The King's Rose (31 page)

“And what about your sin? You pushed me into this! You who knew my faults, and now you abandon me. I must make my peace with Henry.”

“You must make your peace with God, Catherine. The king is done with this matter.”

“The king is done with me?” I stare at him, and his expression does not waver. “What does that mean?”

“When Parliament reconvenes, your Bill of Attainder will be drafted.”

A Bill of Attainder.
Just like the bill they wrote up for old Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury. An uncontested death warrant.

“There will be no trial, Catherine.”

“No trial? No chance to defend myself before Parliament, before the king? This is how you will do away with me?”

“You were already given your chance to confess. Your confession has been judged by Parliament, as has the evidence against you.”

“Confessions exacted through torture.”

“You cannot attempt to convince me that you committed no sin against the king, that you did nothing wrong.”

“Then it is already decided: I will be condemned, and you will do it for him.” My eyes water; the colors in the chamber seem suddenly too bright. “This was your intention from the beginning, wasn’t it? As soon as Cranmer told the king about my past? You would keep me from the king, and take care of the matter yourselves.”

“The king requires our protection from such matters, to shield him from further humiliation.”

“Why? Are you afraid he will be too merciful? Are you ready to kill me with your own hands, to protect your ambition?”

“It is the king, the monarchy, that I am sworn to protect. And you sought to corrupt it, tainting the royal blood, the royal succession. There is nothing to be done now to protect you.”

“But it was all that I could do. I had no other choice—”

“Your regrets no longer matter. In fact, they never did. That should be clear to you, by now.”

Then it is true: I am beyond the realm of mercy. A king must be strong and destroy his enemies, even if one of them used to be his love. Being king has become bigger than Henry, bigger than being a man.

Norfolk turns to leave and I slump to the floor. What Jane told me is true, though I never imagined I would have to face it: when the Howards have no more use for you, they will not hesitate to aid in your descent if it means saving their own skins. From the moment John Lassells arrived with his information about my past, there were those—perhaps Cranmer, perhaps others—who were eager to use it to get rid of me. Norfolk will go along with it to separate himself from me, release himself from blame. They need to be completely rid of me in order for Henry to move on—just as they did with Cousin Anne. No matter who you are in life, no matter who stood by you, when you face death you face it alone.

“Catherine!” The ladies descend upon me, lifting me from the floor.

“It’s over,” I tell them. “They’ve left me here. All of them.”

“We are here for you, Catherine,” Mathilde tells me. “You are not alone.”

But I am alone. The room is dark. The great black hole has opened in the floor; the darkness seeps closer to me, creeping toward my toes. It is just me and Anne Boleyn, staring at each other over the great, black void.

“Catherine, you must confess.” Mary grasps me by the upper arms, shakes me gently. “Unburden your soul.”

“It won’t do any good. It’s too late, it’s too—”

“But it will do some good, for you.”

“But I can’t, I can’t.” The words stick in my throat and the black hole at my feet grows larger, spreading closer to me. I feel cold. I’m shivering uncontrollably.

“This is guilt you are feeling, Catherine, and fear. But you have nothing to fear. We are with you.”

“Tell us what happened, Catherine.” This is Elsie’s little voice, beside me. “Tell us about Thomas. Release it, and it will release you.”

But how can I tell them? How can I confess all?

“Thomas told me that he loved me but he didn’t. The king told me that he loved me but he didn’t. He loves nothing. He is cruel and he ruined me, and I hate him for it. And now he’s left me here—they’ve both left me here.”

“And what about you? What did you do?”

“I told the king I loved him, just like they told me to.” My voice is thin, strained. “I did everything they told me to. I acted. I lied. I didn’t have any choice.”

“And what else did you do?” Elsie asks.

“Catherine, you can tell us. You need not fear judgment from us.”

“I was in love with Thomas. I met with him. I committed treason. I broke the king’s heart.”

All the words come out in a rush. I look down at my lap the whole time, at my hands clasped with theirs. I shut my eyes and the words keep coming, like a wave released inside of me. My eyes burn, my cheeks are wet with tears. Shadows move in the room, moving over us. When I open my eyes, I fear to see Anne Boleyn’s smiling face, but she is gone. The fire is flickering; Mary gets up and stirs it back to life. Flames leap, lighting the room in gold. The black void in the floor is gone. It is just a room again.

“How do you feel now?” Mathilde asks. It seems a year has passed since she last asked me that, or perhaps no time at all. I feel angry, I think to tell her. I feel sad. I don’t know what I feel. I feel tired—so tired. Every bone in my body aches. My eyelids droop. My throat is dry and sore.

“You need your rest, Catherine.” She strokes my hair as she would a kitten, soothingly. I listen to the crackle of the fire, the sound of Mathilde’s regular breathing, the feel of Elsie’s cool hand on my own.

 

THE DAYS AND WEEKS
pass in a strange blur. We are waiting—the waiting, I hope, is the worst part of all of this. Tonight it is the death of the old year, the birth of the new. The ladies soothe my spirits by reading psalms and poetry aloud.

“I wonder how they are celebrating this night at court.” I can imagine court in only the most vague, distant way.

“Things are different now at court, so I hear,” Mary remarks carefully. “It’s been a restrained season, void of celebration. And a new law has been recently passed, restricting the king’s choice of brides.”

“What was that?” Mary’s eyes flicker to me, then to Mathilde, who doesn’t look up from her embroidery as she answers in her clear, stern voice.

“An unchaste woman who marries the king under false pretenses of purity shall be guilty of high treason.”

“Then I’ve made my small mark upon history, after all,” I muse, distantly. “I’ve changed the way the game is played.”

“What game?” Elsie asks.

“The merry game of dangling a host of pretty girls before the king’s face to see which one he snatches up.”

“Oh,” Elsie says, her eyes wide.

“Court is not so full of blushing maiden faces as it would like to pretend.” I look at Elsie: she is sweet, unspoiled. I wish that she would leave court, never go back there again. “I wager there is not a single fresh young damsel who has a family member willing to risk treason to vouch for her purity.”

Perhaps this will be better for everyone—no other young girl will be used as a pawn, as I was. And perhaps it will be better for Henry. In the case of each of his wives, it is possible that Henry was the only one to feel love. None of them, save perhaps his first bride, felt any true love for him. Yet, like a trusting child, he never suspected that our affections were anything but genuine.

I’ve read the indictment released about my own crimes, that through deceit I criminally fooled the king into loving me—just what the Howards asked of me. That which catapulted me to the throne now condemns me in the eyes of Parliament. Perhaps Henry and I were both blinded by his love for me. I drowned in all of those words of love and forgot that beneath the rich crimson velvet, the glittering eyes, the bejeweled fingers and joyous laugh lay the reaper, in the flesh. I never thought he would abandon me, I never thought I would be forced to accept my death at Henry’s hand.

But it was not him, not really. I took the path that led me here. The blood upon my hands is my own. If Henry wanted me dead, or wanted to save me, I will simply never know. In the face of his shame, he can’t show any softness, any compassion. My crimes have been too serious, and the price of kingship too harsh.

I turn away from the fire, away from these thoughts, my head resting on a pillow propped upon Mary’s lap. Elsie lifts a book and resumes her poetry reading.

“That’s Thomas Wyatt you’re reading,” I tell Elsie.

“You are correct, my queen.”

I wonder what it would be like to have the mind of a poet, if maybe poetry could take all of my sad choices and make them into something beautiful, something worthwhile that people could understand.

I think back to my first kiss with Thomas, the kiss that felt like poetry upon my lips. If only I had known then that we would never be permitted such a pure moment together again, I would have made him tarry longer, I would have held him longer, and kissed him many times. Or maybe it would have been better, safer, not to have kissed him at all. As it is, that single kiss burned into me like a scar. It began as a strength, then became a weakness, then a tool of our destruction.

But I can’t think of Thomas anymore; the pain it gives me is too great, too confused a thing for a heart to bear. His love and his betrayal sit together, like twin stones buried inside of me. And he is gone. I will never see him again, never be able to understand what happened, in the end. This realization comes to me again and again.

I close my eyes and think of Wyatt. Perhaps I will pray to him, to a poet. No doubt God is weary of my prayers. This is my prayer, tonight: give words to one who could never speak for herself, who could never find just the right words to explain.

It is February, cold and snowy. Cranmer arrives with other members of the Privy Council, and this time they are not here for confession. They’ve come for me. The moment we’ve been waiting for is here, but why do I still feel so shocked by it?

“Parliament has reconvened,” Norfolk informs me.

I know that, now just get on with it.
I grip my skirt with both hands.

“The Bill of Attainder requiring your death has been signed into law,” Cranmer states woodenly. “We are here to convey you to the Tower of London, where you and Lady Rochford will await the scheduling of your executions. One wish you requested has been granted: the executions will be carried out in private, on the Tower Green.”

Just like my cousin Anne Boleyn. The witch, the whore. I wonder what names they are calling me, at court.

“Who signed it?” I ask suddenly. “Did King Henry’s hand sign my death into law?”

Cranmer’s eyes dart away from my face. I stare at him, unwavering.

“Of course the bill was signed by the king.”

But I know this isn’t true. They’ve done it for him, they’ve taken care of all of this nasty business for him, so that the king will be protected—or so they could be sure to be rid of me, worried perhaps that his resolve might have swayed, in the end. While the king can bend the law to his will, he cannot buckle beneath it.

We exit Syon House in the midst of a crowd of officers and council members, buffering me on all sides. The ladies grip my hands tightly. The sun is setting, and the wind is cold against my cheek. I start to shiver beneath my cloak. As soon as I see the barges, draped in black, waiting at the water gate, I am struck with sudden clarity of my situation, like a mighty blow to the head. I think to sit on the ground for a moment, perhaps attach myself somehow to the soil near Syon House. But the guards will not permit it. As soon as my steps falter, I am lifted from the ground and forcibly placed upon the barge.

“Be careful!” the ladies cry. “Be careful with her!”

I am too frightened to struggle. The barge shudders beneath my feet. I am glad for the black drapings, preventing inquisitive eyes from peering in to see the shamed queen being led to her doom. The barge slips over the dark Thames, like a river in the underworld in an ancient myth.

The Thames is a messenger of fortune, be it good or ill. It has always delivered me to my destiny: to Westminster, to take up my first position at court, then back to Lambeth to await my betrothal to the king. This morning is cold, misty, gray. Still, memory flickers before my eyes: I remember the moonlight on the water, the silver light sparkling on the sapphire around my neck. I remember the fear in my heart, though it was a different breed of fear than what resides there, now. That voyage ended in the king’s bed. This will end with my head upon the block. All paths lead to death, inevitably.

The land beyond the black water is veiled in gray mist like a bridal veil, or a shroud. The Thames barely ripples beneath the boat, as if it can’t be bothered to notice our passage here. The river will forget me, as will everything else. I feel as if I barely exist anymore, out in the middle of this dark water with the gray fog obscuring the world I once knew. It is both a frightening and comforting feeling, to no longer exist: if I am not here, then no one can hurt me or anyone I love, for perhaps they don’t exist, either.

I peer from behind the curtains. The sun has already set; the sky is too dark for me to see the heads of Thomas and Francis impaled upon London Bridge, weathering whatever gusts of rain and snow may fall upon them. Now the gate of the Tower emerges from the strange dimness: a dark, opened mouth, ready to swallow me whole.
Traitor’s Gate.
Perhaps the sprawling Tower itself rose out of this black river one day, grew and spread like a massive tree, straight from the waters of hell.

The barge stops at the water gate. I step from it onto dry land, a flight of stairs. The guards urge me up each step: I will not stumble, or have a chance to escape. I am rushed into the Tower and up the stairs to my apartments. The stairs are narrow, winding; I paw along the cold stone wall, faltering on the uneven steps, feeling dizzy in my ascent. All the while I hear voices echoing down the hallways:
Catherine!
The residual echoes of torture have sunk into these walls.
Catherine! Catherine! Catherine!
I’ve heard those cries before, in my darkest dreams—Thomas and Francis calling to me.