The King's Rose (21 page)

Now I know what must happen: I will do as I’ve been told.

 

I DREAM OF
visiting the lion encaged in Henry’s menagerie. It is twilight in the dream, and the lion’s eyes sparkle like stars from the darkness of the cage. Suddenly there is no cage; the bars separating us have vanished.

Now I’ve got the best of him.
Henry’s voice echoes in my ears, but the lion and I are alone. He is gaunt, his glorious mane falling from his head in tufts. But I’m held captive by the wild gleam in his eyes. His nose twitches, the sinews of his legs taut and ready to spring. He can smell me, smell the blood and bones and meat of me. He is hungry. His golden eyes spark like flames in the darkness.

What will become of you?
I ask the lion.
What will become of me?

Between our eyes there is a kinship, an understanding. I know that he wants to devour me alive. I have felt this before: everyone’s eyes upon me, my name whispered upon everyone’s lips. Everyone fit to devour me, destroy me.

What will become of me?
I ask again. The lion pounces.

I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping as if someone were pushing the breath from my body.

 

I SIT IN THE DARKNESS of a secluded chamber, shivering beneath my dark cloak. It is midnight, and Jane should be here shortly. She will bring Thomas, and then she will leave the two of us alone. It has all been arranged.

Earlier this afternoon I took a somber turn around the palace with my ladies, passing by hallways filled with whispering courtiers who turned and offered deference as I passed. I wanted them all to see me in my sober blue gown, my eyes worn and red. I wanted them to see the gentle swell of my belly in this too-small stomacher, just enough to confirm the rumors already so rampant among them.

Tonight it will happen. The decision has been made for me; it was never my decision to make to begin with. There are no such things as my own motives or desires. My womb is the future of England. My actions are the voice through which the ambition of the Howard family sings. I only hope that it works.

I sit quietly, taking even, measured breaths. I wear a silk nightgown beneath this cloak, my skin scented with rose oil. Tonight has a dual purpose in my heart, in spite of my fear. After tonight, my curiosity will be sated. I can be rid of this love-haunting, once and for all.

The door to the chamber opens and closes briskly. I can see nothing in the darkness, but I feel Jane’s hands grasping my own. She is wheezing frightfully, as if she has run a great distance.

“Jane, what is it? What is wrong?”

“He spoke,” she utters between gasps. “He spoke.”

“What happened?”

“It’s the king, Catherine. He has spoken, he has come out of his fever. They say he will live. I must put you back to bed, again.”

“Is anyone awake? Do they know that he is well?”

“No, I heard of it from Thomas. Thomas was the first to hear him speak.”

As Jane pulls me into the dark hallway toward my chamber, a bleak heaviness settles inside of me, weighing me down. It grows larger and darker with every step I take.

When I next see Henry it is for a private dinner in his chambers. As soon as I enter, I rush toward him, as if to leap into his embrace. But I halt just in time—such an aggressive show of affection may have a negative effect upon him. I hold back, and bow instead. He grasps my hand and pulls me up to face him, smiling sheepishly.

“I’m sorry not to have been well enough to visit you as of late,” he tells me, caressing the side of my face. Though he smiles, I can sense his embarrassment in the way he blinks his eyes.

“Do not apologize, my lord.” I press my lips firmly to his ringed hand, my eyes now burning with tears. “I am only glad that you are with me, now.”

“Come, sit,” he says, urging me into a seat before the fire. I entertain him with my usual chatter, trying to keep the conversation bright and lively.

“It will be spring soon, Henry,” I say, breathless with excitement. “Perhaps we shall plan a masque later this month, to celebrate.”

He smiles at this, but a bit wanly, and sips at his wine. “Whatever pleases you, my love.” He smiles, the ever-indulgent husband.

With these words, he waves his fingers slightly. A groom hurries over and begins adjusting the cushions that support the king’s back in his chair. Henry looks away from me, his eyes lingering on the fire in the hearth. I sit dumbly in my pink dress the color of a rose petal. Fool I am! I thought that this would cheer him, the blushing color and low neckline reminding him of the passions we shared months ago. Instead I am a cruel reminder of the youth he once had, the vigor he tried to reclaim, and lost again. I worry that it pains him to look at me.

I bid him an affectionate good-bye. I know that he will not visit my bedchamber tonight. He is not well enough. I wonder how long—how long I will wait.

“I love you, my husband,” I whisper in his ear, my arms draped around his great shoulders as he remains seated in his chair. He strokes my hair and back lovingly, but does not sweep me into his lap as he was wont to do.

“And I love you, my dear wife. I shall see you tomorrow for dinner.”

I must not tarry; Henry is clearly tired and needs his rest. And there are tears burning like fire behind my eyes. I dare not think of why they are so desperate to be released.

“I look forward to it.” I smile brightly and bow out of the room.

But in the hallway, in my chamber, I can find no safe place in which to allow these tears their due. I hold them inside of me, a great roiling cloud of guilt and shame and fear.

 

EASTER MARKS THE
first banquet after Henry’s recovery, and it is a particularly joyous affair. I sit beside a smiling Henry, surveying the elegance of the courtiers on their best behavior, the renewed vigor of the minstrels and tumblers who perform for our entertainment. Henry’s cheeks are pink with health, his eyes sparkling. Though he emits raucous peals of laughter over the antics of his favorite fool, sitting close to him I can see the strain in his brow, see the way he gingerly adjusts his weight upon his chair.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?” I ask brightly, pretending not to notice the wince that flutters across his eyes.

“No, my love, you are doing quite a bit as it is. It does me well just to see you looking so pretty in your silk and pearls.”

I smile and turn away, but in the corner of my eye I see Henry’s hand rise slightly, his fingers twitch. He is calling a groom over to tend to him. He is calling—no, oh no, I must not look. I hide my face behind my goblet and drink, pretending not to notice Thomas standing beside the king, not to see his dark eyes glistening in the candlelit hall.

I must live with my treachery—it burns a hole inside of me, a flame that no amount of wine can abate, though I take a few more greedy gulps before setting down the goblet. It is not only what I planned to do with Thomas, I realize now, seated upon my throne before the eyes of all the court. No, it is even more than that. It is that some part of me, in spite of my fear, had dared become resigned to the king’s death.

“Sweet Catherine,” Henry says, his great hand warm upon my back. I turn, a brilliant smile on my face. Thomas is still standing next to him, but I stare determinedly into Henry’s eyes. “I’ve thanked your cousin for looking after you.”

I breathe, I smile. I don’t know how to respond.

“Leave it to you Howards to all look out for each other. My, what a family you all are!” He turns to Thomas and laughs at this, and Thomas laughs with him.

 

IN SPITE OF
the warmth of his gaze, the king’s infirmities overrule his passions. Will I simply be stuck here in the midst of fear and danger without a way to create an heir and fulfill my role, waiting for whatever may happen to me when this old king dies?
No, no.
I mustn’t think of such things. It’s an abomination to think of such things, especially after what I nearly did.

I glance at the bed, the soft covers turned down to reveal the yielding mattress beneath. But this bed seems cold, lonely. Dreams pull at me with warm, tantalizing fingers—but no, I can’t. Dreams nearly caught me, recently, nearly pulled me in with the tide and into the deep. It is dangerous to dream.

But what if there is more to love, and I am missing out on it? Little did I know, on the night of my first kiss with Thomas, that our love would be interrupted—that his kiss would hang, suspended, in the air over the garden, hovering over the flowers at midnight, hovering like a ghost over my bed. This type of love can be the most lingering, the most powerful, for there is no time in which to discover a single fault or flaw. It remains forever as one kiss: one solemn, perfect promise of the world.

Perhaps this is what happened to Henry, when he first saw me. Perhaps my image hovered over the royal bed that very night; a sweet and beguiling ghost, my voice haunting his dreams.

 

THE RAW COLD of winter has begun to thaw into a sparkling spring, and I’m glad of it. I’ve taken to heading straight to the stables after Mass and riding my silver mare hard over the pastures, her swift hooves soaring until I am nearly breathless. There is a lot inside of me that needs dampening, burying, and the pounding of the horse’s hooves upon the cracked earth, the cold air burning my cheeks, and the pale sky over my head seem clean, pure. I make my mind as blank as the sky. I listen to my heartbeat. I listen to my breath. I do my best to think of nothing. By the time I dismount, my legs and back are aching, but the pain itself is a welcome distraction.

I see Henry in the afternoons, and his health has gradually improved. We take walks in the garden together, for his physicians agree that the sunshine will do much to improve his health. I watch the king, and I watch those around him. All of court looks different to me now, somehow both clearer and more confusing than it appeared when this year began. Henry is besieged by those who undoubtedly would do him ill if it would benefit them to do so. During dinner I see him conferring with Edward Seymour, and the sight of it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I scan the faces before us and imagine in each of them a unique self-interest, a unique abuse or destruction of our king in the name of God or family or the true church—whatever that church may be.

And I know, now, that I am no different from any of them.

 

PREPARATIONS FOR A
progress to the northern regions have already begun, in an effort to suppress the potential rebellion before it begins. The king will journey farther north than he ever has in the course of his reign. In spite of his fear of dirt and disease, he will smile while shaking the grimy hands of his populace, their dirty lips pressed to his jeweled fingers. He will stand in the midst of the masses, sparkling and brilliant, like a god on earth, to inspire their devotion and impress upon them the magnitude of his power.

“I’ve seen them packing the finest gold plate and carved goblets,” Dorothy remarks as she unlaces my corset to ready me for bed. “I’ve heard rumors that your coronation will take place in York.”

I pretend not to hear this, and look up to admire my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing the gold circlet Henry gifted to me recently, in honor of spring and the day of my birth. I am now sixteen years old. The circlet is studded with sapphires and diamonds, and seems to spark in the light of the fire. When the king placed it upon my head, I know we were both thinking about the day when I would wear the true crown.

“We have all heard such rumors.”

“There could be nothing more pleasing for the king, certainly, to crown a queen clearly pregnant with a royal heir.”

I do not respond, absorbed by the look of the jewels upon my fingers, but the bite of this remark is not lost on me. “The people are unhappy with your husband, Catherine,” Lisbeth remarks. “A coronation may be just the distraction they all need.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, too curious to rebuke her. Lisbeth’s eyes flash up to the mirror to meet mine.

“The Countess of Salisbury was executed this morning.”

“No!” Katherine gasps. “She was an old woman!”

“An old woman not even allowed the benefit of a trial, only to be dispatched by a novice executioner.”

“She was executed without trial?” Dorothy asks.

“The king signed a Bill of Attainder—it renders a sentence without need of a trial. And her sentence was death.”

“Oh, Lisbeth, stop—it’s too gruesome.”

“Then shut your ears,” Lisbeth snaps. “I think our queen has the right to hear it. It’s the talk of all of court—all of England. It took three swings of the ax to do her in.”

“Oh! How awful, Lisbeth!” Malyn wails. “Stop, don’t tell us any more.”

“I thought Her Majesty might want to hear the truth. You must be disappointed, Catherine, after all you did to try to save her.”

“Indeed.” I swallow. Now they can all see how little power I have over the king. “It is most unfortunate.”
The king’s will be done.

There is a soft knock upon the door—Jane finally returned from her conference with the duchess—and Dorothy rushes to answer it. I break away from Lisbeth and move to the opened window, breathing in the smell of early honeysuckle. But the smell only fills me with a strange, familiar dread.

The door opens, but Jane isn’t standing there. It is the king. The ladies drop to the floor in obeisance.

“You are dismissed,” I tell them, turning to face Henry. They depart the room in silence, their eyes cast down.

“I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked at dinner tonight, my love,” he tells me, bringing my hand to his lips. “I regret that it has been so long since I have last visited you.”

“I understand, my lord.” My voice sounds different, far away, but Henry doesn’t seem to notice.