His voice is low, gentle, persuasive, and full of regret. If he
were free, he says, if there were no impediment, it is she, above all women, that he would choose for his wife. The lack of sons wouldn’t matter; God’s will be done. He would like nothing better than to marry her all over again; lawfully, this time. But there it is: it can’t be managed. She was his brother’s wife. Their union has offended divine law.
You can hear what Katherine says. That wreck of a body, held together by lacing and stays, encloses a voice that you can hear as far as Calais: it resounds from here to Paris, from here to Madrid, to Rome. She is standing on her status, she is standing on her rights; the windows are rattled, from here to Constantinople.
What a woman she is.