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shalebridge-cradle · 3 years ago

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It Echoes When I Breathe

Ghosts haunt Hampton Court, as the tour guides are all to happy to explain to the palace’s visitors. In the wine cellar, in the courtyards, up the stairs and in the gallery. Especially in the gallery.

That is true of any place of sufficient history, one guest thinks to herself. The echoes of long-gone footsteps exist in every groove made by them over the centuries. The portraits evoke their spirits whenever they’re examined. Through the memory of those still here, through the knowledge of what came before, the dead live once again.

The guest thinking this might understand better than most.

Catherine of Aragon – Catalina, now, returning to her birth name – stares at the wall, and what is written on it. The grief of five hundred years ago washes over her in waves again.

It was Wolsey’s mansion when she was alive, and free to move of her own accord; perhaps it was preordained she would find the Wolsey rooms, hidden away beneath the Clock Court. She was told there were some excellent examples of renaissance art down here, but she finds herself transfixed not by those, but a sealed doorway. It is painted white, and bears the names of all her children.

Unnamed princess. Stillborn. January 1510.

Prince Henry, Duke of Cornwall. Died aged seven weeks, 1st of January to 22nd of February, 1511.

Two unnamed princes, one stillborn, one dead soon after his premature birth. 1513 and 1515, respectively.

Princess Mary. Survived.

Her daughter spent a lot of time at this particular palace, she’s been told, much like her father. She lived here. She honeymooned here.

Her heart was broken here. She languished here. Now, Catalina’s very being aches that she could not be there for her, to tell her how to cope with an unloving husband and pregnancies that resulted in nothing but pain.

But to go so far as to believe it was a punishment from God… While she may have fallen into such a trap back then, Catalina knows well enough now that, in her case and her daughter’s, their lack of surviving children was not God’s punishment. That burning heretics did not save their souls, but merely condemned them to a painful death. So much death and suffering, agony and loss, wrought by her parents, her husband, and her child – and their faith. All those around her were guilty, and thus so is she, in part.

Catalina pauses in her sorrow for a moment. Perhaps. She is here, of course, so it is not impossible.

She mumbles her plan to herself, secure in the knowledge there is no-one alive around to hear her.

“Next time I see a mirror. I shall whisper her name three times, as the children say. Perhaps she will appear to me, then.”

A part of Catalina nevertheless worries that she will see no-one but herself reflected in that mirror.

Even if Bloody Mary does materialise.

Anne Boleyn stands beneath the gatehouse that now bears her name, looking up and grinning like a madwoman.

She had heard, from Jane and the others after her, that Henry tried to erase any memory of her after her death. All the reminders of their marriage that once adorned the walls and ceilings of the palace were to be replaced, her portraits destroyed.

But not here. No, not here, at the foot of the steps near the great hall.

Tour groups come and go around her, their leaders pointing to the fan-vaulted ceiling and remarking on the symbols there; the H and A linked with a love knot, and the falcon that once represented her. The latter, the guides say, are a Victorian recreation, but the originals survived until well after her late husband’s time.

“Can’t get rid of me,” Anne says to no-one. “Can’t forget what you did.”

She exults in her bitter victory. Did he not think to look up, all that time? Not once did he think to admire the hard work the stonemasons put into his pleasure palace on the way up to the apartments, and see that his great shame was still hanging over his head?

Her manic smile falters. Someone must have. All those visitors that must have passed through the gate during that time. Someone must have spotted these, and remained silent.

There must have been someone, after her sham trial and execution, the one her husband was too craven to attend after signing the warrant himself, who thought she should be remembered.

She spends a long time pondering who that might have been, and how many of them there were. But, when she figures out the most important answer, a far more gentle smile lights up her face.

Of course. Bess had far more sense than either of her parents. That was her second motto, wasn’t it? Video et taceo – I see, and say nothing.

She shares one last little moment with her daughter, a secret kept beyond death, before she moves on.

Jane is in the Chapel Royal. She’s always liked it here. It’s always felt holy to her – though she attributes that less to the presence of God, and more the beauty of what He inspired. After all, it through mankind’s works that He makes His influence known.

She supposes she should be wandering the Silverstick Stairs, looking for her son. There are a few problems with that; one, the stairs aren’t accessible to the public. Two, she hasn’t thought to bring a lit taper with her.

Three, why would she be looking for her son?

Jane had little reason to worry for him. Henry had promised her – at least, she thinks he did, but she was dying at the time – that he would receive the best care money could buy, the most comprehensive education, every luxury he could ask for, so he could grow up to be a king like his father. And, from what she can gather, he did. Edward was a tool for his sycophants’ political and religious goals, changing the country’s course to their liking until they fell out of favour and were executed for treason.

That poor child. The heart that was cut from her chest yet bleeds for his lost potential.

Jane’s seen the portrait of her little boy, here at the palace. He’s emulating his father’s favourite pose, but she can see aspects of herself in his face. That brings her some comfort. She hopes that, when Henry looked at him, he saw his dear departed wife, mother to his youngest.

She hopes it haunted him.

She hopes he remembered that he got what he wanted. A healthy boy, at the cost of the wife, for others were “easily found”. She hopes he knew her infected, clotted blood was forever on his hands, like that of her unfortunate cousins. She hopes he is still here, somewhere, knowing that both his precious sons died young and sickly, that the emotional scars wrought on his daughters ended his dynasty, and that in one way or another he ruined all of his children with the insecurities he projected onto them.

The chapel had always been Jane’s place to reflect. It is here she has a chance to breathe. Perhaps because her lungs, and that disembodied heart of hers’, are meant to be buried beneath the altar.

Anne of Cleves, or Anna, as she has always preferred, is not hunting for devices or signs of lost children. She wasn’t queen for long enough for that to be the case. There is one small copy of her Holbein portrait on a wall, and that’s pretty much it.

Still, her memories of Hampton Court are probably the most positive of any of the other wives. The sadness came later.

Like here, in the great hall, with the endless tourists examining the tapestries, searching for the eavesdroppers in the beams, admiring the way the light shines through the stained glass. If Anna closes her eyes, she can imagine the chatter of modern crowds is that of the nobility she knew.

Yes, she sees it now, in her mind’s eye. The candlelight playing off the decorations, the hammerbeam roof just visible in the dim light, elegantly painted.

It is 1541 again.

She’s there to celebrate the new year, and present her gifts to the king and new queen. They were well-received, but the king retired fairly early, retreating into the private chambers the common folk now walk through freely. The guests remain, chatting, dancing, plotting against one another. Anna decided against the latter, and joins the festivities instead.

In fact, she asked her replacement for a dance. An offer that was, interestingly, accepted.

She never bore Katherine Howard any ill will. It was not the girl’s fault Henry found his continental bride repulsive – at least, that was the reason given for their failed marriage. It may have been that an alliance with Cleves was no longer as attractive, which reflected on Anna. Besides, it was not like Katherine had wanted to marry Henry. Her family were desperate to be back in favour, and pressured her into marrying a man old enough to be her father. No. Her only motivation to dance with the young queen was to entertain her. No underhanded scheming for her.

The music starts up again, in Anna’s mind. She remembers the steps she took, echoes them once more. Envisions Katherine as she once was, carefree, a smile on her face.

Anna knows, with the benefit of hindsight, that this will all come crashing down before year’s end. Katherine will soon no longer dance at all. Where there is now music, there will be silence. Where there is merriment, there will soon be fear, betrayal, and sorrow.

In this moment, she knows what is now sweet will soon be sour, and she will witness it many more times before her life, too, ends. Anna will lose all her loved ones, in body or in mind, and she will be alone.

She stops. She returns to the modern day. Strange, how she didn’t bump into anyone. No matter.

There is someone she must now find.

“Are you ready?”

Katherine Howard is at the beginning of her old route. She knows it like the back of her hand, burnt into her memory like an afterimage. Anna, her mistress, is by her side, looking at her expectantly.

Katherine takes a shaking breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

“I imagine you don’t want me to hold you in any way. Do you want me to speak?”

“Um. No. I don’t think so. But thank you for asking.”

“Right. If you need anything, let me know.”

Katherine nods, her chest full of ice, and begins walking down the hall.

She is apparently the most famous phantom at Hampton Court, which would bring her joy if it were literally any other situation. This room, the Haunted Gallery, is where she is meant to roam, making her mad dash to plead mercy from the King. Her screaming has reportedly reverberated off the walls here for centuries.

But, she is not running today. Not shrieking for mercy, if she can help it. All she has to do is make it to the end. She will not be imprisoned, or stopped. Anna walks beside her, her silent guard.

Guard.

This wasn’t her fault. She needs Henry to know that. She didn’t want this, any of this. She has to tell him if she gets to him she can tell him it’s not her fault get off get off get off she didn’t mean to SHE DIDN’T MEAN SHE DIDN’T –

“Kat?”

Katherine snaps back to the moment. She looks around; there are crowds, talking, modern lights and materials. No-one is going to lock her in her chambers to await her judgement.

They’re not even here anymore.

At least, not that she knows of.

“Sorry,” Katherine rasps. “Got a bit lost, there.”

Anna nods. “I saw. What do you need me to do?”

“Um. You can talk, now, please. I think… I think it will keep me here. Or, well, it will keep me… now, if that makes sense.”

Anna starts to tell a story about a place called Schwanenburg, and it helps calm Katherine somewhat. At the very least, she’s not actively reliving one of the worst moments of her short life.

With that, she finds the strength to move her leaden feet forward, into the chapel. It was never a very long way, provided no-one was stopping her. Looking down from the private balcony, she sees Jane Seymour, her eyes closed. She seems to be at peace.

Henry is not here. He hasn’t been for some time.

“You made it,” Anna tells Katherine.

“Yes.”

“Did it help? Do you feel like it’s over?”

Katherine thinks for a moment. Idly, she puts a hand to her face and wipes away the tears flowing freely.

“I don’t know.”

The guest waits in the privy garden, now unrecognisable to her. She has seen all she needs to, she thinks. The new bits, where the apartments used to be. The baroque and Georgian galleries.

And some of the old, too. Her marriage certificate, still perfectly preserved after all these years. Honestly, she didn’t even need to see the latter.

Catherine (Katherine? Kateryn?) Parr knows quite well what her marriage certificate looks like, and what it represents.

It is symbolic of her place as the last. The ‘lucky’ one. The one who was merely threatened with execution, and died only a year after the wife-murdering king she survived. But no-one particularly cares what happened to her after Henry died, do they?

Parr sighs. None of it matters. She is but an idea, now. They all are. Characters in history books and in plays. They are only what people remember, because that’s what ghosts are made of. Memories.

“Are you moping again, Parr?”

Ah. Anne Boleyn is here. What she wouldn’t have given to meet her in life, and now… “I won’t deny it.”

“Well, that won’t do. Moping wasn’t the point of all this, the point was closure. Have you found it?”

“There’s none to be found here, for me. My regrets come from after Henry died. My sadness comes from another place, not Hampton Court.”

Anne scrunches up her face, perhaps in thought. Then, she pulls something from behind her back, placing it in Parr’s hand.

It’s… a doll? An ornament, maybe? It’s got red hair, a ruff and a lovely golden dress. Parr looks up at Anne, brows knitted in confusion.

“The gift shop sells them. It’s meant to be Elizabeth,” Anne tells her.

Parr’s heart sinks.

“She apparently spent a lot of time here,” Boleyn goes on, as if Parr isn’t breaking down on front of her, “not always of her own free will – apparently this is one of the places Mary locked her up in – but she improved the kitchens, the gardens, she brought her favourite theatre troupe to do some of their plays, here. Did a lot of stuff, she did. Not all of it good, admittedly.”

Parr sucks in a shuddering breath, a death rattle, and says, “I am glad. That she found some joy in her life, some purpose, despite me.”

“Despite a lot of people. You’re not the only one who did a number on her psyche.”

“Thank you. Thank you for entrusting her to me. I shall cherish her as I should always have.”

It is just an effigy. Parr knows this, as she is a mostly rational woman. She knows the girl she failed is gone, and treating a little doll kindly will not change what is written in history. It is more that the girl’s mother is giving her another chance, however hollow it may be, to do things right.

“Are we done?”

Parr’s godmother is standing directly behind Boleyn, and the other three can be seen coming down the gravel path to the fountain. It may be Parr’s somewhat misty eyes, but the woman seems fragile in a way she wasn’t before. As if the stern facade is just that, a facade, and the slightest chip will shatter the whole thing.

“I can’t speak for the others,” Parr replies, “but I am.”

Anne nods. “There’s a gatehouse named after me, and I’m happy with that.”

When the other three wives come into earshot, they indicate much the same.

Katherine Howard, with red-rimmed eyes, says “I’ve done what I needed to do.”

“So have I,” adds Anna, “though there wasn’t much for me to look for to begin with.”

Jane states that she’s said her piece, even if it was only in her head. That it was good to remember – even if the experience wasn’t exactly pleasant – but that it’s time to move on. There are murmurs of agreement amongst the group.

So, that’s exactly what they do. Sort of. They know that some part of them will always be here, whatever form it takes. That hints and whispers of them will forever remain in these halls.

The guides were right. Ghosts, stories, memories, all haunt Hampton Court, and they will only grow in number.

#the cradle will write #six #sort of #are they actual ghosts? are they physically there? who knows #I have been vague the entire time I've been doing this and will not stop now

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