The King's Rose (19 page)

“I am tired,” I blurt, suddenly near tears. “It’s wearying, having all of these people to please, not knowing what they might do or say against me.”

The duchess moves forward. For a moment I consider trying to embrace her, but as much as I may desire it, it is impossible; the duchess is unyielding. She grasps me by the arms and shakes me so vigorously that I gasp in fear.

“This is all your own doing, because you acted a child and a whore and spread your legs for some boy to enter you, with a whole host of women witness to your sin. You ruined yourself, Catherine.” With one last shake she thrusts me upon the bed.

“You are still a child, but we found you a way to the throne of England. Now your past has come back to haunt you, as dark pasts generally do. And now we all must be wary of what messes you’ve made. I’ll not be bothered with pity for you.”

WHEN HENRY RETURNS, I fall into his embrace without reservation.

“I’ve missed you, my lord.”

“Ah, Catherine, how I have missed you.”

Will he detect the change in my household, the change in me? He holds my hand during the banquet to celebrate his return, and we watch the ladies dance. As the music ends, Lisbeth flashes me a daring smile and a wink, just as she did years ago before adjourning to her bed with her latest lover. The sight of that lascivious smile here in the hall, with the king at my side, is yet another alarming reminder of what my life has become.

In light of all of this, I think I could benefit from some additional popularity and appreciation from my courtiers.

“He has been missed at court,” I say sweetly, pretending innocence of the reasons underlying Thomas Wyatt’s imprisonment. I have calculated just the right moment to bring this petition before the king: we are lounging privately in his chamber, and I am arrayed in rich wine-colored velvet that lends a heightened color to my cheeks.

“He is an unworthy man for court,” Henry growls. I dare to laugh lightly at this, and he shoots me a dark look.

“You don’t understand why I value such a poet, Henry. Please, let me explain it as well as I can.” I slide closer to him and take his hand in mine, my cheeks warm and blushing and my eyelids fluttering. Very effective. “You are a poet, Henry. Just like Sir Thomas. You have poetry in your head all the time, but your wife has no head for letters.”

He opens his mouth to disagree but I press on, smiling bashfully.

“But I crave poetry, all the same. Release him, and you will be offering poetry to those who have no gift for it themselves.”

Through Henry’s sigh, I can hear a hint of resignation.

“Let’s talk no more of it tonight,” I tell him, pressing myself close to his arm. “I missed you when you were gone. I’m glad that you are here now, with me.”

 

I KNEW I HAD
HIM
, and I was right: all it took was my earnest pleading, then flirtation and indulging the king’s sexual desires. The king’s resolve against Wyatt gradually softened, and he was released in the middle of this month. Henry enjoys indulging my whims, and the decision has met with great approval at court.

“My sweet, compassionate wife,” he says, embracing me as we enter the hall for dinner, “nothing gives me more pleasure than to make you happy.”

I’ve also arranged other releases: old-maid Helen Page and my own cousin John Legh had been imprisoned for petty crimes. I am indeed a caring and generous mistress, and no one can dare say otherwise. It is only late February and yet everyone seems so cheerful you would think that spring had already begun. I bask in a special approval from Henry, and all the rest of the court. The surge of appreciation and popularity reflects upon Henry as well; it comes at a good time, distracting people from news of unrest up north.

Meanwhile, the plight of yet another prisoner has come to my attention: Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury, has spent years locked in a cold cell in the Tower. She’s at least seventy years old and has been nothing but a devoted servant to the king; it is her family that is the problem. Pole is the last of the Plantagenets, who also have a claim to the throne—one that supersedes the Tudor claim, though few are bold enough to state it. The king has long feared that the countess’s son, Cardinal Pole, may use his own mother to usurp the throne. After refusing to support the king’s divorce from Katherine of Aragon, Cardinal Pole fled England and the king imprisoned his mother so no one could use her as a pawn for power.

This woman is a victim of the ambitions of her own family, imprisoned for sins she has not committed. The king often fears the wrath of God—I cannot imagine that God will look kindly upon a king who has locked up an old woman and left her to rot. If I could see the release of the countess, that would be a queenly act above all others.

I broach the subject first as merely an act of basic kindness and charity: to clothe an old woman properly for the coming winter. Henry softens at this meek appeal, and allows me to request a list of garments be made for the countess and delivered to her cell: a wool kirtle, a satin nightgown, a furred petticoat, a warm cloak, and four pairs of wool hose, all paid for—with the king’s permission—from my own purse. But is this really enough? What if I could do more, and save this woman from suffering? If I could secure her freedom, I would be looked at differently by all of court, and might gain some much-needed respect.

“She is an old woman, Henry,” I prod, carefully. We’re seated before the fire in Henry’s chambers, the firelight flickering in random patterns upon the carved wooden walls. I know when my ability to charm the king is at its height: alone, together, by candlelight, wearing a gown with a low, square neckline.

“Her imprisonment is a king’s concern, Catherine.”

“I know, you are right. But the plight of one so lowly as the countess is also God’s concern.”

“Do not lecture me, wife.” His blue eyes flash at mine—it’s clear that I’ve lost already. So quickly. Perhaps I had no hope of winning at all.

“Would you like to hear some music, my husband?”

And so I am the simpering maid, again, the pretty plaything. It seems the only permanent role my husband desires for me to play.

I sit before the fire in the dining hall to await the king’s arrival at dinner. It is a beautiful day out, cold but bright. I hope that a hard ride might ease his troubles, for I’ve heard the king is angered by more rumors of rebellion in the north. The people there consider themselves devout Catholics, and have rumbled their dissent ever since the king separated from the pope in Rome and put himself at the head of the Church of England. There have been reports that the rebels intend to start a war as soon as the weather warms enough for battle.

What succor can I offer a king who faces an uprising of his own people? I do all that I know how to do, taking extra care in preparing myself for our dinner.

But instead of my king, a comparatively tiny page appears.

“His Majesty is attending to affairs of state today, and regrets that he cannot dine with his queen.”

I open my mouth to ask when the king will be free from his duties, but after another bow the page quickly disappears. I’m struck by the harsh succinctness of the message—not the usual words that Henry would send to his beloved. Is he angry with me? Has he simply forgotten me? My cheeks burn with fear at the thought.

 

AFTER DINNER WITHOUT
my king, I learn that there is to be no banquet for tonight’s Shrovetide festival, usually a night of great feasting and dancing before the days of Lent.

“Had the king told you anything, Catherine?” Lisbeth laments. “Wouldn’t he have told you if he wasn’t planning a banquet, or a masque?”

It is dangerous to guess the mind of a king,
I want to tell her, but I know that I cannot. The sight of Lisbeth’s pout makes me boil with anger. She is a nothing but a selfish child, and now I must contend with her disappointment when I have far more important things on my mind.

“Then we will have to celebrate tonight in your chambers,” Katherine remarks. It is all a game to them, all of this. “Don’t you agree, my queen?”

A small group of lords dine in my presence chamber, to the delight of my ladies. All of the courtiers smile and greet me graciously, and the musicians do well to impress me with their talents, but I can see what lingers behind every smile, every pretty word: they are wondering what is wrong with Henry, why the king is not presiding over a grand feast, seated beside his queen. I try my best to smile so as not to let on that I know as little as they do.

AS THE LADIES ready me for bed, I listen only vaguely to their steady stream of chatter. It is a lost day, and I feel likewise lost. When Jane enters my chamber looking anxious and pale, I wave my hand to dismiss the others. They remove themselves quietly and close the door behind them.

“Jane, what is happening?” I clasp her hand in mine and pull her close.

“I spoke with your cousin.” She squeezes my fingers. “This information is from him: the king is dreadfully ill.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“It is the ulcer on his leg that pained him all during Christmas. This time it has closed over completely, causing a dangerous imbalance of bad humors. He was raving this morning like a madman, and then turned black in the face.”

“Raving? What about?”

“That he has an unhappy people to govern—a people he will shortly make so poor that they will have neither the boldness nor the power to oppose him.”

“The northern rebellion.” I sigh, somewhat relieved.

“There is more—he’s blamed the Privy Council for the execution of Cromwell, saying they used false accusations to persuade him to execute the most faithful servant he ever had.”

A coldness settles deep inside of me, a freezing of the soul: the king could regret such an action, a decision of life and death?

“This is dangerous talk, Jane.”

“Indeed, and since then it has become worse. As of this evening, the king has been altogether unable to speak.”

“The king is ill, and speechless? Do they know how to cure him?”

“They fear for his life, Catherine. And I fear for yours.”

“For mine?” I let my gaze break from her intense stare.

“There has been talk of poison, my queen. And if he has been poisoned, there are those who will blame you.”

“Me? Why would I dare such a thing? How would it benefit me?”

“A dowager queen is afforded a great deal of luxury and honor, if not power. And if you were already with child—”

“What does Thomas say? Does he fear for the king’s life?”

“It is hard not to fear for it, to see him in such a state. You must be careful, Catherine.” I see her eyes glance down toward my belly in my white gown. Though small, it is round—the same roundness I’ve always had, though perhaps a bit magnified from all of my indulging on rich food and drink. But I know well that no infant prince resides there. I move beneath the covers to conceal myself from her gaze.

“I will see the king tomorrow,” I say calmly. “I will see him and make my own judgment. Thank you for this information, Jane.”

I squeeze her hand and bid her good night. I lie in bed wide awake, watching the flames slowly die in the hearth. When they are burned to cinder and ash, I shiver, nestling deeper beneath the covers, searching for comfort and sleep.

 

SEVERAL GOWNS LIE
discarded upon the bed—this one too garish, this one too somber. It’s important that I choose the right one. It is the only thing over which I have any control.

“The dark red sarcenet,” I announce, twisting my petticoat around my hips and stepping into the waiting gown. In the mirror I look bright and warm and cheerful. I don’t look like a woman going to visit her elderly, ill husband. But I am.

“I would like to see the king,” I inform the guards at the king’s apartments. One of them opens the door, but does not bid me enter.

“I am sorry that the king cannot see you at this time, my queen.” His obeisance is effusive, pandering.

“Does the king not wish to see me, or is he unable?”

“He is dealing with important matters of state which I am afraid must be catered to immediately. I assure you that he longs to be by your side.”

I look past the guard’s elbow and spy the other men standing in the distance. One is tall and thin, wearing a dark blue cape. He turns to the door just as I look and I see a familiar face: I think it is Edward Seymour, the brother of the late Queen Jane. The guard closes the door farther, so that only his face is visible in the crevice.

“I am more than willing to wait, if that would please the king. I would be most grateful to see him, if only for a short walk within the palace.” I smile thoughtfully up at him, daring him to add to his lie. How dare this mere guard lie to
me,
the king’s chosen?

“I’m afraid that he will be unable to do so at this moment, but we will call upon you as soon as he is available.”

I think it best for now to hide what I know. I walk back to my chambers, the quilted sarcenet rustling against my legs like a thousand whispers.

“IT HAS BEEN three days,” I whisper to the duchess, my eyes blurring until I cannot see the cards in my hand. “I have heard nothing. They will not let me see him. And I think I saw that Seymour brother in his chamber.” “Edward Seymour?”

“Yes. Why should he be allowed entrance, and the king’s own wife be barred?”

“He must have an ally within the king’s chamber. He is a Seymour, Catherine. And some say a Lutheran,” she hisses, “and therefore an enemy of yours. Tell me—is there any possibility that you are you with child?”

The duchess must know the truth of this; she intently scruntinizes the calendar of my bodily functions. I feel as if she’s daring me to lie, to see if I can manage to do so effectively. I look around, carefully; we are alone in this corner, but I’m wary of how close the other ladies are, seated with their embroidery or chatting by the fire.