The King's Rose (6 page)

My life will be more than I ever could have imagined—but perhaps it will also be a little bit less. All of this must be put aside now, the words and dreams that led to his perfect kiss, near midnight in the dark garden at Westminster, and all the happiness that kiss seemed sure to promise. This was a different Catherine who received these letters, who responded to that kiss—since then I have been transformed by the king’s eyes, by the royal jewels around my neck and a cloth-of-gold gown . . . but who is the real Catherine: the shadow or the light? The smoke or the flame?

I thrust a letter into the flames before I can think twice about it. For a moment the words flash before my eyes, his dark, slanted script burning in the air with ink of fire. I have the urge to pull it free from the flames—but I can’t, it’s too late, it’s done. It’s over. But there is more to it than this—I cannot burn the memory of his kiss from my lips, I cannot burn my love for him from my heart, my passion for him from my flesh . . . or can I? Must I, regardless? I have no choice, now. I was only a girl, then. Now I will be queen.

When I shut my eyes, the image only burns brighter. I push the rest of the letters into the fire, then pull a poker from beside the hearth and press them, crackling, into the flames. My eyes sting with heat, my vision blurred in gold and black. I watch until all of the letters are consumed.

The fire’s feast is done. I turn and crawl back into bed and close my eyes, trying to think back to my reflection in the mirror, the gold bridal gown. In my mind, the gold cloth is replaced by the flames of the fire, curling the edges of the letters black.

I am different, transformed. The girl I was before is gone; I watched her burn in a flash of flame.

As I’m dressed, sunshine streams in the window of the chamber, and the gold gown glistens as if I’m being robed in sunlight itself. I imagine how the king, how all of court, will react when they see me, gowned like a royal bride. The thought burns like a small flame of triumph. I stoke this flame, hoping it may be enough to warm me.

“You are a fairy queen,” Jane pronounces, “the little girl who catches the eye of the king and becomes his bride. Can you imagine?”

The duchess has been quiet but she cannot hide her smile, no matter how hard she tries. “Of course I can imagine it. I’ve been imagining this day since first he laid eyes upon my little Catherine.”

My little Catherine
—then she is proud of me! Perhaps she is even more proud of me than she was of my cousin Anne. She moves closer and arranges my hair, just as I imagine a mother might help her daughter on her wedding day.

“Or perhaps even before the king saw her,” she murmurs. She stands back to appraise me, clasping her hands beneath her chin. When Jane finishes smoothing out the folds from my train, she stands beside the duchess to inspect me.

They had been planning this for me, all along. It makes me feel a bit sorry for the king, his emotions constantly manipulated by his most ambitious courtiers. But the king loves me—
doesn’t he?

A knock upon the door signals that the hall is prepared for the small ceremony. It will be a beautiful, intimate ceremony, nothing like the ostentatious display of riches for his brief marriage to Anne of Cleves. The duchess takes my hand in hers and moves toward the door, but I stop.

“Can I have just a moment?” I ask. The two women blink at me. “Alone?”

“Only a moment,” the duchess informs me. “We’ll be right outside the door.” They leave the chamber reluctantly.

I stand before the mirror looking at a young woman in a beautiful gown. On her head is a glittering gold coronet studded with sapphires and diamonds, and her hair flows in lustrous coppery waves over her shoulders. I barely recognize myself. This gown shimmers like fire. I imagine the fabric purifies me as it touches my skin, cleanses me of sins and burns the memory of those sins from every sinew of my flesh.

When I emerge from the chamber, everyone turns. The lords and ladies, the senior maids of the queen’s chamber, the king’s chief advisers, all of them drop in a low reverence before me. I walk forward steadily, gracefully.

My eyes snag suddenly on Thomas’s face—it’s been so long since I’ve met his gaze. Dark eyes burning against his pale skin, his face drawn; my heart falters. But it is too late for that, too late. He bows his head before me and I move on, smoothly.
I burn through this room, I burn . . .
I see the king standing at the end of the hall, waiting for me. He is closer, more vivid with every step.

 

“I, CATHERINE,”
I begin. My voice sounds so quiet. The chamber is filled with bright sunshine, stinging my eyes. “Take thee, Henry, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, and promise to be bonair and buxom in bed and at board, till death us depart.”

I pledge myself to him; the words are rather easy to say. I smile in relief when I am done with them, and he smiles in return. Then the king pledges himself to me.

 

AFTER THE CEREMONY,
I stand beside the king and sip spiced wine from a jeweled goblet, along with all the rest of our small wedding party. There are musicians striking up a lively tune, and everyone is talking pleasantly and congratulating the king. He laughs and sips his wine, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. No matter who is talking to him or bidding him their best, most gracious wishes, his eyes are constantly trained upon me. I’m sure I’m not the only one who notices.

Thomas moves forward from the crowd. I look at him blankly, as if we’ve never met. He returns my look with a practiced courtier’s smile. The burning I saw in his eyes moments ago is gone. It is all done now. I am married to the king.

“I present to Your Grace, Prince Edward, Lady Mary, and Lady Elizabeth.”

The king’s children step forward. His daughters bow slowly, perfectly.

“You look very beautiful, Your Majesty,” sprightly Elizabeth announces. She steps forward and offers me a small posy of flowers. “Your gown is the loveliest I have ever seen.”

“Thank you, Lady Elizabeth. You look beautiful, as well.”

Even before this ceremony, Lady Elizabeth and I were related—sharing a blood tie through her disgraced mother. Now she stands before me, an eager and clever seven-year-old. I warm to her instantly, as I feel she’s already warmed to me. Nothing can sever a blood tie.

“Did you arrange these yourself? They are simply lovely. Here.” I pull a flower from the bouquet and lean forward to slide the stem over Elizabeth’s ear; the yellow bloom looks pretty against her red-gold hair, just like her father’s. She smiles up at me brightly and then dips again into a proper bow.

I stand up and turn my smile to Lady Mary. Suddenly I feel as if I’ve rammed headfirst into a stone wall.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she murmurs sullenly, and bows again.

“I am glad to see you in attendance,” I tell her. Was that the right thing to say? I sense a quiet rage burning in Mary, a rage she takes little effort to hide in my presence. I turn my attentions to Edward to conceal my discomfort. He is but a little boy, distracted by the sights and sounds around him and ready to toddle off at any moment. Elizabeth holds his chubby hand in hers, and he dares not stray far from her side.

As the day wanes, I become aware of the tone the sunshine makes upon my gold gown: first white-hot sunlight, then a more golden hue, then a rich, burnished copper. I watch the day dwindle to sunset, well aware of what the setting of the sun will bring.

The king takes my hand and leads me to the center of the room. We are a dazzling sight to behold: both clothed in golden raiment and glittering with jewels in the low light. My gaze passes over the assembled courtiers and I picture what they see. I imagine seeing myself through so many eyes, as if surrounded by fragments of different mirrors, different reflections of me.

I bow to my new husband, and we begin our dance. I have never danced with the king before, but we dance quite easily together, though he is so much larger. King Henry is a skilled dancer. He spins me vigorously, my gown spreading out in a cloud of gold around me. The faces assembled move past in a blur.

The dance is done. Tapers are being lit and I am flickering like a flame. The guests slowly depart, and the duchess hurries me to my chambers to prepare for bed.

“It all went by so quickly,” I murmur as Jane unclasps the jewels from my throat, and the duchess removes the rings from my fingers. Other ladies have joined us: Lady Bryan, little Edward’s nurse, as well as Lady Edgecombe and Lady Baynton, who served Anne of Cleves alongside me. Now they are
my
ladies, sworn to serve me. I am the center of the circle—the candle surrounded by fluttering moths.

The golden gown is unlaced and pulled from my body; I feel a part of my power stripped from me. A silk nightgown is pulled over my head, which slips like the softest of clouds against my skin. The embroidery at the neckline of the gown is done in gold, but the gown itself is so sheer as to be nearly completely translucent.

“Dearest, your fingers are like ice!” Jane exclaims. “That will not do . . . here, warm them in this flannel before I apply the scented cream.”

I sit in a chair before the fire and the bejeweled coronet is removed from my hair. Once unpinned, my hair is combed with a wide-toothed ivory comb. Rose-scented cream is smoothed onto my arms and hands. I sit quietly as all of these tasks are performed.

“Here, so you will stop that incessant shivering.” The duchess moves forward and drapes a velvet robe of deep claret over my shoulders. The ladies arrange my hair in a fetching manner, then smile and praise my reflection.

Will this be enough? My eyes meet the duchess’s in the mirror. Jangling with nerves, part of me wants to ask her what I must do, and another part is afraid she may tell me. I’m abashed at my own panic; it’s not as if I’ve never done this before . . . but my secret knowledge gives me no solace. I want to satisfy the king, but fear seeming too practiced, too knowledgeable.

“Do not worry,” the duchess says, squeezing my arm. “Nothing is sweeter to a man than a virgin on her wedding night.”

The other ladies laugh in approval.

Henry sees a virgin when he looks at me. Surely I can transform myself to satisfy his desires? I stare into the mirror and imagine myself a virgin, too. It takes practice and cunning to play a part other than who you are. Court is filled with such people. My nervousness and my cold, trembling hands make my act very convincing.

Tonight I will become new, again. I will become his.

We each enter the bedchamber from separate entrances—a door on each side of the room leads to separate apartments for the king and myself. The ladies escort me over to the bed, which is draped in sheer curtains embroidered with metallic thread that twinkles in the firelight. They remove my robe and usher me into bed. The king enters the chamber; I can see him vaguely through the shimmering veils.

Once I am properly arranged beneath the covers, the ladies bow to the king and depart. When the door is shut behind them, I glance at him cautiously.

He is similarly robed in velvet, with an embroidered linen tunic beneath, poking out of the neckline of his robe. Mere moments ago he was magnificently robed and festooned with jewels and gold. Now he seems more manly, less godly. I have never seen him this way, looking as a man does when he turns to bed. Lacking as he is the embroidered doublet and puffed sleeves and jeweled collar, I think some power has been stripped from his person, as well. Not many people see the king this way, so intimately. It occurs to me all over again how far I’ve come, and how there is no going back, now.

He wants me to be his beloved wife, I remind myself. He wants me to love him. A corded belt is securely cinched around his middle. Is he worried about exposing himself to my eyes? I soften at the thought, for I feel the same way. Perhaps we could both remain covered for the night? No, no, that will not do. I turn and give him a shy smile. He sighs and returns it, warmly.

“My sweet wife,” he says quietly, pushing aside the veil and pulling down the covers of the bed. As he slips into the bed beside me I look away, focusing on the play of light the fire makes upon the ceiling. We are in bed beside each other, and I’m too afraid to turn and look at him. His breathing is heavy, labored.

His arm touches mine, his warm skin burns through the thin silk of my nightdress.

“Catherine.” He leans forward, breathing my name into my neck, his face burrowed in my hair. He pulls me toward him and I’m lying on my back, my body close to his. I think back to the wedding, mere moments ago: like a beautiful pageant with lines I had memorized and didn’t even need to think about to recite. All so remarkably easy. Now this is real, without rehearsal.

Be wary of his legs, Catherine, they cause him pain.
The duchess’s instructions echo in my head, unbidden.
You must distract him from his ailments with his pleasure. Don’t be a prude, Catherine. I refuse to accept prudishness from you now.
These reminders serve only to heighten my panic; I feel as if the duchess is standing over the bed, judging my performance, pointing out what I’m doing wrong.

I alternate between closing my eyes and opening them to watch the light and shadow flicker upon the embroidered canopy. My chest begins to ache; I’ve been holding my breath this whole time.
Breathe, breathe.
I open my eyes—I don’t want to appear as if I’m sleeping, trying to ignore him. His massive hands are warm, searching. I dig my fingers into the bedclothes; lie still, lie still and let it happen. Don’t think about it. Don’t make a sound.

He kisses my neck for a moment and then pulls back to look at my face. He looms over me: a dark shadow in the low light.