The King's Rose Read online

  I pledge myself to him; the words are rather easy to say. I smile in relief when I am done with them, and he smiles in return. Then the king pledges himself to me.

  AFTER THE CEREMONY, I stand beside the king and sip spiced wine from a jeweled goblet, along with all the rest of our small wedding party. There are musicians striking up a lively tune, and everyone is talking pleasantly and congratulating the king. He laughs and sips his wine, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. No matter who is talking to him or bidding him their best, most gracious wishes, his eyes are constantly trained upon me. I’m sure I’m not the only one who notices.

  Thomas moves forward from the crowd. I look at him blankly, as if we’ve never met. He returns my look with a practiced courtier’s smile. The burning I saw in his eyes moments ago is gone. It is all done now. I am married to the king.

  “I present to Your Grace, Prince Edward, Lady Mary, and Lady Elizabeth.”

  The king’s children step forward. His daughters bow slowly, perfectly.

  “You look very beautiful, Your Majesty,” sprightly Elizabeth announces. She steps forward and offers me a small posy of flowers. “Your gown is the loveliest I have ever seen.”

  “Thank you, Lady Elizabeth. You look beautiful, as well.”

  Even before this ceremony, Lady Elizabeth and I were related—sharing a blood tie through her disgraced mother. Now she stands before me, an eager and clever seven-year-old. I warm to her instantly, as I feel she’s already warmed to me. Nothing can sever a blood tie.

  “Did you arrange these yourself? They are simply lovely. Here.” I pull a flower from the bouquet and lean forward to slide the stem over Elizabeth’s ear; the yellow bloom looks pretty against her red-gold hair, just like her father’s. She smiles up at me brightly and then dips again into a proper bow.

  I stand up and turn my smile to Lady Mary. Suddenly I feel as if I’ve rammed headfirst into a stone wall.

  “Good day, Your Grace,” she murmurs sullenly, and bows again.

  “I am glad to see you in attendance,” I tell her. Was that the right thing to say? I sense a quiet rage burning in Mary, a rage she takes little effort to hide in my presence. I turn my attentions to Edward to conceal my discomfort. He is but a little boy, distracted by the sights and sounds around him and ready to toddle off at any moment. Elizabeth holds his chubby hand in hers, and he dares not stray far from her side.

  As the day wanes, I become aware of the tone the sunshine makes upon my gold gown: first white-hot sunlight, then a more golden hue, then a rich, burnished copper. I watch the day dwindle to sunset, well aware of what the setting of the sun will bring.

  The king takes my hand and leads me to the center of the room. We are a dazzling sight to behold: both clothed in golden raiment and glittering with jewels in the low light. My gaze passes over the assembled courtiers and I picture what they see. I imagine seeing myself through so many eyes, as if surrounded by fragments of different mirrors, different reflections of me.

  I bow to my new husband, and we begin our dance. I have never danced with the king before, but we dance quite easily together, though he is so much larger. King Henry is a skilled dancer. He spins me vigorously, my gown spreading out in a cloud of gold around me. The faces assembled move past in a blur.

  The dance is done. Tapers are being lit and I am flickering like a flame. The guests slowly depart, and the duchess hurries me to my chambers to prepare for bed.

  “It all went by so quickly,” I murmur as Jane unclasps the jewels from my throat, and the duchess removes the rings from my fingers. Other ladies have joined us: Lady Bryan, little Edward’s nurse, as well as Lady Edgecombe and Lady Baynton, who served Anne of Cleves alongside me. Now they are my ladies, sworn to serve me. I am the center of the circle—the candle surrounded by fluttering moths.

  The golden gown is unlaced and pulled from my body; I feel a part of my power stripped from me. A silk nightgown is pulled over my head, which slips like the softest of clouds against my skin. The embroidery at the neckline of the gown is done in gold, but the gown itself is so sheer as to be nearly completely translucent.

  “Dearest, your fingers are like ice!” Jane exclaims. “That will not do . . . here, warm them in this flannel before I apply the scented cream.”

  I sit in a chair before the fire and the bejeweled coronet is removed from my hair. Once unpinned, my hair is combed with a wide-toothed ivory comb. Rose-scented cream is smoothed onto my arms and hands. I sit quietly as all of these tasks are performed.

  “Here, so you will stop that incessant shivering.” The duchess moves forward and drapes a velvet robe of deep claret over my shoulders. The ladies arrange my hair in a fetching manner, then smile and praise my reflection.

  Will this be enough? My eyes meet the duchess’s in the mirror. Jangling with nerves, part of me wants to ask her what I must do, and another part is afraid she may tell me. I’m abashed at my own panic; it’s not as if I’ve never done this before . . . but my secret knowledge gives me no solace. I want to satisfy the king, but fear seeming too practiced, too knowledgeable.

  “Do not worry,” the duchess says, squeezing my arm. “Nothing is sweeter to a man than a virgin on her wedding night.”

  The other ladies laugh in approval.

  Henry sees a virgin when he looks at me. Surely I can transform myself to satisfy his desires? I stare into the mirror and imagine myself a virgin, too. It takes practice and cunning to play a part other than who you are. Court is filled with such people. My nervousness and my cold, trembling hands make my act very convincing.

  Tonight I will become new, again. I will become his.

  IX

  We each enter the bedchamber from separate entrances—a door on each side of the room leads to separate apartments for the king and myself. The ladies escort me over to the bed, which is draped in sheer curtains embroidered with metallic thread that twinkles in the firelight. They remove my robe and usher me into bed. The king enters the chamber; I can see him vaguely through the shimmering veils.

  Once I am properly arranged beneath the covers, the ladies bow to the king and depart. When the door is shut behind them, I glance at him cautiously.

  He is similarly robed in velvet, with an embroidered linen tunic beneath, poking out of the neckline of his robe. Mere moments ago he was magnificently robed and festooned with jewels and gold. Now he seems more manly, less godly. I have never seen him this way, looking as a man does when he turns to bed. Lacking as he is the embroidered doublet and puffed sleeves and jeweled collar, I think some power has been stripped from his person, as well. Not many people see the king this way, so intimately. It occurs to me all over again how far I’ve come, and how there is no going back, now.

  He wants me to be his beloved wife, I remind myself. He wants me to love him. A corded belt is securely cinched around his middle. Is he worried about exposing himself to my eyes? I soften at the thought, for I feel the same way. Perhaps we could both remain covered for the night? No, no, that will not do. I turn and give him a shy smile. He sighs and returns it, warmly.

  “My sweet wife,” he says quietly, pushing aside the veil and pulling down the covers of the bed. As he slips into the bed beside me I look away, focusing on the play of light the fire makes upon the ceiling. We are in bed beside each other, and I’m too afraid to turn and look at him. His breathing is heavy, labored.

  His arm touches mine, his warm skin burns through the thin silk of my nightdress.

  “Catherine.” He leans forward, breathing my name into my neck, his face burrowed in my hair. He pulls me toward him and I’m lying on my back, my body close to his. I think back to the wedding, mere moments ago: like a beautiful pageant with lines I had memorized and didn’t even need to think about to recite. All so remarkably easy. Now this is real, without rehearsal.

  Be wary of his legs, Catherine, they cause him pain. The duchess’s instructions echo in my head, unbidden. You must distract him from his ailments with his pleasure. Don’t
be a prude, Catherine. I refuse to accept prudishness from you now. These reminders serve only to heighten my panic; I feel as if the duchess is standing over the bed, judging my performance, pointing out what I’m doing wrong.

  I alternate between closing my eyes and opening them to watch the light and shadow flicker upon the embroidered canopy. My chest begins to ache; I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. Breathe, breathe. I open my eyes—I don’t want to appear as if I’m sleeping, trying to ignore him. His massive hands are warm, searching. I dig my fingers into the bedclothes; lie still, lie still and let it happen. Don’t think about it. Don’t make a sound.

  He kisses my neck for a moment and then pulls back to look at my face. He looms over me: a dark shadow in the low light.

  “You were made for me. I was sure of it from the moment I saw you, dancing in that pale blue gown.”

  “You knew, even then?” I whisper, my voice breaking.

  “Of course I knew!” He laughs. “With your beauty, your grace. You are exactly what I yearn for. I could not have made you more tempting had I imagined you myself.”

  He leans forward and kisses me upon the mouth—our first private kiss. I close my eyes and allow the kiss to happen: I am warm, yielding. I was made for him, as if I had been magically put together, an assemblage of parts, like a doll, purely for the pleasure of the king.

  As he kisses my neck I can’t help but watch, distantly fascinated, as his massive hand covers my breast. A dark ruby upon the king’s thumb glints in the light of the fire; it’s a large stone, dusty at its core like an eye filmed with age. I know the story of this ring: it was acquired from Becket’s tomb, when Henry had the saint’s remains exhumed and destroyed, to rid England’s church of idolatry. I shiver at the awesome power of this king, at the sight of his hand, with this ancient ring upon it, stroking my own soft breast. I feel exposed suddenly, vulnerable. I only hope that his powerful touch will protect me.

  Protect me? Protect me from what? From the king? I fear him. I hadn’t realized it before now. I hadn’t been so close to him, so alone with him to know that I fear him. But I do. And it’s too late, now. Too late, too late. But perhaps it was too late from the very beginning, from the day he first saw me, first chose me. He has chosen me, above all others. He has chosen me.

  His kisses become more insistent and he leans forward, covering my body with his. His weight isn’t as oppressive as I feared, upon the high soft bed, but still my breath strains, my heart races. And my hair is beneath his elbow—pulling—oh, then he pulls again, even harder, trying to free us from the entanglement—

  “Your Majesty!”

  “Catherine!” he cries, brushing my hair gently from my neck and laughing warmly. “You may call me Henry, now.”

  “King Henry?”

  “No, dear, just Henry. In public you must use a formal greeting. But alone, in private . . . and we are in private . . .”

  “Henry,” I say, my breath whistling by his ear.

  He lifts the silk nightgown slowly, by its hem, until I slip from it completely. I lie on the bed naked before him, his hands covering me. I close my eyes. I cannot dare open them. I am so afraid. But I know, just from his touch, what he wants.

  As he finally claims me, his breathing turns even more labored. In a few moments he grunts, his limbs rigid. Then he collapses with a great sigh in my ear.

  It is over, already. Instead of feeling relieved, I am horrified. This was what he wanted, this was what he desired, to have me in his bed. And that was it? Will that be enough for him? I lie motionless as he pulls away from me, rolling onto his back. Is something wrong with me? Something he hadn’t expected? Could he detect, somehow, that which I am most desperate to hide? The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him. I cannot think of it; I can not think that I’ve failed already. What will become of me if I have?

  He lies beside me, quiet for a long while. I think he’s fallen asleep when he rolls over and reaches for his robe. I turn and dare to look at him. His back is curved forward, his shoulders drooping.

  “It has been a long day,” he pronounces. His voice is weary, cracked. Is he disappointed? Embarrassed? The mere thought of it horrifies me. What did I do wrong?

  “You don’t need to leave,” I tell him. I rest my hand in the middle of his broad back. “If you don’t want to.”

  “Do you wish me to stay?”

  “Yes.” Yes, please, please stay. I press my cool palm against his warm flesh. I can’t be left here alone with thoughts of the king’s disappointment. I have to fix things, I have to make things right.

  “Yes,” he agrees, “I shall stay.” He slides back beneath the sheets. This time I move close to him, pressing my breasts against his arm.

  “I hope that you will be patient with your little wife,” I tell him, eyes cast down, embarrassed. I am embarrassed, bashful, virginal. “I suppose I do not yet know how—or what—to do. To please you.”

  “My sweet wife.” He sighs.

  “I want to please you, my king. My Henry.” I rest my cheek upon his shoulder. “I’m afraid it may take me a while to learn how.”

  He laughs at this, patting my hand playfully. That’s right. This is my embarrassment, not his. Not his.

  “Do not worry, my dear. You have done well already.”

  I lift my head and kiss him on the cheek. He laughs again and presses my hand to his lips.

  “My sweet, sweet wife,” he murmurs. “I love you, Catherine.”

  “I love you, Henry.” My voice is quiet, but it does not tremble. I lie perfectly still, with eyes wide open in the dark. The king falls asleep, and I listen to the thick rattle of his breath. My guilt makes no sound as it settles deep within me, sinking in its claws.

  The king is in love with me. But who am I? Who is this girl that the Howards created out of their words, to whom the king has given his love? I am King Henry’s sweet wife—Catherine Howard, no more. I wonder if God can see me now, see the treason in my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing these thoughts from my mind. I am a player upon a stage, even when the stage is a bed, even in an intimate moment such as this, with no costume or mask to cover my nakedness. I must play my part well, especially in an intimate moment such as this. I must become my role, and nothing else.

  X

  It seems that my wedding day—a day of triumph for the Howards—was not joyous for all. I’ve just learned that yesterday was also the day of Cromwell’s execution. Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s chief adviser.

  “Do not feel sorry for Cromwell, my dear.” The duchess shakes her head as she pulls a comb through my hair. “He was condemned for pushing the marriage between Henry and that Lutheran German, and rightly so. He would have made the Church of England a Lutheran church, if he had his way.”

  The duchess puts down the comb and pulls a new hood of pale pink silk over my head—both hood and gown are new. She stands before me and arranges my hair carefully over my shoulder.

  “Now we have more important things to talk about.”

  From the way her eyes flash at me, critically, I know what she means. Suddenly I would rather talk about Cromwell. My face and neck blush scarlet.

  “How did the king enjoy his new bride?”

  “Very well,” I whisper. “I think, very well.”

  Her eyes narrow at mine as she adjusts my hood, and I blandly return her stare.

  “I was nervous,” I tell her, “and shy. He liked it.” This I can be sure of: I was awoken this morning with the persistence of Henry’s kisses. In spite of my qualms, the wedding night was undeniably a success in Henry’s mind.

  “Good.” She smiles. “He is besotted with you. You must be besotted with him. You must be welcoming, flirtatious.”

  “Yes, Duchess.” I sigh. There is always a never-ending list of things I must be.

  “Make sure he visits your bed every night, Catherine. It is imperative. You must charm him, you must desire him. Do you understand?”

  I do un
derstand, for this is why he chose me: to feel desired and adored by a young woman, to convince him that he is not old. To his court, King Henry is a powerful monarch, stalwart and sturdy, draped in magnificent jewels. Now I’ve glimpsed the old man hiding beneath the robes of state, and I know more than is safe to know about a king, let alone to put into words. But it makes me soften toward him, in spite of my fears. A youthful bride is exactly what he needs—I am exactly what he needs. I must protect him; we must protect each other.

  MY CHAMBERS ARE CROWDED: at least twenty maids are here, buzzing around me in the candlelit darkness, pinning my hair and tying my sleeves and adjusting the farthingale hoop beneath my skirt. I stand still and watch it in the mirror, like a beautiful tableau.

  “Oh, Catherine!” The ladies sigh over the layers of rich black lace and cloth of gold. “How exquisite!”

  Exquisite, indeed: just last fall I was relegated to the thinnest of cushions and the farthest seat from the fire. Now I’m installed in the queen’s chambers at Oatlands Palace, last decorated for Jane Seymour, who did not live to occupy them.

  “How wonderful it is to have a young, beautiful English queen!” Lady Browne exclaims. When I was nothing more than a lady-in-waiting, she chastised me for poor embroidery and lackluster manners. Now she smiles proudly upon me.

  “Not only an English queen—a Catholic queen. It is just what England, and the crown, needs more than ever,” Lady Rochford remarks. Even Jane’s usually sober expression has softened tonight, relaxed with wine and revelry.

  “It’s time, everyone! Are we all ready?” Lady Edgecombe announces. “It’s time!”

  We rush down the torchlit hall, dozens of velvet shoes tapping upon the flagstones, skirts of lace and silk rustling like waves breaking upon the shore. I’m so excited I can’t help giggling, and my laughter is echoed, rippling through the ladies around me, magnified. The light of the torches streams by us in streaks of gold.

  “Get in line, everyone, find your place!” I call over the crowd; they all fall silent at the sound of my voice. I snap open my fan, too excited to stand still; the gold lace fan sparkles by the light of the torches. “We have to wait for our cue.”