Interlude I
Lady Catalina had yet to recover from the disgrace of that day. It was not the blow itself that wounded her most, but the sheer humiliation, struck before mere servants, as though she were no more than a common wench. The sting of it burned deeper than any wound, her pride torn asunder.
No amount of the king's favor could soothe the fury that festered within her.
She gazed upon her reflection in the polished glass, her fingers trembling with rage. A scream tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained. In one swift motion, she seized the mirror from the servant's hands and hurled it against the wall, the shattering glass echoing through the chamber.
Yet the worst of it was not the insult, nor the pain, but the silence. Since that day, the king had not summoned her to court. No letters. No whispered invitations. Nothing. And the mere thought of his hands upon her,that wretched queen, was enough to drive her to madness.
Her eyes flickered toward the maid who stood before her, trembling like a leaf caught in a tempest.
"Kneel," she commanded, her voice cold as the grave.
The girl hesitated, only for the span of a heartbeat. But it was enough.
With a sharp crack, Catalina's hand struck the girl's face, sending her to her knees with a cry. Blood welled at the corner of her lips, yet she did not dare lift her gaze, her eyes fixed upon the cold stone floor.
"Pathetic," She spat, her voice laced with venom. Without hesitation, she drove her foot into the maid's stomach. Once. Twice. And when that failed to quell the anger within her, she stepped forward and stomped upon the girl's frail form, again and again.
The other maids in the chamber flinched with each blow, their hands clenched at their sides. Some turned away, unwilling to witness the cruelty before them.
At last, Catalina ceased, not out of mercy, but to avoid killing the girl outright. Breathing heavily, she cast a seething glare toward a maid who stood near the door, her head bowed in terror more than respect.
"Take her away," She ordered, punctuating her command with one final kick to the battered girl's belly. A fresh gasp of blood splattered the stone floor as two maids rushed forward, hastily dragging the poor creature from the chamber.
When the door shut behind them, Catalina raked a trembling hand down her face, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her skin burned with anger, her pulse pounding in her ears.
It was her who should be queen.
The mere thought of that foreign princess seated upon the throne, bearing his name was an insult beyond measure. It was a wound to her very soul when the king announced his intent to marry a woman from a distant kingdom, shattering the future she had carefully woven in her mind.
Had she not been devoted? Had she not played her part well? The docile, obedient lady. The ever-willing lover in his bed. Surely, he would have seen reason in time, would have made her his queen. After all, though she was but a noble's daughter, her family's influence was unmatched in the kingdom.
And yet, he had chosen her.
At first, Catalina had found some comfort in knowing the king held no love for his new bride. She was but a ghost in the palace, silent, meek, a creature of little consequence. Catalina had been willing to endure the insult, to be the second wife if it meant still holding his favor.
But after the coronation, everything had changed.
That fragile princess had become something else. She spoke in tongues no one understood. And, worst of all, she had dared…dared to strike her.
Catalina's nails dug into her palms.
"I shall make her pay," she vowed, her voice like steel.
She paced around.
That wretched woman had stolen the king's attention, and Catalina had been left to fester in the confines of her estate, surrounded by useless servants and false whispers of sympathy.
Her lips curled in disdain. They pitied her. Pitied! As though she were some cast-aside mistress, forgotten and unworthy.
No. She would not be forgotten.
With a swift turn, she faced the nearest maid, the one who had been trembling at her outburst but dared not flee. Catalina's gaze bore into the girl, sharp as a dagger.
"You," she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Bring me word from the palace. I would know all that the queen does, what she eats, whom she sees, what she speaks, and even when she spreads her legs for the king."
At the last words, she nearly gagged.
The maid hesitated for but a breath, then dropped into a low curtsy. "As you command, my lady."
A slow smirk curved her lips. That is more like it.
Turning, her gaze fell upon the shards of broken glass scattered across the floor. Moving towards them with measured steps, she felt the maids press themselves against the wall, their chests rising and falling in silent terror. Good. They should fear her.
She crouched, plucking a jagged piece between her fingers, its edge gleaming wickedly in the candlelight. Lifting it, she turned her gaze to two trembling maids. The sheer terror upon their faces sent a shiver down her spine, one of pleasure.
She might have struck one of them, just to soothe her ire, but instead, she turned to the window. Holding the glass to the light, she watched its sharp reflection dance upon the wall.
One swift stroke against that foreign queen's throat, and she would be no more.
The thought was a sweet one, tempting in its simplicity. But such an act would see her ruined in turn. And Catalina did not intend to die at the hands of a nameless foreigner's guard.
No, there were ways to ruin a woman that did not stain one's hands with blood.
A slow, knowing smile curled her lip
s.
"It seems," she murmured, "it is time I paid a visit to Lady Dunbary."