The King's Rose (27 page)

“Of course it wasn’t, dear,” Joan consoles me. “We all know that.”

“We all did such things, especially at Lambeth.” I flash my eyes at all of them; they know they are guilty of similar acts. No one in this room is wholly innocent. But I suppose their indiscretions mean little, while the concealment of mine was an act of treason.

“Many young girls do. And you told me yourself that Francis promised to marry you.”

“But I could not marry him,” I tell them. “The king chose me. He proposed marriage. There was nothing I could do. You cannot turn down the hand of the king.”

“I’m sure they will understand that, dear. Francis will tell them. They cannot trouble you now for what was done before your marriage to the king.”

“And what you did with Francis was not out of bounds, considering your precontract.”

Precontract.
That word meant divorce for Anne of Cleves, and she had not consummated her betrothal. What will my family do with me if the king divorces me?

“Francis will tell them?” I look up again. This time the ladies avert their eyes from mine.

“We thought he was out hawking,” Lisbeth murmurs. “No one has seen him.”

“We believe that he’s been taken in for questioning,” Joan tells me, but there is more to this than they dare to say aloud.

“Then he’s been taken to the Tower,” I breathe. But this cannot be real. Nothing as horrifying as this can be real. In fact, this whole room seems unnatural: the glowing fire, the quiet circle of ladies. Where is Lady Rochford? I need to talk to her about this. I turn and see Jane sitting in the shadows. She’s usually in the center of the circle, right by my side. It’s odd to see her lurking in a corner—wrong, wrong. All of this is wrong.

“Lady Rochford?” I ask. “Jane?” But her bent form offers no response. She clutches at her dark skirt, wringing the fabric. Something about her pale hands in the shadows seems familiar, frightening. I can’t understand why.

“Don’t worry about her,” Joan tells me. “You had best get some rest.”

The other ladies do their best to coddle me, to calm me; they comb my hair and ready me for bed. I am so exhausted from worrying and crying that I actually fall asleep.

 

I RUN DOWN THE GALLERY,
calling the king’s name. My feet ache with every step and my throat is raw, but that does not stop me. I see the face of the king—old and ruined—and the door of the chapel slams shut before my face by unseen hands, as if God Himself is locking me out. As the guards pull me away I’m screaming, straining against their arms. But the dream continues: another run down the gallery, screaming, the faces of staring courtiers blurring by me as I run. The look on the king’s face and the slam of the chapel door shudders through my bones.

 

I WAKE SUDDENLY,
my whole body tense, my legs cramped. Joan sleeps in the bed beside me. For a moment I cannot tell what is real and what a dream.

I look around—I’m in my bedchamber. Things slowly start to look familiar. And I realize that my head is different than it was before, split into separate chambers: in one there is sleep and dreaming, a place of oblivion haunted by ghosts (Henry’s face: old, ruined). In another chamber is a great, towering fear imposing itself upon me—I scurry away from this chamber as soon as I sense its foreboding presence.

But the third chamber—I will dwell here for a while: it is clear, though small and cramped. There is something I must do, something urgent that must not wait another moment. A message must be sent—one too sensitive for ink and parchment.

Stepping from my bedchamber, I make my way toward the fire, which barely flickers in the hearth. Quietly, I approach Lady Rochford, who is seated in a chair by the fire.

“Jane,” I whisper, but there is no response. I touch her shoulder, but she gasps and flinches from my touch. I’m taken aback at the sight of her face: she is ghostly pale, mumbling a fervent stream of words beneath her breath.

“Jane?” I ask, but she does not answer. She is staring at me with wide eyes, but I don’t think she can see me. I don’t know what she sees.

“Catherine.” Joan is beside me, pulling me away from the muttering Jane. She pulls me back into the bedchamber.

“You must find Thomas,” I whisper. “He must leave court, immediately.” I must trust Joan, I have no other choice. I think to ask her about Jane, but I dare not mention it.

“Of course. I will tell him, directly. I assure you.” Joan helps me back into bed.

This is my only hope, now, that this will end here. That nothing more will be discovered. What I did is done, and I’ve prayed to God for forgiveness, and I’ve put it all behind me. Now I can only hope that I will receive forgiveness, and protection. I will gladly bear my sorrow and terror, at least knowing that Thomas is safe.

I settle back into bed, blinking. When I close my eyes, I see hawks circling overhead, shrieking. Their black wings spread against the blue sky.

Cranmer arrives midday, this time alone. He spins out the same questions, persisting in order to uncover even the most intimate details of my relationship with Francis. Though I’ve attempted all day to prepare myself for further interrogation, I can feel the great black maw of fear opening up beneath me, threatening to swallow me whole. I’m worried that the words aren’t coming out of my mouth in the right sequence, or that I’m not even speaking English anymore. I don’t know how much they know, and I fear saying too much and incriminating myself further.

“Dereham has been heard to say that if the king were dead, then he may claim you as his wife,” Cranmer informs me. “He says that you were betrothed to him before your marriage to the king. This prior betrothal would render you an unsuitable bride for the king. You married King Henry under false pretenses, already the promised wife of another.”

“There was no proper marriage contract,” I insist. “I never intended to marry Francis Dereham.”

“And yet you allowed carnal relations with him, even without benefit of a precontract?”

“No, I mean, I—” Am I damning myself further? Which is worse? Which makes me more unfit to have married the king? “He called me his wife, but we were not married. It was his own pride, his own boastfulness to claim me as his own. I’ve only once been properly married. Only once!”

I slide off my chair and fall to my knees on the ground, my head lowered. “Please, I beg you, please let me see the king. I must explain all of this to him.”

“You will not see the king, Catherine, but I am here to offer you the possibility of His Majesty’s mercy. Your only hope is to make a full confession of your faults.”

“Is this the king’s decision?” I ask, thinking suddenly of the king’s illness earlier this year, and how I was barred from his chambers. “The king does not want to see me?”

Cranmer shifts slightly in his chair.

“Please, please allow me to see my husband. He chose me as his queen; I should at least be granted the opportunity to explain my actions directly to him.”

“No, the king has made his requirements plain.” There is something sharp, jagged, lying beneath the archbishop’s calming tones. “You must confess all if you hope to receive the king’s mercy.”

“You are asking me to admit to a precontract that did not exist. I will not do it.” My ladies are right: they cannot condemn me for actions that took place before my marriage, before I ever met Henry, before I ever came to court. “Did your carnal relationship with Dereham continue after your marriage to the king?”

“No.”

“You appointed your former lover to a position in your household, is that correct?”

“Yes, he came to me, he wanted a position. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t . . . nothing happened between us.”

“My queen.” Cranmer’s voice is softly menacing. “Dereham has already condemned himself by speaking of the king’s death. It is already over for him. Now you must think of yourself. A complete written confession is your only hope for mercy.”

Dereham has condemned himself. Speaking of the king’s death.
I try to make my mind blank, to disconnect myself from these thoughts.

He leads me to a writing desk, produces a piece of parchment, and urges me gently into the chair. All of my life there has been someone to tell me what to do, what to say, how to act, what to wear. My family has already deserted me, disowned me in disgust with my behavior. Now here I sit across from my Lutheran enemy, urged to write a confession of my sins against my husband, the king. Do I have the option to refuse?

“Catherine, these are grave offenses against His Majesty,” Cranmer murmurs. “But the king is willing to be merciful if you are completely honest.”

Completely honest.
How vexing I find those words.

As I submit to his insistence to write my confession, I feel that I am barely here anymore, barely living in this skin and bones that are my body on this earth. I float up above the proceedings, disconnected, watching it unfold like a play, or a farce.

I write the truth about Manox in as brief and succinct prose as I can manage: we kissed and I was a foolish child who should have known better. In regard to the matter of Francis—no doubt he has told them, I can tell by their questioning that they already know the truth. Torture aided his confession, most likely, in addition to the bitterness he felt toward me for rejecting his love.

Still, I must choose my words carefully. I admit that I allowed him to court me in secret when I was but a child unschooled in the ways of proper love and honor. I confess the details of our relationship: the tokens of affection we exchanged, and the habit we began of calling each other husband and wife—terms of endearment, merely. But in spite of the various times he took liberties with my person upon my bed in the maidens’ chamber of Lambeth, I never made any formal promise to marry him.

“How could I have?” I turn to Cranmer, who peers over my shoulder at the paper before me. “I am only a girl. A girl does not choose whom she will marry.”

I end with a solemn request for compassion for a girl who was pulled too strongly by her emotions and granted little guidance in such affairs. Henry already finds the female flesh weak, so I think this will be the most effective way to explain myself. Indeed, I can think of no other explanation at my disposal. A king’s lust and obsessions are called love and become law, but these same impulses in a queen are treason.

I think Henry and I are more alike than we will ever know.

“Come now, Catherine.” Cranmer’s voice is soothing, cajoling. “What new fantasy has come into your head? If there is more, you must tell it. You can confide it in me.” I lift my hands and feel the tears pouring down my face. I am gasping—the sound of my sobs frightening to hear.

“The king’s mercy makes my offenses appear even more heinous than they did before,” I cry, my voice wavering with sobs. “The more I consider the greatness of his mercy, the more I do sorrow that I should have so injured the heart of His Majesty. Please tell him that. Tell him that he is my husband—my only husband—and that I will die claiming him so!”

Let him give the king my confession, and tell him of my bitter repentance. I am not Francis Dereham’s wife, I am Henry’s wife. His beloved wife, for whose love he was thanking God mere days ago. He will need to see me, and he will forgive me. I will not allow Cranmer and Norfolk and all his council—men with their own intentions—to convince me otherwise. Henry’s great old heart has been through too much heartache to permit any more. He will welcome me back into his arms, into his heart, and we will be all the sweeter with each other when he does. I can see it all when I close my eyes: Henry and I, together, our tearstained cheeks pressed side by side.

When I look up and blink my eyes, my vision is fogged. Cranmer is leaving, and the ladies rush into the room to my aid. But I will be fine—I have confessed, and now await the king’s mercy. And he will be merciful, for Henry loves me. I am not like cousin Anne, whom he wanted to be rid of. I am Catherine. We danced just a few nights ago, before all of court, and he told me I looked beautiful. He told me that he loved me. I clamp my hand over my mouth, to keep the words inside. Henry loves me. He will save me from all of this.

I’ve been imprisoned in my chambers for mere days, but it feels like years. I often walk from room to room, restless. It is a double imprisonment, spent visiting and revisiting old thoughts and fears as I walk, unseeing, from one room to the next, then back again to where I began. I’m waiting for Cranmer and Norfolk to arrive again, but I know that I will not say anything more to them. I will speak only to my husband, my king.

Joan sets a tray of food upon the table before me; her hands are trembling, and the tray clatters upon the polished table. I look up and see that her face is white as snow.

“Joan?”

“I’ve just overheard, Your Grace.” She kneels before me, gathering my hands in hers. “The king has left Hampton, with only a few attendants.”

“The king has left?”

“Yes. They say he has gone to Oatlands Palace.” Her eyes flutter away from mine, nervously.

“The king has left me here, alone?”

“Was I right to tell you?”

“Of course. Perhaps he is going to read my confession, in private,” I remark lightly. “Oatlands Palace in Surrey—that is where we were married.”

“I know, Your Majesty.” She bends forward and presses my hand to her lips. “You will tell me if you need anything?”