The Light in the Labyrinth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Endorsements

  Family Trees

  The Light in the Labyrinth

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Historical personages in The Light in the Labyrinth.

  Entering the Labyrinth

  References

  Bibliography

  Also by Wendy J. Dunn

  About Wendy

  THE LIGHT IN THE LABYRINTH

  Wendy J. Dunn

  First edition 2014

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy J. Dunn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The Light in the Labyrinth is a work of fiction inspired by the life and times of Anne Boleyn and her niece Katherine Carey. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A DISTANT MIRROR BOOK

  web www.adistantmirror.press

  email [email protected]

  Endorsements

  “A lovely coming of age story set in the tragic last days of Anne Boleyn. It is exactly the type of novel that draws youth into a life-long love of history.” — Beth Von Staats, admin of Queen Anne Boleyn Historical Writers

  “Once again, Dunn has written a book that will delight readers of all ages! I loved her first book, Dear Heart, and this one did not disappoint. While this is a young adult novel, adults will love it just as much as teenagers. Dunn's commitment to historical accuracy shines through. Kate Carey is an engaging character who kept my interest and the novel is fast-paced and interesting. I highly, highly recommend the book.” – Kristie Davis Dean

  “The Light in the Labyrinth is quite the read – no matter the age of the reader. And yes, thanks to Kate, a new voice has been added to the well-known haunting melody– a voice that mellows and matures as the story evolves and yet retains a touch of bittersweet innocence right to the bloody, inevitable end.” – Anna Belfrage, author of The Graham Saga.

  “The Light in the Labyrinth is a beautifully written book, a gem. I savoured every word; words written with so much ‘colour’. Even though I know the story of Queen Anne Boleyn, Dunn’s perspective on her last days is missing in so many other books of the genre. Dunn gives grace to the history and an honest, and very compassionate look at Anne’s last days.

  I cried in the end, shedding tears for the young Kate, Anne and her little Bess. I have not yet read a Tudor book that has moved me to tears, as this wonderful journey does. Dunn’s dedication and research shines through in this unforgettable book, a book not just for young readers, but also for all.” — Lara Salzano, avid Tudor reader.

  “The Light in the Labyrinth is a vivid and enthralling retelling of the final days of Queen Anne Boleyn that moved me so much I was in tears and utterly heartbroken by the end of the story.” — Natalie Grueninger, author of In the Footsteps of Anne Boleyn

  Acknowledgments

  I LOVE WRITING acknowledgment pages because they give me the opportunity to thank all people important in my writing journey. This novel gives me reason to thank many people—and I really don’t know where to start, except to say that every person mentioned deserves my sincere and deepest gratitude.

  My first thanks must go not to a person, but an institution. I will always be indebted to Swinburne University for giving me the opportunity to devote more of my life to the calling that comes from my heart. Swinburne University provided me with two wonderful and generous supervisors, Professor Josie Arnold and Dr. Martin Andrew, to act as my critical friends, as well as a third supervisor to keep me on track in my last year: Dr. Julian Novitz. Dr. Carolyn Beasley also encouraged and supported me every step of the way to completing my novel and PhD. Thank you all.

  Whilst a scholarship-supported PhD by artefact and exegesis entails a lot of academic study, it also provided the financial support necessary for the writing of this novel. This included financing a mentor-supported week at Varuna, The Writers’ House. My mentor was author Stephen Measday. He arrived on my first full day at Varuna with the folder of my manuscript under his arm, shook my hand, and said, “I like this work.”

  Of course, it is never as simple as that when it comes to critical friendship. When we sat down at the table, he opened the folder. Seeing all the yellow stickers on pages and pages of my work, I gulped back an “Oh, my!” But it was an “Oh, my” in a very, very good way. His feedback was just what I needed to move forward with my new novel. Thank you, Stephen.

  Writers need people to believe in their writing. I’m so fortunate there, too. My dear mate Glenice Whitting, author of the award winning Pickle to Pie, has always believed in this book. She has seen it rough and unpolished, yet knew exactly the right words to keep me at it.

  Nerina Jones and Lydia Fuscko also read this work in its early life. Nerina offered her usual brilliant insights. She encouraged, gently steered and nurtured me as only the best editors can do, as well as acting as my driver many times and accompanying me on annual writing retreats.

  Lydia, understanding I have a hobbit love of little gifts, sent me soft toys, jewelled golden frogs, polished stones, good luck charms—the list goes on and go. My sister Karen asked, watching me open yet another package from Lydia, “Aren’t you the one supposed to be sending gifts when someone takes the time to read an early draft of your work?” Yes, I believe so. No wonder then I was so overcome by Lydia’s thoughtfulness and generosity.

  Another generous soul and important, talented member of this very special fellowship is Rachel Le Rossignol. Rachel was always there to listen to me moan and groan about the difficulty of climbing my PhD mountain, but also, after Metropolis Ink accepted it for publication, acted as one of the important editors of this work. Thank you, Rachel! Any mistakes are now purely my own responsibility.

  Then there are my other great mates—Sandra Worth and Cindy Vallar. All wonderful historical authors in their own right, yet always so generous with the time and encouragement they gave in my quest to finish this novel.

  My long time friend Cindy Vallar once again gave my work the benefit of her red pen and her talents as a gifted editor. She lifted it to a point I just wanted to polish the novel more and more.

  I thank Karina Machado and her sister Natalie Grueninger for their treasured friendship, wonderful support and encouragement. Karina deserves a special thank you for her honesty as one of my critical friends for this work.

  My friend Valerie is owed my immense gratitude for her London hospitality, not forgetting taking me on extraordinary Tudor adventures.

  Authors Barbara Kyle, Kristie Dean Davis and Pauline Montagna I also wish to thank for their support and encouragement.

  And thank you Paula Armstrong for not only believing in me but also for producing the Eltham Little Theatre Quickie competition. This c
ompetition gave me one of my greatest writing thrills when I saw my first ten-minute play performed as one the ten finalists, the play that initially gave me Kate’s voice and set my feet upon the road to writing this novel.

  I thank Kurt Florman for his precious friendship, as well as being the publisher who has always believed in me, and David Major who always does a wonderful job with novel layout and cover design.

  How I treasure all these friends. I feel a lump in my throat just thinking of how each of you always believed in me. One new friend I must mention: Dr. Flavia Adriana Andrade—who not only gave me the joy of hosting a fellow Anne Boleyn devotee during Christmas 2013, but the thrill of knowing my first novel spoke loud enough to a reader to be included in her PhD.

  I also wish to express my deepest gratitude to Tony Thomas and Maurice Drage for their delightful company and hospitality, which included a private tour of St. Andrew, Rochford’s Parish Church, a church once well-known to the Boleyn family.

  Of course, I thank my family. They put up with a great deal because of my writing obsession. I just want them to know they are everything to me. While writing gives me a voice to speak to others, my family is the core of my existence.

  Talking of family—I must give overdue thanks to my cousin Donna, her husband, Christopher, and their children, Brittany and Charlie. Donna and crew hosted my son and me for ten days in England. They took us for a Tudor tour—and they don’t even share my Tudor obsession.

  Alan Dunn also treated us by organising, through his generous friend Beefeater Tom, a special tour of the Tower of London. Thank you all.

  I also thank David Foley, my school principal at Eltham North Primary, who kindly allowed me to take months of leave from my regular teacher duties, although I couldn’t stay away from my writing extension class. My students’ passion and desire to learn gives me hope for the future and inspiration for every day of my life.

  I am a fortunate woman.

  Wendy J. Dunn

  Dedicated to my daughter, Elisabeth.

  From little girl to adulthood, you have always taught me the true meaning of courage.

  Family Trees

  The following three family trees are available online at:

  http://wendyjdunn.com/the-light-in-the-labyrinth/family-trees-for-the-light-in-the-labyrinth/

  The Light in the Labyrinth

  1

  Rochford Hall, November 1535

  “YOU WERE FOOLISH TO MARRY HIM,” Kate said, perched on the edge of her mother’s unmade bed. Her family had more troubles than most. They were of noble blood, yet poor. Kate balled her hands in anger, thinking, ’Tis my mother’s fault. She’s the one who has brought shame on us. A sister of the Queen of England should know better than to wed a commoner.

  She seethed in her black mood, the black mood that had brought her to her mother’s chambers. Now she desired to annoy her mother by acting a child rather than a maid near to fourteen summers, and swung her legs, backward and forth. Her lady mother, as if aware of Kate’s intent, did not look her way, but pulled the drawstrings of her red kirtle around her tiny waist. Nimble fingers knotted cords. Two months after the birth of her fourth child, she was as slender as a maiden—indeed, more slender than Kate.

  Kate’s heart burned with jealousy. Not only was her mother beautiful—more beautiful than she could ever hope to be—but since her churching, her mother’s every waking hour was taken up with caring for her new baby son and infant daughter. It was time her mother remembered she also had another daughter.

  Her mother shot her a look from underneath a shifting curtain of golden hair. “Remember to whom you speak,” she snapped before snatching up the faded, patched bodice beside Kate and pulling it over her white shift.

  “Pray, why should I remember?” Kate murmured under her breath. While her mother dressed, she crumpled her own skirts, pieced together from remnants found in the clothes coffers and made anew. Since the unwise marriage to Stafford, spending coin on material for a new gown or even a simple shift was out the question. Kate wanted to jump off the bed and stamp her foot. “Madam,” she at last spat out, “'twas not me who dishonoured the family.”

  Straightening, Lady Mary stilled with widening eyes. Her mouth moved, but she made no sound; tears spilled down her pale, drawn face. Kate stood, and brought her hands up to her heating cheeks. She wished she could call the words back. For the past year, her anger had brewed, bubbled over, and scalded her too-tender mother. Confused, hating herself, she reached out her hand. “Mama, forgive me—”

  Her mother waved her away. “How dare you!” She stared at Kate as if seeing a stranger. “Do not speak to me of honour or family. You understand nothing; nothing.” The baby whimpered and she rocked the cradle. “Hush, poppet,” she crooned, brushing away tears. She faced Kate again to speak in a quieter, firmer voice. “The only true honour I’ve known in my life has come from becoming the wife of William Stafford. Will loves me—despite the world and its opinion.” A grimace distorted her beautiful face. “Why should I marry a man for his wealth or his bloodlines, when good fortune gave me the love of a true and honest man?”

  Kate fidgeted under her mother’s concern.

  “I want the same for you. Why do you think I refuse to allow your grandfather to find you a husband? You will thank me for it; 'tis better to beg your bread with a man you love than end up simply as a man’s property.” Her mother firmed her mouth. “Can you not see how Will treats me? Can you not see his gentleness, his respect, his devotion? Believe me, I am richer than your aunt.”

  Lady Mary bent over the cradle and tucked the blanket around the tiny, swaddled infant, talking all the while. “I am a patient woman, Kate. I’ve excused your rudeness and closed my eyes and ears to your cruelty to my husband when he has only offered you kindness. Every night I’ve prayed—every night I’ve asked the good Lord God to help you see the error of your ways so again you would be my good and dutiful daughter. But no more. I vow to you, my child, I will use the rod. Aye, Katherine, I will use it if you continue down this road.”

  Half-covering her mouth in shock, Kate stared at her mother.

  The baby bleated and filled up his lungs to ring out a loud cry. He kept crying until Kate clenched her fists at her sides. She wanted to block her ears. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to push over the cradle. To silence her brother forever. Silence my brother forever? Frightened by her thoughts, tears smarted her eyes. Oh God! Dear God, I didn’t mean it!

  Her mother gathered up the baby, blanket and all. Now she wanted to do the same, hug the child to her and beg for forgiveness. I don’t want you dead, but I wish both you and your sister had never been born. I will only share my mother with my brother Harry—not low-born, half-bloods like you.

  Sitting on the coffer at the end of the bed, Lady Mary loosened the drawstrings of her bodice and nursed the baby. Kate squirmed, discomforted by the sight of the white, swollen breast. Blue veins traced their way to her mother’s heart. Reminded of life and mortality, she raised her eyes to Lady Mary’s taut, grim face. Feeling slapped, she dropped her gaze and stepped away.

  “Do you want to know why I do not use the rod?” her mother asked. “Would you like to see the scars from my lord father’s discipline?” Lady Mary laughed, gazing above her daughter’s head.

  Kate shook her head, taken aback by her mother’s words and the sharp, bitter edge to her laughter. She had rarely seen her mother in this mood, with her temper so easily roused.

  Watching her mother gaze down at the sucking baby before she stroked his fair head, Kate welcomed, after her sinful thoughts, an unexpected connection to her tiny brother. Despite their different fathers, he, too, was blonde like their mother, blonde like her and Harry. Kate drew out a tendril of her uncombed hair and studied its reddish tinge. No. Close, but not completely alike. For several heartbeats, she daydreamed of her tall father, the father she could barely remember. His face obscured, the sun shone down on his head and turned his hair aflame.
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br />   Lady Mary kept her eyes on her infant. Her low voice trembled. “The scars from his rod are still there for you to see.”

  Kate shuffled her feet. “What did you do?” she asked, not daring to pose the real question in her mind: How could my kind, good-natured grandfather beat anyone? She squirmed, putting aside the memory of his last visit. Nay—that day, and her mother’s scars, must have been her mother’s fault. Everything was her fault.

  Eagle-proud that his second daughter was consort to the King, and proud, too, that he was now Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond, her grandfather shared that pride by his choice of costly gifts to Kate, his oldest granddaughter. “Ah,” he would say, “the blessing of fine grandchildren. You and your brother are truly your father’s children.” He would laugh then and kiss her brow, ignoring the distress of her lady mother; it always upset her mother when she was reminded of Kate’s father.

  Kate bent her head to hide her smile. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears whenever Kate mentioned her father, William Carey. It proved to Kate that her mother loved him more than she did Stafford. Happy in that knowledge, Kate remained content to keep her precious memories of her father to herself.

  Her lord grandfather had visited them rarely at Rochford Hall. The last time was when he had come to express his anger at her mother’s new marriage, his raised voice roaring in the solar so none could fail to hear him. “You not only unforgivably dishonoured the name of the family, but also the sire of your children,” he shouted. After he rode away, her mother had hurried away to her room and locked the door. Despite its thick wood, Kate heard from within the sound of weeping. There had been no more visits or gifts since that awful day.

  Lifting her gaze again, it seemed her mother, now focused utterly on her baby, didn’t wish to look at her. Is she still angry? Kate pondered the threat. Her mother always disregarded their household priest when he warned her: “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Once, she only needed to narrow her eyes in Kate’s direction for her to remember to behave. Now a devil had her in its grip. She struggled to control her rage, her jealousy, her smouldering resentment. Far too often, they devoured her.