Free Ladies in Waiting by Laura L. Sullivan Page A

and devoted herself to examining his faintly stirring, stymied progeny.
     
    “I forgive you, my child, I forgive you,” Catherine murmured to Zabby, who knelt at the queen’s bedside. Zabby took a breath to explain that, as she had done no wrong in the first place, there was nothing to forgive, but she was slowly learning that logic had little place at court. If the queen wanted to forgive her for other people’s insinuations, she must be indulged.
    “Of course you are not the sort of creature to tempt a husband away from his vow, you good child.”
    Again, it was on the tip of Zabby’s tongue to ask, Why not I as well as another? She thought of that moment of power, when she knew, even if Charles did not, that she could take advantage of their easy familiarity, of his gratitude, of his natural tendency to fall into any arms that were appealing and convenient, and seduce him, if only for a time. But I want more than that, she thought. I already have more than that from Charles. To love him as Castlemaine and those others love him would be trivial beside the bond we already share. He is friend and fellow scientist, not that lesser thing, a lover.
    She looked into Catherine’s relieved face, and was ashamed.
    “His Majesty has made a request of me,” she said stiffly, “and though I feel it is not my place to speak of this, I must obey any of the king’s wishes as if they were decrees from on high.” She might as well set the precedent for Catherine to follow.
    Zabby came on the heels of the Lord Chancellor, who had also been given the unpleasant task of trying to persuade the queen. Catherine lay in bed, exhausted from another outpouring of rage and tears, and she didn’t have the strength left to fight even Zabby’s gentle words. Perhaps the fact that they came directly from a woman, one as alien in her own way to court as Catherine was, helped. The Chancellor could not understand a woman’s heart, and any sympathy they might have had was further diluted by a translator.
    “In my way, Your Majesty, I believe I know your husband better than you. I nursed him, I heard the delirious ravings of his inmost heart. I sat by his side day in, day out. We were as intimate as . . .” The queen bristled. “As master and servant. You know there’s no one who knows a person so well as his meanest servant. I emptied his privy pot, Your Majesty. No need to be jealous of that, I promise you!”
    To Zabby’s relief, Catherine laughed.
    “This I know above all things: the king’s defining character is loyalty to those who have used him well. He never forgets a kindness, however slight. It would be a sin beyond forgiveness to let someone who has helped him, unselfishly, come to any harm. Do you know, there’s an old pig farmer’s widow who gave him an apple tart when he was fleeing Cromwell’s armies. She didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t eaten in two days. She has a pension of three hundred pounds a year now. To you, to me, Lady Castlemaine is a strumpet. To the king, she is a woman of whom he took advantage, estranged from her husband, ruined. If he rewards the pig farmer’s widow, would you have him cast out a lady he has wronged?”
    “Let him pension her, then. I wouldn’t have the pigman’s widow in my bedroom, and I won’t have her!”
    “A pigman’s widow isn’t a lady,” Zabby said gently. “The Countess of Castlemaine is cousin to the Duke of Buckingham, and wife of one of the king’s staunchest supporters while in exile.”
    “I don’t care who the harlot is related to!” Catherine said, her voice threatening more hysteria. “I am the queen. I won’t be treated so.”
    Zabby changed tactics. “There is one unassailable argument, Your Majesty. He is our king. King by divine right.”
    Catherine bit her lower lip with her protruding tooth.
    “His authority was taken from him by robbery and murder, for fifteen years. Do you know how it feels to him now, to see someone defy that authority,