The King's Rose Page 9

  “But it is hot out today, Your Grace.”

  “The roads are very dusty.”

  “Your pink silk will be ruined.”

  “Then be of some use and fetch me my riding habit,” I snap, and continue on my way to the stable. By the time Jane returns with my habit, my horse has been tacked up, ready for mounting.

  “You need not come with me, Jane. I’ll not be long.” I think she will be relieved at this, but instead her brow crinkles in concern. I swing myself easily into the saddle. I’m in no mood for a rebuke or a warning—I need to venture out, to not be watched for a while. I set off at a gallop before she can formulate a response.

  The meadows around Ampthill are vast and sloping, all of them crisscrossed with narrow roads and footpaths. I urge the mare down a path toward the trees, where we feel the relief of relative coolness beneath the leafy bower, protecting us from the sun’s glare. By the time we’re deep in the greenest part of the trees, I realize I’m panting, my lungs constricted and my throat dusty and dry.

  The mare slows to a canter over the soft grass, but I hear a pounding of hooves behind me. With a sharp tug on the reins, my horse wheels around. Thomas is before me, mounted on a dark brown hunter. I gasp—a sound of terror—at the sight of him.

  “Your Majesty,” he says, pulling back upon the reins. He swings one leg over and drops gracefully to the ground. “I apologize—I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I—I was taking a ride,” I tell him, looking down at the horse’s silver mane fluttering in the wind. Thomas steps closer, warily.

  “I pray that I have done nothing to offend you, my queen.” His eyes linger upon my face. They are so dark, those eyes, nearly black, and piercing. His face is even paler than usual. I know what he is thinking about: the touch. Perhaps it haunts him, as well.

  “I would like to die if I thought I had offended my queen.”

  “Those are pretty words,” I chide.

  “They are not meant merely to be pretty.” He reaches out and rests his hand upon the neck of the mare, dangerously close to my leg. “They are true.”

  A loud shriek pierces the air high above us: a hawk circles the trees, hunting for her prey. I look up, craning my neck to see where the hawk swoops over the trees, her wings outstretched against the blue sky. The branches tremble; the sun flickers over my face. Between the branches, the top of the hill above us is revealed. A group of courtiers stands there in the distance, accompanied by the royal falconer. Can they see us here, in the trees? My vision reels: a young lord leans over and whispers to one of the others—a lady, no less, who cranes her neck elegantly to listen. Then the branches move again, obscuring the tableau. I only hope they cannot see us. I fear what they would be able to see. Wordless, I give the horse a sharp tug—Thomas flinches, pulling his hand from the mare’s neck. She turns abruptly with a snort, and we ride away.

  Now I realize what I’ve done. I was supposed to burn my life, all of my life before my wedding day, as if none of it had happened at all. When I put those letters on the flames I thought that I had triumphed over memory.

  But burning the letters has only given them more power. They’ve risen from the ashes of that fire like a brilliant phoenix, a symbol of my loss and regret. Memory distorts with time, like air rippling over a fire—what is gone becomes only more precious, becomes a yearning, a perfect dream. Every word of those letters, every moment I shared with him, has been memorized in the language of a dream, continuously visited, revisited. The letters are gone but only haunt me more; I close my eyes and remember the words by heart. I have nothing of the girl I used to be, aside from those old dreams. I have become a ghost of myself.

  XVI

  I lie upon the royal bed beside the king. Spent and exhausted from the exertions of making love to me, Henry fell immediately to sleep. I only wish that I could so easily find respite.

  We will be leaving Ampthill soon, and I am glad of it. We are traveling next to the More in Hertfordshire, another manor once owned by the late Cardinal Wolsey. We will spend much of October there, and then make our journey to London for my first official entrance to the city as queen. I watch the moonlight filter through the curtains into the dim chamber. The air is heavy and warm, no fire blazes in the cold hearth.

  The king’s arm shudders against me, and I leap from the bed in fear. The room is dim, the floor cold beneath my bare feet.

  “Edward . . . he is . . . Arthur. He is—it is Arthur,” Henry mutters. It must be a nightmare, but I can hear the distress in his voice. I think to call the men of the king’s privy chamber, but the words stick in my throat: Thomas would answer the call. I look down over my naked body, my hair flowing over my bare breasts. I creep closer to the bed and climb upon it, my legs folded under me.

  “Edward,” Henry wails. The panic in his voice frightens me.

  “Henry, please wake up, my love, please.” I try shaking him gently, my hands on his arms.

  “Edward! Edward!”

  “Henry! Please wake up! It’s only a dream.”

  His eyes fly open suddenly. He stares at me as if he’s never seen me before.

  “It’s only a dream,” I repeat. “It’s only a dream.”

  “Oh.” His eyes roll around in the dimness, he tugs distractedly at the bedclothes. I pull back a bit, trying to seem relaxed. I don’t want him to see the fear in my eyes, nor do I want to see the fear in his. He rustles for a bit and then sighs, lying quietly in the darkness.

  “History repeats itself, Catherine,” he says, and the bitter edge in his voice chills me. “Do you understand that?” He sighs again and rests his hand upon my knee. I press my hand on top of his.

  “What history?”

  “My history, England’s history. I had a dream about Arthur, again.” He rubs his face with his hand and yawns broadly.

  “He was always so thin as a young boy, so pale and weak. Sickly.”

  Our eyes meet in the darkness. Pale and weak—the same words he has used to describe Prince Edward.

  “History repeats itself,” he whispers thickly, “England needs another heir.”

  “Do not worry about the past, my lord.” I rest my hand on his shoulder. I want to soothe him, but suddenly I do not know how. I find a sexual encounter so much easier to navigate than an emotional one.

  “I will do whatever I can,” I tell him. “You must know that. I will do everything that I can.”

  I am the only one who can end this particular nightmare for our king. If my child is a boy, he will wait in the line of succession just behind Prince Edward, the son of a Seymour. If Henry’s fear of repeated history comes true, then the crown will pass to the second son, just as it did to him. My son could be King of England. I could bring joy to the Howards with this. And to Henry. And to all of England.

  And, perhaps, to myself: a baby of my own to sing to, to hold against my breast.

  IN HONOR OF my first official entrance to London as queen, the lord mayor and all the guilds of the city row out in barges draped in banners to join us in our procession down the river. The sun is high and glittering brightly on the water, sparkling off the jewels on Henry’s fingers and the rubies embedded in the bodice of my gown.

  The heat has subsided over the past few weeks, but today the sun is bright and hot as we slide languidly over the Thames. I lift a spiced pomander to my nose to cover the river’s stink. People crowd at the shore, throwing drooping wildflowers upon the still water as we pass. They wave at Henry, and they peer curiously at me. Cannons fire from the Tower of London, followed by the crackle of gunfire in salute as we pass by.

  “We’ll stop first at the Tower,” Henry tells me, putting his hand upon my arm. My stomach sinks, leaden. In my mind the Tower is associated with evil things.

  THE ROYAL APARTMENTS in the Tower of London are more sumptuous than any I have seen before, clearly designed for momentous occasions: weddings, coronations. The ceilings are high, the rooms cavernous. In the center
of the bedchamber stands an intricately carved bed, draped in lush red velvet and piled with plump cushions. Queen Anne no doubt rested in this same bed, her dark head propped upon a velvet pillow.

  “My darling, are you chilled on a day such as this?” Henry laughs. “You are shivering. Don’t worry, I will see fit to keep you warm.” He wraps his arms around me; I become tiny in his embrace. I feel my breath constrict, my chest tighten.

  “I’ve something to show you here.” He gives me a last squeeze before taking my hand in his. “I’ve been longing to show you my collection.”

  In the Lion Tower are cells filled with monkeys, wild cats, and all manner of exotically colored birds. Two leopards peer out from the shadows beyond the wooden railings, watching us as we pass. I gasp aloud at each cell as we approach it, gripping Henry’s arm in fear and excitement. My nervous giggling is echoed by the cacophony of bird voices; Henry startles the animals in their cages with his hearty laughter.

  “They will not hurt you, dear. Come, I will show you my prize.” He steers me toward the last cell. I jump back in fright, and Henry roars with laughter.

  “No need to be frightened. He’s harmless as a kitten. Besides, I’m here to protect you.”

  I clasp Henry’s hand and step closer to the cell. Within, a great lion lounges in the shadows. His eyes glimmer in the dimness, his enormous dusty paws stretched out before him. He stretches, brandishing his claws, emitting a powerful yawn. Then he shifts closer, and I can see the face of the beast.

  “He is beautiful, Henry,” I whisper. The lion’s fur is tawny brown, his handsome face striped in black on either side of a wide nose. But the feel of the animal’s golden eyes upon my flesh makes me shrink closer to Henry’s massive shoulder.

  “He was not such a kitten when he first came here, I’ll tell you that. Roared the moment anyone came near—he could drive a man mad with his roaring. But now I’ve got the best of him.” He chuckles at this, satisfied. I turn away from the cage, but can feel the lion watching me.

  “Let’s retire to your apartments, Henry. We will return to our music, and I shall sing for you,” I offer sweetly, a bit seductively. I know he can’t refuse such a proposal, and I’m desperate to leave this place, full of shrieking birds and hissing creatures, and most of all to leave this lion in peace.

  THIS OCTOBER has brought with it a great deal of rain, pouring down upon us between spurts of bright sunshine. The wall of heat that presided over the summer has finally broken, and we all feel the relief of temperate days and cool nights. Fires are lit in the fireplaces, mulled wine is poured, and the cracked earth beneath the withered garden is finally quenched.

  We’ve moved on to Westminster, knowing that a further change of scenery will continue to invigorate Henry after the drowsy summer. My new apartments have served to inspire afresh my dreams of velvet cushions and silk drapes and jewel-encrusted clocks that tick aloud the time. These are to be my chambers, and I care not to be crowded by evidence of previous inhabitants. I am grateful for the distraction of selecting my new décor.

  As the rain pours down outside, the halls are clogged with a variety of courtiers, merchants, villagers, and advisers, all of them with petitions for the king. I’ve met the Privy Council for the first time, a formal meeting with an intimidating group of stiff old men who offered me pretty words and pandering smiles. But those smiles did not always reach their eyes: they were all inspecting me, analyzing me, as if trying to discern from the color of my hair or the sparkle of my eyes what my effect will be on the king, and how long it may last. I feel that I should know the answer to this myself, but I do not.

  In some cases, loyalties are plain enough: Archbishop Cranmer once worked closely with Cromwell, as did Thomas Wriothesley, easily marking both of them as enemies. But the king’s council is led by our ally, Bishop Gardiner, and my uncle Norfolk is lord treasurer. There are others, but I can’t keep straight the names and titles of all of these men, and have little understanding of what they do in service to the king—or, more likely, in service to themselves. There is always a hidden motive; being a Howard has taught me this well. In spite of Henry’s obvious adoration of me, I sensed their desire for me to leave, thinly veiled beneath dutiful bowing and gracious words.

  I departed with a smile, knowing that my petitions to the king—the Howard petitions, brought to him through me—have already been granted, as all of these men clamor for the king’s attention. This month has brought still greater wealth to the Howards, as I’ve been granted an array of land and manors once belonging to the late Thomas Cromwell, as well as all of the property once granted to Queen Jane.

  TODAY, IN THE MIDST of choosing new colors and fabrics with which to decorate my chamber, I receive a visit from my family.

  The duchess had informed me of their visit, but I still feign a certain amount of surprise. I bid them to enter the main chamber of my apartments, where they may see me surrounded by bolts and swatches of fine fabrics. I’m glad of the cool weather, for it permits me to wear my new gown of royal purple satin, trimmed with silver embroidery. The duchess accompanies them, and they all bow before me: my brothers Charles, Henry, George, and my half sister Isabel. Even jealous Isabel bows dutifully before me; a practiced, gracious bow. I must admit that I rather enjoy it.

  “Oh, come now, stand. I am your sister, after all.” I move forward to Isabel and take her hands in mine.

  “I hear that father arranged a profitable marriage for you, before his death.” But not so profitable as the marriage I arranged for myself, is it now?

  “Yes, indeed, Your Grace, but I come to request a place in your household so that I may serve my queen.”

  I can see her usual dour expression hiding behind her attempt at a courtier’s smooth smile. I wonder if she still has Papa’s lute—she took it from me when we were children, more out of spite than genuine interest. If I ask for it now, she will have to give it to me, in order to remain in good favor. The boys are much more attentive and flattering to me than ever they were when we were young. As the youngest of ten children, I was afforded little attention at home. I always sensed that Isabel and the other girls were envious of my placement at court. I can only imagine how they feel about me now.

  “I should like to see you in crimson velvet, Isabel, perfect for the days of Advent.” I flash my eyes at the duchess and smile. “No need to worry, sister. I’ll have Mistress Elle cut the dress for you, and I’ll pay for it from my own coffers.”

  “Your Majesty is most generous,” Isabel says, sweeping again into a deep bow.

  “I enjoy being generous,” I tell her, “even to the most humble of my servants.”

  When she stands, the smile is frozen onto her face.

  XVII

  Isabel has been stationed in my household, and I’ve managed to place George in the king’s privy chamber. I can’t help but think of my father in the blush of my success; my father who had always hated court and never won the king’s favor. Wouldn’t he be proud of his little Catherine now? Father had always imagined that my pretty face might be used for the benefit of the family—a fact that won me Isabel’s immediate disdain. But now she treats me with the same effusive kindness and flattery as the other maids in my chamber, though with her the act is far less convincing.

  “The king has turned his sights away from the dissolution of abbeys and monasteries,” I tell the duchess over our evening game of cards. We sit in my luxurious royal apartments at a highly polished card table near a roaring fire.

  “There is little left to dissolve,” the duchess remarks, “but it is good he has set his sights elsewhere. The church requires protection from many threats. Many of those religious houses do much good.”

  “And many were corrupt, and deserved to be dismantled.” That is what Henry says; to think otherwise is heresy. “The king told me about holy relics that turned out to be chicken bones, fake tears on a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was sacrilege.”

  I like talking this way with the duch
ess. It makes me feel very womanly, very worldly. And I hope to dissuade her from our usual topics, for once.

  “And now England has a Catholic queen,” I remark, setting a card upon the pile between us. “Surely that will aid in healing the church’s wounds.” I wonder if the duchess loves me better than she did Anne, if only for this reason. Many accused Anne of sympathizing with Lutherans and supporting the heretical “new way” of thinking. It was during her queenship that the dissolution began.

  “It will do England little good until you are crowned queen, for all to see.”

  I say nothing, but turn back to my cards. Why is it that she can’t be happy with what I’ve done thus far? Why must she always demand more?

  “I am doing all I can,” I assure her, as I always do. “You know that I am.”

  “Yes, I know.” She presses her lips together primly and shifts in her chair. “But is he?” she whispers, not lifting her eyes from the cards in her hand. My eyes dart around the room, but the other ladies are chattering loudly in the adjacent chamber.

  “Do not say such things,” I breathe. Doesn’t she remember how such words condemned Anne? “Do not even think them.” But I fear my urgency reveals more than I had intended; all that I know about the king that must be hidden, protected.

  “I see,” the duchess says quietly. I don’t want to know what she’s thinking. She sets her cards down on the table with a decisive snap.

  “You’ve won again,” I say brightly, eager to change the subject. “You always win.”

  “That’s because I anticipate your move, Catherine.” Her steel-gray eyes are leveled at mine as I scoop up the cards. “I know your move before you know it yourself.”

  AFTER THREE SOGGY WEEKS, the rain has finally ceased. Since then, this golden autumn has inspired Henry to begin a newly active routine, the likes of which he hasn’t attempted since his jousting days. He rises each morning between five and six and attends Mass at seven, then mounts his black hunter for hours of hard riding, his horse often tiring before he does. The change in Henry is obvious to all. Nothing like the tepid hunting he periodically had the energy to indulge in over the summer, his expeditions are now elaborate, and he drags home more game than the court dared imagine. The activity is clearly beneficial, for he’s already begun to shed some of his excess weight.