The King's Rose (22 page)

“The progress is not as important—nor as pleasurable—as tending to you.”

He leans forward and kisses me, his lips warm upon mine. We have not been intimate since his illness, and I yield to him with the warmth he always responds to. But I have already separated from myself, from my body. My mind is elsewhere, in a different spring, transported by a similar dread in the sweet smell of honeysuckle. It was during spring, near the time of my eleventh birthday, that I learned about Cousin Anne’s execution and heard tales of her bravery moments before the sword. I always take for granted that spring is a time of rebirth, but perhaps this is not the case. Perhaps all the flower petals and perfume are merely a mask for death.

Like the sparkling jewels upon my husband’s fingers, the fingers that pull this gown from my shoulders and caress my naked flesh.

The royal progress finally departs on the last day of June. At the beginning of our journey, torrential rain burst through the thick, humid air and bogged down our elaborate caravan. I wonder if Henry, gruff and irritable, speculated as to whether the brutal execution of an elderly woman could have inspired the rage of Our Lord in the form of weeks of rain.

We ventured out once the rain cleared, but progress was slow, coaches mired in the muddy roads. Now the sun is bright and the roads are dry, and we progress at a consistent pace in a long train winding up rough roads twisting through the wild, overgrown, virulent green of the northern region.

Dozens of wagons are stuffed with provisions, followed by guards on horseback in their dark green velvet livery. I ride on a magnificent white horse not far behind Henry’s entourage. I am surrounded by my ladies, Lady Rochford and Joan riding on either side. Henry rides ahead surrounded by guards, advisers, and gentlemen of the privy chamber—Thomas among them. It seems as if all of court is traveling, except for the Privy Council, as well as Archbishop Cranmer and Sir Thomas Wriothesley, left behind to tend to matters in the king’s absence.

Being away from the suffocation of court feels freeing; a brisk wind rushes over the sloping hills of green, blanketed here and there with banks of heather. Here, on horseback, I can avoid the gossiping courtiers at the edges of the group, who rail against the king’s decision to summarily execute all prisoners in the Tower before our departure. It has proved an unpopular move at court, and has exposed the king’s fear and weakness for all to see. But I avoid this talk. The incident only serves to remind me of the limits of my influence upon the king.

The sun is warm upon my back, the smell of summer sweet with a distant threat of rain sharpening the air. It fills my lungs and releases my tension in a way unachievable while cooped up in the luxurious claustrophobia of my chambers all winter. I am also full of hope: after weeks of consistent coupling, my blood is definitely delayed. I may finally grant Henry the one gift he most desires on this progress—the one gift that he would reward with a crown. I keep my mind focused on this thought when I catch a probing gaze from one of my ladies, or when I inhale a sharp whiff of some acrid smell—dread, fear, death. It is always swirling around us; I try not to notice it.

 

WE’VE FINALLY ARRIVED
in Lincoln, where we offer the awaiting crowds a splendid visual feast. A mass of archers with drawn bows are the first to enter the town to a great thunder of applause. The sight is intended both to impress and intimidate: hundreds of archers and the king’s men riding enormous horses dressed in green Tudor livery could easily be transformed from a court into a powerful army.

Next enter the dignitaries from the area, also dressed in their most formal robes. Finally Henry and I enter, with the honored members of court behind us garbed in cloth of gold and crimson velvet. I smile at the cheers showered upon us—there is no doubt in the minds of these people who their king is, though they have never seen Henry before. He is massive and imposing upon his magnificent horse, robed in green velvet, while I wear a gown of crimson trimmed with diamonds across the bodice. Both of us sparkle brightly in the summer sun, bedecked in jewels as befits our station.

As we wind slowly down the street to the sound of deafening applause, I see that the houses are hung with banners and flags, all emblazoned with the Tudor colors and the Tudor rose. I even spy banners with my own symbol of the rose crowned; my cheeks warm at the sound of their cheers.

“Long live the king! Long live the queen!”

I turn to Henry, who manages to fix his expression in a most regal fashion: flattered, pleased, but still maintaining the dignity of a king, not easily stunned by the love poured out by his subjects. This is the respect due to a king, after all. I smile at Henry, certain that the two of us create an impressive sight. He glances at me and smiles, lifting my hand to his lips for a kiss. The cheers of the crowd grow even louder.

“God bless King Henry and Queen Catherine!”

Never have I felt more a queen than in this moment. Is this how my coronation will be? I can imagine it here, in this magical place, starting with a processional down this very street. I will be held upon a litter, wearing a silver gown, or gold, or purple—I can’t decide. I will be carried through the cheering throngs to the cathedral, where the crown will finally be set upon my copper head. The thought of such triumph makes me feel tingling and warm—it could all happen here. Then I could truly claim my victory over his previous wives, for Queen Katherine should never have been Henry’s bride, Queen Jane never had a coronation, and Queen Anne won her crown through dark enchantments that clouded Henry’s judgment. I will be a true queen, more so than the others had been.

Henry and I are immediately taken to a tent prepared for our arrival, where we change out of our velvet into more formal attire: Henry in a cloak and doublet of cloth of gold, I in a gown of silver, sparkling like a bright star. We set off again on horseback to the cathedral. Here, in the echoing chamber, we stand before the northern people, Henry tall and glorious and golden, I dainty in my delicate silver tissue gown. The priest swings incense over our heads in a filmy cloud before we both receive the sacrament. A Catholic king and queen, for all of Scotland to see.

HENRY’S NORTHERN SUBJECTS are not like those at court: they are kind and reverent and bow respectfully before me, without the hint of a smirk upon their lips. After all, I am the only Queen of England any of them have seen.

Each evening, before the banqueting begins in the great hall, the loyal citizens of Lincoln are welcomed into the royal presence with a bounty of favors. I am glad that Henry is welcoming these people into his heart again. Even the rebels whose devotion has faltered are received by their sovereign; I watch as they bend prostrate and beg the king’s forgiveness, offering gold and jewels to ensure his mercy. I stand beside Henry for all of this, but step back so as not to interfere with the full glory of His Majesty. The people—both loyal and disloyal—stand before him in awe.

Since our arrival, the entertainments each night have been raucous and the food bountiful. Over two hundred deer have been enclosed in the nearby forest, their capture offering daily sport and diversion for the king and his hunting party. Now their carcasses are piled by the smoking fires, and dozens of servants prepare them for our banquet. Great nets of silver, squirming fish and boatloads of river birds are hauled in for the royal feast, including swans whose limp white necks sag over the rough wooden tables.

Though the formality of court is imposed upon the wildness of our surroundings, the lush countryside makes the festivities feel less cloistered. Tonight, we dine and dance beneath the bright stars. I wear my cloth of silver gown and a mask studded with diamonds and pearls. Lisbeth, Katherine, Joan, and I are all giggling and breathless after a particularly vigorous dance. The ladies leap back into the dance, but I wave to a servitor who speedily brings me a goblet of wine.

Hovering near the banqueting tables, I’m startled by sudden laughter. The young lords have been drinking all night; the effect of the wine is easy to hear. In the center of their riotous merriment a white swan flaps its enormous wings, feathers fluttering over the grass. The creatures had escaped earlier from the King’s cooks, only to be injured now by these drunkards. A bloody gash mars the perfect whiteness of its neck.

“Oh, poor old Margaret Pole!” one lord hollers. “No amount of gold could have saved you, could it have?” The others howl in response. The bird staggers, wings flapping awkwardly; its eyes glisten, ink black.

“It took three chops for that old woman’s head to roll,” one lord states.

“I heard it took four.”

“I heard she made the executioner chase her around the block!” Their laughter is like the wild baying of wolves.

“My queen.” Thomas suddenly emerges from the crowd before me, his dark brows furrowed. He glances swiftly at the scene taking place behind me and discreetly offers his arm. “Come away from here, my queen.”

I smile, but somehow I cannot command myself to speak. Thomas delivers me to the king, with whom I survey the celebratory dance from a regal distance. I smile, but my cheeks hurt, my mouth is dry.

Margaret Pole, an innocent old woman, was executed upon the king’s—my husband’s—orders. Even knowing this, I enjoyed myself, I reveled in the honor and luxury of being queen. The shame of this makes me feel suddenly ill. I sway, slightly, catch myself on the king’s massive arm for balance. He turns to me and smiles, pats my hand lovingly. He is a murderer, but I must cleave to him. It is my duty, as his queen. It is my only hope for survival.

I glance across the mass of dancers to the host of drunken lords. For a moment I imagine I see a flash of red—a red-and-black devil’s mask staring back at me. But I blink and the image is gone. It must be my mind, my fear playing tricks on me.

 

A MAN IN an executioner’s mask wields a polished ax, its sharp edge bright in the sunlight. But just before he swings, the mask is pulled aside: it’s Henry, smiling, leering.
It’s Henry!
His eyes are livid, the way I’ve seen them before. He tips back his head and laughs loudly, like the roar of a raging bear. He lifts the ax in his hands to strike—

“Catherine.”
A rough whisper in my ear. I wake with a start: I’m in my sleeping tent, and I can barely see in the darkness. My straw mattress shifts uncomfortably.

“Henry!” I gasp, but he covers my mouth with his. His kisses are forceful. He pulls at my nightdress with eager, insistent fingers.
The king’s will be done
—no, no, I must not think of such things. My mind must be blank, must be clean. I must submit and make him happy with what I have to offer. If only I could tell him that I’m pregnant, then maybe it would calm him. But I find that fear has swallowed my voice. I close my eyes and meekly submit. I must make him happy.

“My wife, my wife,” he whispers in my ear. I smell wine upon his breath. “My wife and my heir.” Then he already knows about my pregnancy. He kisses me again, as though not to allow any denial. I know that he is about to claim me. But suddenly he stops, his shoulders tense. His heavy breathing snags.

“Henry?” I ask gently. He’s already pulling away from me. The air in the tent is stagnant, heavy upon my flesh. “What is wrong?”

“Don’t touch me!” he snaps. I draw my hand away from him quickly, as if he struck out to bite it. He turns away, his massive form casting a shadow over me in the darkness. I lie on the bed, quivering in fear. I have displeased him in some way, I have displeased him. I open my mouth to say something, but can think of nothing. I lie here still as stone and make no sound as he reaches for his robe.

Dread settles in my belly as he leaves the tent. I pull the furs close around my shoulders and try to sleep.

 

I
OPEN MY EYES
.
I must have slept, but I do not feel rested. My body aches as if I’ve held it taut all night, like an animal ready to spring from danger. I stretch beneath the covers, my back aching with every move. Thoughts of last night come rushing back to me and the heaviness of dread settles in my belly again. I pull back the covers to rise from bed.

The ladies are still sleeping, so I’m the only one who sees it: a stain of blood upon my nightshift, upon my underclothes. My blood has returned.

I wonder if perhaps Henry is cursed, and thereby I am cursed through him.

As we travel from Lincoln to Pontefract Castle, my horse’s gait over the rough, broken roads makes my belly lurch. For the first time I’m not merely sad to tell Henry that I’m not pregnant, I am afraid. After what happened last night, I doubt that he will be eager to visit my chamber again. He has indulged me for nearly a year and I have still not given him what he so desires. What if he moves on to another? What will happen to me?

By the time we’re installed in proper chambers at Pontefract, my mind is fraught with fear and possibility. After days on the road, I’ve had time to conjure all the terrible things that may happen if my lack of pregnancy were to be made known.

“You look pale, Catherine,” Lady Rochford remarks, having shut the doors to my bedchamber. She is the only one who knows that my blood has returned. “You must rest before the banquet tonight. We will simply tell the king that you are tired, that he cannot visit you tonight. No doubt he will think it because of your pregnancy.” She glances up at me furtively. “By tomorrow night you will be ready to greet him again. He will notice nothing amiss.”

“The king will not visit me tomorrow night. I don’t know that he will ever visit me again.”

“What are you saying, Catherine?”

I look straight into her eyes.

“We must make this happen,” I tell her, my voice barely audible. “We cannot count upon the king’s help. We must make this happen for me, for us, on our own.”

“I understand,” she says, nodding slightly. “By tomorrow night, you will be ready.” Her voice is placid, calm. “I will arrange everything, Catherine. Do not worry. We will make this happen. No one else will know.”