The King's Rose Page 8

  “The rain will come soon, to relieve us,” Jane assures me, sensing my nerves. The air in my bedchamber is heavy, still. Only candles are lit around the bed, and I’m wearing the lightest silk nightdress, the outline of my naked form easily visible as the moonlight slants in the window.

  “The linens are fresh and cool,” she tells me, smoothing her palm over the coverlet. I’m relieved to have left Hampton for another miniature court, though the court on progress is considerably larger than the small party we had at Oatlands Palace. Still, I’m hoping that this handsome, intimate country manor will inspire the king to visit me.

  The door opens, and Henry enters. Jane bows and hastily takes her leave. I’m standing by the window, letting the pale light filter through my thin gown.

  “Catherine,” he breathes; I can see that his steps are labored. “Are you tired?”

  “It was a wearying day,” I say cautiously, “but I’m glad that you’re here.”

  “I am as well.” He moves forward and embraces me, but only briefly. “But I think I must bid you good night. You look lovely, as always, but tired. You need your rest.”

  The king’s eyes are red, the lids drooping.

  “Of course, my lord. I will be better rested tomorrow.”

  And with that, he takes his leave. In spite of the heavy air, a chill runs up my spine. There will be no hope of another heir for England if the king is not well enough to visit my bed. I look out the window over the garden, where the roses droop upon their vines in the heat. I close my eyes and pray for rain.

  I blow out the candles, then take to my high bed and slip between the cool sheets, in search of a dream that may distract me from my concerns. I find here, in the dim shadows of blue and gray, an old dream about Thomas.

  We are in the garden together, and the sky is pitch-black and splattered with stars. I rush into his arms and we share our first kiss. I dwell on this one moment again and again, adding in further kisses besides. In my dream, Thomas is bold and I respond to his touch with reckless eagerness; we have nothing to lose, or to fear. In my dream, I am simply Catherine, without any further claims upon my heart aside from the one that dwells there, swells there now: Thomas, I love you, I want to be with you, I want to be yours forever . . .

  Jane will scold me for this, somehow. She knows everything about me. The courses of my monthly blood and the nature of my nightly excretions into the chamber pot are common topics for chatter among the maids in my household, there is no doubt. There is much speculation about my acts with the king when we are alone together in the royal bed, and what those acts may come to, and when we may see those results. My dreams are perhaps the only private thing I have left to myself—for there is no way the ladies can pull them from me, though I’m sure they would try if they could. I’ve always had a penchant for dreaming. I can’t completely change everything about myself simply because I am queen.

  “DRINK THIS.”

  I open my eyes to find the duchess standing over my bed. I am not particularly surprised; what details of my life she is not privy to I’m sure Jane supplies. I’ve spent the last few nights with the king, now that the progress has begun to revive him. Quickly on the heels of either success or disaster, there is the duchess, eager to appraise the situation with her critical eye and tell me what next to do.

  She holds out a goblet and pushes it into my hand. The liquid within is cloudy, with a strange, musty odor of dirt and dried herbs.

  “What is it?”

  “Drink it. It will help you.”

  “Help me what?”

  “Help you become pregnant, that’s what.” She turns to Lady Rochford, already pulling out my gown for today’s wear. “No, Jane, the ice-blue one. It’s very hot today. We must keep Catherine looking cool, serene.”

  “We were only married this summer,” I remind the duchess, alarmed by her impatience. “I haven’t had much time.”

  “You will never have enough time, Catherine, remember that. Immediacy is vital. You were in his bedchamber last night. Yes? And then you came here to sleep?”

  “Yes. The king told me he would be waking early in the morning for the hunt.”

  These days and nights at Grafton have made all the difference in the king’s health and disposition. We’ve adopted a more relaxed existence on this progress, adjourning to the king’s parlor in the evenings for a recital—I on the lute and Henry on the virginals—and we dine in private before adjourning to bed. Still, the heat is detrimental; the king is not restored to the robust energy he displayed on our honeymoon in Surrey. When he looks at me, he sees his reclaimed youth. When I look at the king, I see his mortality. We are like two sides of a strange, distorted mirror.

  “Indeed,” the duchess murmurs thoughtfully. “And your monthly blood, has it arrived yet? How do you feel?”

  A familiar ache twinges in my belly at these words, but I haven’t the heart to tell the duchess about it.

  “I’m not sure, yet. I can’t be certain.”

  “Drink up,” she says succinctly, pushing the glass toward me.

  I struggle to sip the grayish drink. Back at Lambeth I used to fear pregnancy. Though I followed the advice the ladies gave me to protect myself, there were nights when Francis was too persistent to dissuade. Anxious days were spent pondering what would become of me if I were with child; Francis’s promises of marriage did nothing to quell my fears. Now my entire existence is hinged upon becoming pregnant, and the habitual lateness of my monthly blood continues to fool me, cheat me into thinking that I have achieved my singular objective.

  I am sure that Henry thinks of it even more than I do. I sense in him a great desire for affection, as if he has long been starved for this type of intimacy. And underlying all of his pleasure is that hope, that prayer. When he rests his hand tentatively upon my belly, I feel fully aware of all that is expected of me, though I know not what else to do to make it come about.

  “There is more we must discuss,” the duchess continues, adjusting the collar of my linen shift with brisk efficacy. “You must ask him about your coronation.”

  Though I wish to dismiss the subject, it does worry me. I am royal consort and have assumed the title of queen upon marriage, but have yet to be officially anointed as such. This will be imperative in order to secure my place upon the throne, and to secure my progeny within the line of succession. With deep resentment I recall the soaring triumph (brief though it was) of Queen Anne seated upon her royal barge, the gentle swell of her belly visible beneath her glistening gown.

  “It is more difficult than that.”

  “What is difficult about it?”

  “I cannot ask him until I know that I am pregnant.”

  “I think you had better ask him about it sooner than that. There is no use wasting time, Catherine. He was well prepared to hold a coronation for that German lass just a month after their wedding, if only she had lived up to his expectations.”

  “The king has very high expectations.”

  “As well he should, Catherine. He is the king. My question is this: if last winter he was so eager to have a queen that he planned to crown a German, why is it that he is taking his time in crowning you?”

  “I do not know,” I tell her. “Perhaps it is the heat. Perhaps he will change his mind in the colder weather.”

  The duchess sighs briskly, her nostrils flared.

  “Think, Catherine: if you were to be crowned and bear a son, your triumph would be greater even than that of Queen Jane, who was never officially crowned. Your triumph would be the greatest of all the queens.” Her eyes turn glassy for a moment, as if gazing at the brilliant tableau she has just conjured in her mind.

  “You must broach the subject with him. You know what I mean—cajole him a bit. Be flirtatious. Surely you’ve learned those tricks by now.”

  “Yes, Duchess.”

  “Use your feminine wiles, Catherine. They are very powerful if used deftly, very powerful, indeed. And besides, they are all that you have.”r />
  “Yes, Duchess.”

  “And remember: every night. He must visit you every night. Do whatever you need to do to make that happen.”

  I am only a young girl, I think to tell her. I am not a magician. I am not a witch. I can make the king feel young again, but I cannot actually make him young.

  XV

  To day we ride south to Bedfordshire, and plan to stay at Ampthill for a fortnight. It seems a large task to move so many people. A significant portion of my household and the king’s accompanies us on our summer progress, as well as an assortment of advisers, cooks, and additional servants. Still, I need do startlingly little. My role in this performance is all show, while my clothes, my jewels, my belongings are prepared behind the scenes.

  A line of carts is drawn up before the manor, and the grooms of the stables walk among them and pass their hands over them to make sure our belongings are properly secured before we depart. The young men tug on rough ropes and tighten fat knots; their hands are dark brown with dirt and thick with calluses. I look down at my own hands—small, soft, and pale against my blue riding habit. The horses are tacked and ready, my silver mare bridling at the front of the group beside the king’s enormous hunter. The mare is a beauty; a groom brushes her flanks and her pale gray coat glistens in the early morning sunshine. The king chose her for me—a good, reliable horse for a long ride.

  “You miss her, don’t you,” a low voice says, so close to me that I start at the sound of it. Thomas sidles up beside me, admiring the mare. I feel embarrassed, suddenly, awkward in his presence.

  “Who?”

  “Your little Molly, that brown horse you rode when you first came to court.”

  “My pretty, perky Molly.” I sigh. “She’s asleep in her stable at Westminster. Not a proper horse for a ride such as this.”

  “But you still miss her.”

  I’m hesitant to admit this in earshot of the beautiful horse the king gifted to me. And why should Thomas be the one privy to my secret thoughts?

  “Yes,” I tell him. He smiles and offers a low hand to cup my foot and help me onto the saddle. I pause, but only for a moment. Once mounted, I arrange my habit in a pleasing fashion for the ride.

  “I understand,” Thomas says, handing me the reins. “It’s natural to miss something you love, no matter what it is. Even a little brown horse. Sometimes a replacement just isn’t the same as the original, but you’ll get used to her.”

  He smiles and squints up at me in the sun, patting the neck of the mare. I return his smile—placid, revealing nothing. That is all Thomas will get from me.

  The king has arrived, mounting his hunter. I’m glad that Henry is looking well, and I’m glad that he was well last night. I am tired this morning, and my ladies shared knowing looks in speculation over the cause of my weariness: Was I kept awake late into the night by the king? Or am I already with child and in need of rest? I can only hope the latter is true.

  Last night I lay beside Henry wondering why I wasn’t asleep, only to realize my eyes were wide open in the darkness. And I woke this morning with an odd feeling, which clung to me even as the ladies dressed me and my trunks were carried out for our journey. I feel a dim recollection of things imagined in my sleep; the residue of dreams clinging to me when I know it would be best not to dwell on them.

  I am aware of the futility and the peril of dreams, but they prove difficult to restrain once given free rein in your mind.

  AMPTHILL IS A LOVELY PLACE, offering Henry further opportunities for hunting expeditions. I’ve heard the ladies in my chamber whisper that Katherine of Aragon was sent here for part of her exile, after she was banished from court. I felt wary of what ghosts might reside in these halls, but I think the summer sunshine, the music, the mummers’ dances, and the fool’s tricks have swept any ghosts from their hiding places. The king sat all last night with his arm wrapped around me at dinner, and even placed kisses upon my forehead, cheeks, and lips, for all to see. Hopes for another heir for England have been renewed.

  All manner of games are played in the gardens at Ampthill—it is truly a summer haven. There is archery and tennis, as well as fishing and hunting. Today, Henry has urged me to join him on a hawking expedition. We attend Mass together and then make our way out to the mews, where the cages of hawks and falcons are kept.

  “You look very pretty today, Catherine,” Henry remarks, smiling.

  “Thank you, my lord. I did not know what a person should wear for falconry. I am glad to hear I’ve chosen rightly.” I have chosen rightly: the gold and copper highlights in my hair burn bright in the sun in contrast to the creamy lavender silk of my gown. I twirl for the king, and he applauds in appreciation. We mount our horses in the company of councillors, grooms, and the royal falconer and make our way to a hillside overlooking a glen filled with trees.

  Thomas is with us, for he is an expert falconer. I find myself wishing he had not joined us, to allow my confused heart some diversion. He helps the king put on enormous leather gauntlets, and sets the hooded hawk upon his hand. The falconer removes the leather hood to reveal the hawk’s round, piercing golden eyes. I wince at the sight of those long talons gripping the king’s wrist.

  “Do not worry, Catherine, she cannot hurt me.” Henry laughs and gently strokes the bird’s sleek, russet feathers. With a launch of his arm the bird takes flight, soaring and dipping and swaying over the canopy of shimmering trees. For a moment she seems to vanish entirely, blotted out by the sun’s brightness.

  “That’s my girl,” the king exclaims approvingly. The hawk is diving, beak down and wings pulled back, a dark stream against the blue sky. A moment later she has disappeared into the leafy greenness below us.

  Moments pass, and the king sends out a whistle—a line of high, sharp notes—and the hawk emerges from the greenery, her great wings flapping, streaked with gold in the sunshine. There is something grasped in her enormous talons, which Thomas skillfully grabs just as she releases her hold in order to settle again upon the king’s arm. Henry offers her a small piece of meat from his hand, and she works it in her curved onyx beak.

  “Come now, Catherine. It is your turn. All you have to do is hold her, and I will do the rest.”

  I edge forward cautiously. The hawk is looking at me keenly. Her eyes are yellow fire.

  “She will not ruin my dress?”

  “No, no, don’t worry about your dress. Here, these will look quite lovely on you.” He gestures to Thomas, who holds open a large gauntlet for me to wear. The leather is thick and has an earthy smell. I look away from Thomas as I put my hand in the glove; inside it is soft and warm. I hold out my arm as the king has done, and take between the fingers of my other hand a pinch of meat. The hawk hops lightly from Henry’s arm to mine, snatching the meat from my grasp. I jerk back at this, but Thomas holds out his hand to steady me.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” Henry says. “Now with one thrust upward, she will take flight.”

  “I—I don’t know how.” The bird is light, a delicate weight on my arm. But her curved beak seems dangerously close to my face, and I can feel her thick talons shifting with her movements.

  “You can do it, Catherine.” Thomas whispers. “Just one motion, graceful, like a dance.”

  Thomas moves toward me, as if to cup his hand beneath my elbow. I push upward suddenly to escape his touch, and I feel her push off from my glove, unfolding her wings like the sails of a great ship. She glides off into the sky before me, her wings spread wide as she rises and swoops low in a great circle.

  “Oh, did you see that? Did you see it? Oh, how wonderful,” I breathe.

  As the hawk continues her circles in the air, Henry and the other grooms have turned to admire another bird perched upon the falconer’s arm. I turn back to watch the hawk dive and spin over the trees.

  “She is beautiful,” Thomas remarks. I turn slightly, just enough to look at his face: his eyes fixed, his mouth set, resolute. Did you put me in the king’s way? I wish
I could ask him. Is this how you wanted things to happen? I feel his hand graze mine: his long fingers against the back of my hand, fingertips brushing my knuckles. I stand perfectly still, as if carved from stone.

  “Catherine!” The king calls my name. “Come look at this beautiful creature. No doubt you’ll want a dress to match her feathers, my sweet wife.”

  The king laughs; everyone laughs. I walk over to appreciate the chocolate-brown falcon perched upon Henry’s wrist. My legs are trembling so violently I worry they will crumple beneath me.

  I hear a shriek in the distance. I look up in time to see the russet hawk dive toward her prey.

  SUNSHINE STREAMS into the bank of arched windows in this tiny chapel, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. In spite of the heat outside, today the light seems pale, chilling, penetrating my skin and bones and alighting upon the secrets of my soul. I kneel beside my husband, mirroring his pious movements with my own, but inside I feel naked before God’s judgment.

  I can’t stop thinking about the touch. It was an accident, of course, and means nothing. Or, at least, it should mean nothing. Had Thomas meant to touch me; does he still have that longing? I imagine the moment again and again. The very hand that holds my rosary beads burns with a hidden shame.

  Confession is not an option: my husband is the supreme head of the church, and could be privy to such secrets. No, there is no sanctuary reliable enough that I may unburden my soul. I can only pray that God will listen and accept my mute plea: It was unintended. I will never do it again. I will cease thinking of it, altogether. But I know that God has seen it all, has seen the dreams I nourish in my head and the love I harbor in my heart. My soul is translucent as glass, and perhaps as fragile.

  I cross myself at this thought.

  AFTER MASS, the thought of returning to my chambers repels me. The confined rooms will no doubt allow my mind to wander to places it is not allowed to go. I announce instead that I shall take my horse out for a hard ride, and walk directly to the stables.