage, my father still hasn’t let her go home. Has he even told her? He’s probably still trying to squeeze money out of her father.
    “My Lady Princess,” I begin, “you look…” She looks pale, and threadbare; in places, the velvet of her overskirt is worn smooth with brushing. “…well.”
    Wrong, wrong, wrong. She looks strained and ill cared for. And exquisitely beautiful.
    She smiles. “It is good to see you, my lord.”
    When I think about it, I’m surprised that I don’t bump into her more often. She lives at Court now, since that’s cheaper for my father than letting her have her own household. Perhaps she has instructions to show her face as little as possible.
    I say, “We’re off to play tennis.”
    “I can see that.” Catherine nods at Brandon as he flourishes his racquet, trying to catch the duenna’s eye. “I trust you will enjoy it.”
    “Thank you.”
    Catherine moves to leave, but as she draws level with me she hesitates. Quickly, quietly, out of the side of her mouth and in French, she says, “Your father keeps me, now, without enough money even for clothes. It is… humiliating. Whatever he intends, I am from the royal house of Spain. Can you speak to him for me?”
    “He does not take advice.”
    “I understand.” She drops her eyes; she’s disappointed. By the time I realise what a worm I feel, she and her ladies are walking away.
    ♦   ♦   ♦
     
    It’s the plump and ruddy one that answers the door. She won’t admit me, but after some discussion inside, with the door pushed to, it opens again and Catherine emerges.
    “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.
    “I know.” I’ve been leaning against the doorframe – I straighten up. “I just wanted to tell you… I’m sorry, would you walk with me? Don’t worry, there are servants by the entrance to the stairs. We are chaperoned, you see, but not overheard.”
    Catherine hesitates, glances along the passageway, then steps towards me, pulling the door to her chamber softly shut behind her.
    We head away from the servants, walking slowly side by side. Hangings line the walls, in dark and heavy colours; the passageway is gloomy, even on a sunny afternoon.
    “You wanted to tell me…?”
    “Yes – sorry. I wanted to say that it’s not just you. The money. I mean, my father not giving you enough. He’s obsessed. It’s…” This is harder to explain than I thought. I start again. “He fears… everyone. He fears that everything he has achieved will unravel. To him, money means control, you see.”
    “He does not need to keep me poor to control me.”
    “No. But the great landowners, the powerful nobles… He makes them swear to do what he wants – if they don’t comply they are fined, so heavily that they are ruined. It works. And it has become a habit. Now he does it with everyone. Keeping himself rich, keeping others in debt to him. I’ve seen the coffers in his private chambers