The King's Rose (16 page)

I’m in just the right place to see the king emerge from the stand of trees with his prize: an enormous buck slung over the back of his groom’s horse. I smile at Henry; his cheeks are pink with excitement, like a young boy’s. I applaud his success, amazed at the violence of the spectacle: men in glittering doublets and heavy furs mounted upon giant horses pounding over the underbrush and hauling the carcasses of animals out among the snowy trees. It is a true display of power in its most primal, bestial sense.

 

TONIGHT IS THE
first formal banquet, followed by midnight Mass in the Chapel Royal to signify the beginning of the twelve days of Christmas. I wear a red velvet gown that I know Henry loves, my cheeks still pink from the cold wind.

“Catherine, you are youth incarnate,” Henry pronounces upon my arrival. He takes my jeweled hand in his and presses it warmly to his lips. I can feel everyone—all of the court, all of our guests—with their eyes upon us, appraising the scene. Surely they can all see how well the king looks, for he has lost a great deal of weight in these past few months. Surely they see the lively twinkle in his eyes, the vivid color in his cheeks, and must remark to one another that the king’s new bride is doing well for him. I
am
doing well for him—a good wife, a good queen.

Lady Anne of Cleves approaches the head table. I have not seen her since my days as a lady-in-waiting in her chamber, and for a moment I am speechless. But when she looks up at me, not a flicker of ill feeling taints her expression. She immediately drops to the floor at my feet in an elaborate bow.

“I show my respect to you, my queen,” she says in halting English, “as I would to no other woman in England.”

Unable to find the proper response, I grasp her hand in mine.

“We are both so pleased that you are here,” I tell her. Henry rises as well to give her his good wishes. Indeed, Lady Anne looks far more joyous than she ever did when she was queen. I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor. Henry can only laugh at the sight of the two of us—his previous and his current wife—dancing together to the sprightly music.

I dance late into the night, enjoying all the while an abundance of food and wine and continuous music. Garnished brawn is served—spiced boar meat with fruit and jelly sprinkled with flour, like a fine dusting of snow. There are games for the children, and they delight in the confections on display: cakes shaped like Henry’s royal residences, complete with turrets and cannons. There are sugar figurines of King Arthur, Charlemagne, Alexander the Great, and others, painted in red, blue, and green, the armor made of silver or gold leaf. Henry sits back upon his chair beneath the cloth of state, enjoying all the dances, the tableaux, the entertainments presented before him. Children race through the hall dressed in white satin, glittering white wings of gauze tied to their backs. These tiny angels dance before the king: the court is heaven, and Henry is God. Henry tilts his head back and laughs.

“Will you not dance with me, my lord?” I ask, nearly breathless from dancing.

“You are doing quite well on your own, my dear. I will join you a bit later.”

I open my mouth to protest, but stop myself with a smile just in time. The king has stayed seated all night. It is unlike him to abstain from dancing during such an elaborate celebration. I think to peer at his leg for any signs of a bandage, but I dare not reveal my suspicions.

It is the end of the banquet when the king stands, and I detect a vague wince pass over his face as he does so. Still, he knows well his royal duty, and a great part of it is performance. He holds out his hand to mine for a dance. Though he manages all of the steps admirably, the dullness in his eyes betrays his distress to me.

“I shall take my leave of you now, sweet wife,” he says, bending low to kiss my hand. The king’s hand is trembling, and there is a mist of perspiration on his upper lip. The sight of him thus frightens me—what happened to the vibrant, energetic king I saw earlier today at the hunt? What could have happened between then and now?

“I shall join you, my lord,” I announce with a flourish of my velvet gown, bidding all of the company present a good night.

Henry walks quickly down the hallway with me in tow; I have to hurry on my short legs so as not to be dragged along. But this is clearly not the gait of a passionate man looking forward to bedding his bride, as he may want it to appear.

“Henry,” I whisper, in hopes of slowing him. We are in the hallway near his bedchamber. “Henry, are you quite well?”

“I am fine, my wife, do not worry.” He bows again over my hand. I have the feeling suddenly that he wants to be rid of me. “I’m afraid we must part ways. I have business to attend to, even at so late an hour.”

“Are you sure you do not want me to stay? We could walk together to the Chapel Royal.”

“Indeed, you had best let your ladies tend to you before the service. I will be attending a Mass in private, but will see you for further festivities tomorrow. Until then.”

I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him gently upon the cheek.

“Until then, my love.” But what kind of love am I, if I can’t even console him in his pain, if he does not even want me to try? Henry disappears into his chamber and closes the door in my face.

I turn swiftly from the door, my cheeks burning. Here I am standing like a fool before the king’s door—his useless little wife. I do the only thing I can think to do. I hurry back to the hall, scanning the crowd, searching for the face I’ve been so long avoiding.

“Thomas,” I say, hurrying up to him. He bows deeply at my approach.

“I was just heading to the king’s chambers,” he tells me, his head still lowered. “He departed rather abruptly. I’m afraid I lost him in the crowd.”

“Yes, please go quickly.”

He looks up at me, his dark eyes wide with alarm.

“He mentioned he has many things to tend to tonight, and may be in need of your assistance.”

“Of course, my queen.”

As he passes by me, the sleeve of his doublet accidentally brushes against the velvet sleeve of my gown. It is a brief caress, a fleeting warmth—and then he is gone.

 

HENRY KEPT UP
a tiring façade of good health at dinner today, but it is clear that he is unwell. Though I took his hand in mine and inquired quietly as to how he was feeling, he answered with the same false cheer he bestows upon everyone. He does not see how foolish it makes me feel to be kept in the dark about his ailments, which must be apparent to the majority of his guests. He is treating me as little more than some simpering handmaiden of court, to be shown the same silly charade as all the rest—not as his chosen wife and queen.

While the king is resting in his bedchamber, I am busy with the final fitting of my gown for the masked ball, to be held on Twelfth Night. I am to be Cleopatra, robed in shimmering gold. The ladies slip the slim gold sheath over my head, then flutter around me affixing a gold crown and gold bracelets.

“Let me see! Let me see!” I crow excitedly. But when they step back to allow me a full view of myself in the mirror, the image is not what I had envisioned. The cloth of gold is stiff, and binds my bosom awkwardly. The skirt hangs straight against my legs and does not sway gently as I walk. Perhaps if I were a foot taller, and thinner, with paler skin and darker hair, then the gown would look beautiful, statuesque. The image conjured in my mind is of Anne Boleyn, smiling, her black eyes sparkling in the firelight.

In spite of the coddling flattery of the ladies, my disappointment only deepens.

“No!” I yell, waving my hand to silence the lot of them. “It is not right. I will need a new dress, a new costume altogether.” I pull the crown, in the shape of a golden asp, from my head. It tangles in my thick curls. I growl in anger; Joan rushes forward to carefully pick my locks free from its grip.

“What about the goddess Aphrodite, with her golden apple?” Lady Rochford suggests.

“No. Someone dresses as Aphrodite every year.”

“What about an animal, like a butterfly? A set of beautiful gauze wings could be made for you.”

I turn at the sound of this voice—it is Mary Seymour’s. I eye her carefully, the firelight playing in warm light and shadow upon her face. I recall suddenly that Jane Seymour, when queen, had forbidden her ladies from wearing French fashions, for the French hood simply looked too becoming on one of her maids. I can understand that, now: it wasn’t simply envy, it was self-preservation.

I can’t be some stupid winged insect,
I want to yell, to pull her hair like a child.
I need to be the most beautiful. I need for him to look at me, and not at you.

 

THE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS
continue with a variety of daily events—tilting, hunting, hawking. I attend these, cheerful as always, as if matching Henry’s false merriment with my own. Perhaps he thinks I am too spoiled a girl to play nursemaid to him, perhaps it is an injury to his pride for his youthful wife to discover his infirmity. But what about my pride? If I cannot act the part of lover to him, I would like to at least attempt to act the part of wife.

Today, too weary to join the hunt, Henry attends the bearbaiting demonstration. A great ring has been constructed near the palace gardens, with seating arranged all around. We pile into the seats, covered with furs in the chill weather, and watch as an enormous brown bear lumbers to the center of the ring.

“He is a grand one, is he not? And raging already,” Henry remarks, applauding as the bear is chained to a post, his neck cuffed in a thick metal collar.

When the dogs are released into the ring, the roar of the crowd drowns out the roars of the bear. People crowded into the front rows stand, cheering. The dogs rush toward the beast, their teeth bared, barking sharply in the cold air. The bear rears up on its hind legs to display its enormity before us: he is powerful, but powerless. Frightening but also threatened. I cheer, my eyes darting with the movements of the dogs, who leap forward to bite at the bear’s neck and belly. The bear sweeps one dog aside with a massive paw—it lies motionless in the dirt, its skull crushed by the blow.

“Ah, he got him! He got him! With only one blow, did you see that? With only one blow!” Henry opens his mouth and laughs. The bear opens his mouth and roars. I feel a shiver wash over me, and stick my hands back into my fur muffler for warmth. Two dogs leap forward and tear the bear’s throat and the brown fur turns slick and black with blood. The beast falters, falls. It is all fascinating, but I cannot help but wince as I watch it happen. Henry is watching intently. I peer at him, carefully: his eyes are wide, unblinking, as he watches the bear go down.

“They were too much for him,” he remarks, almost to himself. “They were all too much for the old beast.” He laughs again, and everyone seated around us laughs with him, but the laughter seems hollow, forced. I am shivering beneath my furs and eager to sit inside, before a fire. I’m eager to leave this ring, where the enormous corpse of the bear lies prone before us, warm air lifting from his torn flesh in a cloud of steam; a ghost hovering, visible in the bleak midday sun.

“Will you accompany me to the parlor, my lord, for a goblet of wine and a seat by the fire?” An attractive offer, added to the flirtatious lift of one eyebrow. But the king demurs, lumbering a bit awkwardly from his seat. I hold out my hand for him but he ignores it, waving instead for a groom.

Thomas sidles up beside him. His dark eyes flash at mine, only briefly.

“Being king does not wait on ceremony, my dear Catherine,” Henry says, laughing jovially. “I have important matters to attend to, but I will join you in celebration this evening.”

“Of course, my lord.” I smile, a bit wistful. “I shall see you this evening.”

All of this playacting at cheerfulness wearies me, even bores me. I think this is why I’m so looking forward to the masked ball—it is an opportunity to be released from myself, for a while. I can understand why Henry enjoys masques for this very reason, though I doubt that at over six feet tall there is any costume that could begin to conceal his identity. Still, the dream is there—the dream of being new, of being different for one night. A brief respite from the often tiring performance of whatever role life has given you to play.

Finally, my new costume is done; I have just enough time to ready myself before the masked ball begins. Tonight I am Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman on earth: half mortal, half goddess. My gown is constructed of yard upon yard of dazzling white silk, stitched at the edges with metallic gold thread. The silk fits becomingly across my full bosom, draping loosely below my collarbone. The loose skirt flutters like angels’ wings, a long trail of silk following behind me. Bands of gold are twisted around my bare upper arms, gold rings set upon my fingers. My hair is elaborately braided on top of my head and clasped in a delicate crown of gold wire twisted around glittering diamonds that I am sure will catch the candlelight in the hall, the sparkling reflected in my eyes. My mask is a delicate mesh of gold wire webbing, studded with small diamonds to match the crown.

The moment the cool wire of the mask is pressed to my face, I have transformed. I look in the mirror as Joan secures the mask, the pins concealed by my hair. I’ve made sure my eyes are still visible in the mask, for Henry has often said they are among my best features. Those hazel eyes blink back at me now, through the elaborate twists of gold flecked with diamonds, but they do not seem like my eyes. I barely recognize myself; the feeling is altogether intoxicating.

As I sweep into the great hall I can see the breath escape Henry’s lungs at the sight of me.
Yes, that’s what I want!
Yes. Henry wears an elaborate tiger face striped with black and gold, a majestic mask with his blue eyes peering out from the black-circled eyeholes in the center. And those blue eyes are trained on me—all eyes are trained on me. They devour the curves of my body, my breasts and waist and hips seductively visible as I walk toward the king, the light silk swishing against my legs.