The King's Rose (13 page)

“Let them whisper.” His low laughter rumbles. “They do not understand how I crave you—the way I once craved fruit tarts or dumplings.”

“Then I am your fruit tart, now?” I ask, sitting up on the bed so that he can see the way my long hair falls loosely over my bare breasts. I must use my power now, while I have him here, watching me.

“You are my favorite indulgence.”

I appraise his form with my eyes, allowing him to see me looking at him, appreciating his improved physique. The king is still an old man, but he is trying. At least I will be responsible for inspiring him to look and feel younger; he was married to Anne Boleyn when he began to grow fat.

“And you are my Golden Prince,” I tell him.

“And you are my rose without a thorn.”

I find it both enchanting and daunting to be considered perfect by another person. It makes my secret faults all the more visible when I look inward upon myself. But in Henry’s eyes I am perfect, and that is what is most important. I nestle beside him, curling my body to his. I will wait for him to fall asleep before departing for my own bed. But he nudges me slightly on the arm, a gentle prodding.

“Sing me a song, sweet bird.” His voice is surprisingly mild, almost childlike.

“You have many more talented singers at court than your silly bride.” I laugh.

“Silly nothing!” he says gruffly, and rolls over to face me. “You have the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard.” He is quiet for a moment; I listen to the pace of his breath to anticipate if he’s falling asleep.

“I overheard you in the garden one day, before we were married. You were singing a song—something about a white kitten, and a moss patch.” He nudges my arm, impatient. “Sing that for me.”

“That foolishness? You want me to sing
that
for you?” It was a tune I wrote as a child, sitting in my tattered gown on a patch of moss behind my father’s house. The thought of it embarrasses me in ways that even lying naked in the king’s bed cannot manage.

“Yes, I do. Please, I do.”

There is no denying a king his wish. I sing gently and quietly, as sweetly as I can, my voice tremulous and thick. I notice a tear forming in the corner of Henry’s eye—I find it frightening to be so close to the raw emotions he keeps concealed from all others.

After a moment of quiet, I pinch his arm playfully.

“That is the song of your silly wife.” I sigh. “You’d best not tell anyone, or they will think me a fool.”

“No, no,” he says, placing his enormous hand over my small one. “No. It is sweet, and clever. You are sweet and clever. I hope you will sing it for me again, soon.”

Sweet and clever
—clever! I feel a strange rush of affection for Henry. It makes me somehow happy and sad all at once: it’s not love, but it’s something. A pleasant warmth. No one has ever called me clever before.

 

WITH HENRY DEEP
in slumber, I make my way back to my bedchamber. It’s late, and upon entering my apartments, I’m surprised to see a fire still lit in the main chamber, a group of girls chattering excitedly around the cheerful blaze.

“Queen Catherine! Queen Catherine!” they cry jubilantly as I enter, falling neatly into their reverence. “Please sit with us, before the fire.”

“What is going on here, a late-night revelry?” I settle upon a lounge beside Jane, all eyes turned toward me.

“Mistress Alice was telling us about her paramour,” Lady Christina remarks. “A mysterious young man who has a way with letters.”

“Letters?” I inquire.

Mistress Alice—a pretty girl with golden-brown hair and a blue silk gown—stands before the small assembly. She acts out a scene, her animated movements silhouetted in the light of the fire: she holds out her hand for a young man to kiss, as if he were standing before her, right now. After a graceful bow, she lifts her hand for all to see: there is a letter nestled neatly in her palm. I would know it for a letter even had they not told me—it is folded into a small, perfect square. The ladies squeal with delight at her performance. Alice sits heavily upon her chair, her head falling back as if she might faint.

“But she will not tell us who it is.” Another lady sighs. “If you ask her, Your Majesty, then she will be duty bound to tell you.”

I smile at this though my head aches, my mouth suddenly dry.

“I will allow Mistress Alice to keep her secret,” I say, most graciously. I lift myself from the couch and bid them all a good night. Jane follows me.

“She seems much in love,” I murmur to Jane as we move away from the brightness of the fire.

“She does, indeed. We may have a betrothed maid in our household, any day now. I can only imagine what effect that will have on her embroidery.”

I cannot speculate on her embroidery. I turn and watch in silence: Mistress Alice’s hair tumbles loosely from its pins; her eyes glisten in the firelight. She seems full of love, of life, of everything.

I sit in my royal chamber in a silk gown and fur-lined robe, feeling empty.

For over a week I’ve filled my days with every detail of tonight’s entertainment: choosing musicians, planning a musical program, selecting the menu, and instructing the servants as to which gold platters and goblets will be used to adorn our tables. I plan to wear my dark purple satin gown, which is being further embellished with jewels along the neckline.

I’ve needed this, desperately. While Mistress Alice sits upon a satin cushion, gazing dreamily into the fire, I’ve needed to be busy, to be elsewhere, and not be witness to her joy. Suddenly this mere maid I took little notice of has a strange power over me: the sight of her causes in me an actual, physical pain. Whenever I see her hands, I imagine a note nestled there:
I regret I cannot spend more time with you, my lady, but I hope soon to walk in the garden with you by my side . . .

In spite of my delight in ordering precisely the banquet I crave—the dried fruits to be served, the elaborate cakes to be constructed—I am constantly aware of a clinging fog dimming my satisfaction. Thomas will marry someone else. Why had it not occurred to me fully before now? After all, I married—but what choice did I have? While I was doing my duty, he seems to have fallen in love. This thought leaves a deeper wound, a scar that I conceal behind a jolly laugh and a new stomacher embroidered with silver thread. Perhaps this, and a gem on every finger, will be enough to distract me from myself.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful, Your Majesty.” Mistress Alice sighs as the ladies help ready me for the entertainment. Her covetous fingertips touch the diamond-and-amethyst necklace, dark and glittering against my pale skin. I generally revel in the envy of my ladies-in-waiting, but this time it feels empty. I would give her these jewels right now if it meant that I could be free, that I could have Thomas. This is the price I pay for the ambition of my family, and for the love of the king.

The great hall is lit with candles and torches, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves pervades the warm air. Spiced wine is sipped from golden goblets, and when the musicians begin their lively melodies, everyone joins the dance. I feel better when I’m dancing, lighter. After hours of twirling in the midst of the throng, I need to lean against the wall for a while to catch my breath.

Beyond a silk curtain, two ladies whisper to each other behind fluttering fans.

“Bewitched, again,” one says. I stand back, shielded by the red curtain.

“He is just as he was with the Great Whore.”

“Shh, mind what you say!”

“But if everyone says it, it’s hardly a scandal.”

“Yes, it’s true,” the other lady demurs, fluttering her fan before her. Their faces are hidden in shadow, but it is clear they are facing the head table, gazing at Henry.

“And this one her cousin! Do you think she is cut from the same cloth?”

“Spoiled and greedy at the least . . . I pray the king will not be made a fool, again.”

“Always with these wives he chooses. These obsessions, I should say. A proper wife cannot be found in such madness.” “She is only a girl, a silly girl. Certainly not fit for the throne.”

“I doubt she will ever find herself upon it,” the lady observes archly. “I see no rush to plan her coronation.”

Bewitched, again.
But I am not like Anne. I make him happy, without the use of Anne’s witchcraft. I will not end up like Anne. I look up to see Henry seated at the head table, leaning back lethargically upon his throne. I wish there was a way I could tell Henry about the whispering of these women, a way that I could phrase it so that he would merely laugh at the notion that I may be like Anne . . . but I know it is not possible. I dare not say her name, and neither does he.

The entertainment draws to a close. I rush along the edge of the crowd in order to sit beside Henry, to bid our guests good night. In my hurry I strike my shoulder against that of a courtier, jostled by the crowd.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The young man bends low. When he lifts his head, I see his face lit golden by the candles around us.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, forgetting myself.
I’m sorry, Thomas.
His name burns in my throat, but I dare not say it aloud.

“The fault is mine, Your Grace.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling.

“I suppose I should congratulate you,” I say brightly, smiling.

“Congratulate me?”

“Indeed. I’ve heard a great deal about love letters delivered to a certain lady in my household.” This smile makes my cheeks ache. “I hope that you will be happy together.” “Love letters? I regret to say that I did not pen them. If your ladies talk about me, it is most likely about my lack of skill in dancing.”

He jokes, but he is looking at me steadily. It reminds me of the night we met, our eyes locked upon each other, unwavering.

“You’ve not been giving letters to Mistress Alice?” I ask. I smile blandly, as if we are talking of nothing important.

“Ah, it is Lord Robert you are thinking of—another groom in the king’s chamber. I showed him my trick, you see, how to slip a note to a maid, without anyone seeing.”

He smiles endearingly.

“Then I was mistaken,” I tell him, lowering my head graciously.

“Do not apologize, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply, humbly, before me. “I offer all of my love and honor and protection to my queen.” He says this deftly, easily, a pretty bit of gallantry. But when he looks up at me his eyes are serious, he is not smiling. There is no denying the look in his eyes, or the dangerous lightness in my heart at the sight of it.

I dare not linger for long. I smile carefully at Thomas and step away from him to sit beside the king. Henry sees me and takes my hand in his. Henry kisses me. Henry tells me that he loves me. Everyone moves past me in a blur. Suddenly the music is ended, the entertainment is over, and all of our guests have departed. I feel full and empty at once, and I don’t know which feeling frightens me more.

 

IT IS A WARM NIGHT
in the garden and Thomas walks toward me. The roses are blooming, glorious, monstrous, their heads heavy and drunken on weary vines. He walks up to me smiling, and I leap into his arms.

Thomas kisses me, one perfect kiss. And then another. The garden is dark and we lie upon the dewy grass. The dew turns my blue dress black and stains his satin doublet; the grass smells like summer and is soft against my arms, my cheek. He loosens the stays on my corset. The touch of his hand upon my bare flesh sends a tremor along my spine.

I wake, suddenly, in a dark room. It was a dream—all of it a dream. Through the sheer bed curtains I see a fire barely flickering in the hearth. I blink for a moment, disoriented. It was early summer in the garden, but here I’m shivering; my naked flesh prickles with cold. I tug at the bedcovers to pull them up to my chin.

The king lies beside me in bed, asleep: a large, old man. I watch him, expecting his eyes to fly open and stare at me, accusingly. Surely I have lost all control of my mind, of my dreaming, if I can dream about another man when lying beside my husband, the king. I force myself to breathe steadily, quietly, and settle carefully back into bed so as not to wake Henry.

The heart, the mind are treasonous. Even with my eyes open the images of the dream run through me. I listen to my racing heartbeat. It is dangerous to dream, to sleep. Old ghosts are inside me, all the time, fighting their way out.

 

TODAY THE SKIES
are clustered with gray clouds. I stay in my chambers after dinner and admire my jewelry, whiling away the hours before Henry requires my company.

“A letter for you, Your Grace.” A page arrives and offers me a letter with a low bow. I take it and set it upon my lap, distracted by the waves and flickers of the fire in the hearth. It is a lazy day, and nearly done. Perhaps I’ll take a nap. But first I open the letter.

A friend from my past—but I have no past. Have I not sufficiently burned it from my heart with those tokens and letters consumed by the flames? But apparently fire is not enough to cleanse the soul. According to the date on the letter, Joan will be arriving in just a few days to take a position in my household. There is no way I can refuse her. I have the urge to throw this letter into the fire, but I stop myself just in time. The ladies peer at me carefully over their embroidery hoops. I must conceal all.