The King's Rose (7 page)

“You were made for me. I was sure of it from the moment I saw you, dancing in that pale blue gown.”

“You knew, even then?” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“Of course I knew!” He laughs. “With your beauty, your grace. You are exactly what I yearn for. I could not have made you more tempting had I imagined you myself.”

He leans forward and kisses me upon the mouth—our first private kiss. I close my eyes and allow the kiss to happen: I am warm, yielding. I was made for him, as if I had been magically put together, an assemblage of parts, like a doll, purely for the pleasure of the king.

As he kisses my neck I can’t help but watch, distantly fascinated, as his massive hand covers my breast. A dark ruby upon the king’s thumb glints in the light of the fire; it’s a large stone, dusty at its core like an eye filmed with age. I know the story of this ring: it was acquired from Becket’s tomb, when Henry had the saint’s remains exhumed and destroyed, to rid England’s church of idolatry. I shiver at the awesome power of this king, at the sight of his hand, with this ancient ring upon it, stroking my own soft breast. I feel exposed suddenly, vulnerable. I only hope that his powerful touch will protect me.

Protect me? Protect me from what? From the king?
I fear him.
I hadn’t realized it before now. I hadn’t been so close to him, so alone with him to know that I fear him. But I do. And it’s too late, now.
Too late, too late.
But perhaps it was too late from the very beginning, from the day he first saw me, first chose me. He has chosen me, above all others. He has chosen me.

His kisses become more insistent and he leans forward, covering my body with his. His weight isn’t as oppressive as I feared, upon the high soft bed, but still my breath strains, my heart races. And my hair is beneath his elbow—pulling—oh, then he pulls again, even harder, trying to free us from the entanglement—

“Your Majesty!”

“Catherine!” he cries, brushing my hair gently from my neck and laughing warmly. “You may call me Henry, now.”

“King Henry?”

“No, dear, just Henry. In public you must use a formal greeting. But alone, in private . . . and we are in private . . .”

“Henry,”
I say, my breath whistling by his ear.

He lifts the silk nightgown slowly, by its hem, until I slip from it completely. I lie on the bed naked before him, his hands covering me. I close my eyes. I cannot dare open them. I am so afraid. But I know, just from his touch, what he wants.

As he finally claims me, his breathing turns even more labored. In a few moments he grunts, his limbs rigid. Then he collapses with a great sigh in my ear.

It is over, already. Instead of feeling relieved, I am horrified. This was what he wanted, this was what he desired, to have me in his bed. And that was it? Will that be enough for him? I lie motionless as he pulls away from me, rolling onto his back. Is something wrong with me? Something he hadn’t expected? Could he detect, somehow, that which I am most desperate to hide?
The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him.
I cannot think of it; I can not think that I’ve failed already. What will become of me if I have?

He lies beside me, quiet for a long while. I think he’s fallen asleep when he rolls over and reaches for his robe. I turn and dare to look at him. His back is curved forward, his shoulders drooping.

“It has been a long day,” he pronounces. His voice is weary, cracked. Is he disappointed? Embarrassed? The mere thought of it horrifies me.
What did I do wrong?

“You don’t need to leave,” I tell him. I rest my hand in the middle of his broad back. “If you don’t want to.”

“Do you wish me to stay?”

“Yes.”
Yes, please, please stay.
I press my cool palm against his warm flesh. I can’t be left here alone with thoughts of the king’s disappointment. I have to fix things, I have to make things right.

“Yes,” he agrees, “I shall stay.” He slides back beneath the sheets. This time I move close to him, pressing my breasts against his arm.

“I hope that you will be patient with your little wife,” I tell him, eyes cast down, embarrassed. I am embarrassed, bashful, virginal. “I suppose I do not yet know how—or what—to do. To please you.”

“My sweet wife.” He sighs.

“I want to please you, my king. My Henry.” I rest my cheek upon his shoulder. “I’m afraid it may take me a while to learn how.”

He laughs at this, patting my hand playfully. That’s right. This is my embarrassment, not his. Not his.

“Do not worry, my dear. You have done well already.”

I lift my head and kiss him on the cheek. He laughs again and presses my hand to his lips.

“My sweet, sweet wife,” he murmurs. “I love you, Catherine.”

“I love you, Henry.” My voice is quiet, but it does not tremble. I lie perfectly still, with eyes wide open in the dark. The king falls asleep, and I listen to the thick rattle of his breath. My guilt makes no sound as it settles deep within me, sinking in its claws.

The king is in love with me. But who am I? Who is this girl that the Howards created out of their words, to whom the king has given his love? I am King Henry’s sweet wife—Catherine Howard, no more. I wonder if God can see me now, see the treason in my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing these thoughts from my mind. I am a player upon a stage, even when the stage is a bed, even in an intimate moment such as this, with no costume or mask to cover my nakedness. I must play my part well,
especially
in an intimate moment such as this. I must become my role, and nothing else.

It seems that my wedding day—a day of triumph for the Howards—was not joyous for all. I’ve just learned that yesterday was also the day of Cromwell’s execution. Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s chief adviser.

“Do not feel sorry for Cromwell, my dear.” The duchess shakes her head as she pulls a comb through my hair. “He was condemned for pushing the marriage between Henry and that Lutheran German, and rightly so. He would have made the Church of England a Lutheran church, if he had his way.”

The duchess puts down the comb and pulls a new hood of pale pink silk over my head—both hood and gown are new. She stands before me and arranges my hair carefully over my shoulder.

“Now we have more important things to talk about.”

From the way her eyes flash at me, critically, I know what she means. Suddenly I would rather talk about Cromwell. My face and neck blush scarlet.

“How did the king enjoy his new bride?”

“Very well,” I whisper. “I think, very well.”

Her eyes narrow at mine as she adjusts my hood, and I blandly return her stare.

“I was nervous,” I tell her, “and shy. He liked it.” This I can be sure of: I was awoken this morning with the persistence of Henry’s kisses. In spite of my qualms, the wedding night was undeniably a success in Henry’s mind.

“Good.” She smiles. “He is besotted with you. You must be besotted with him. You must be welcoming, flirtatious.”

“Yes, Duchess.” I sigh. There is always a never-ending list of things I must be.

“Make sure he visits your bed every night, Catherine. It is imperative. You must charm him, you must desire him. Do you understand?”

I do understand, for this is why he chose me: to feel desired and adored by a young woman, to convince him that he is not old. To his court, King Henry is a powerful monarch, stalwart and sturdy, draped in magnificent jewels. Now I’ve glimpsed the old man hiding beneath the robes of state, and I know more than is safe to know about a king, let alone to put into words. But it makes me soften toward him, in spite of my fears. A youthful bride is exactly what he needs—
I
am exactly what he needs. I must protect him; we must protect each other.

 

MY CHAMBERS ARE CROWDED:
at least twenty maids are here, buzzing around me in the candlelit darkness, pinning my hair and tying my sleeves and adjusting the farthingale hoop beneath my skirt. I stand still and watch it in the mirror, like a beautiful tableau.

“Oh, Catherine!” The ladies sigh over the layers of rich black lace and cloth of gold. “How exquisite!”

Exquisite, indeed: just last fall I was relegated to the thinnest of cushions and the farthest seat from the fire. Now I’m installed in the queen’s chambers at Oatlands Palace, last decorated for Jane Seymour, who did not live to occupy them.

“How wonderful it is to have a young, beautiful English queen!” Lady Browne exclaims. When I was nothing more than a lady-in-waiting, she chastised me for poor embroidery and lackluster manners. Now she smiles proudly upon me.

“Not only an English queen—a
Catholic
queen. It is just what England, and the crown, needs more than ever,” Lady Rochford remarks. Even Jane’s usually sober expression has softened tonight, relaxed with wine and revelry.

“It’s time, everyone! Are we all ready?” Lady Edgecombe announces. “It’s time!”

We rush down the torchlit hall, dozens of velvet shoes tapping upon the flagstones, skirts of lace and silk rustling like waves breaking upon the shore. I’m so excited I can’t help giggling, and my laughter is echoed, rippling through the ladies around me, magnified. The light of the torches streams by us in streaks of gold.

“Get in line, everyone, find your place!” I call over the crowd; they all fall silent at the sound of my voice. I snap open my fan, too excited to stand still; the gold lace fan sparkles by the light of the torches. “We have to wait for our cue.”

I listen closely to the music emanating from the great hall—yes, there it is!—a high wooden reed plays a dazzling trill. We enter the hall in formation, and the assembled crowd sighs at the sight of us. The hall is golden and sparkling, strung with garlands of red roses, smelling of a balmy summer night.

The ladies and I begin our stately pavane, but at the rapid beat of the tabors, the marauders come out from hiding: all of the king’s grooms descend, dressed in black masks and sweeping black capes, scattering us from the dance floor. The crowd roars with laughter, shouting at the spectacle.

This is my moment: I am pursued by five grooms, all waving comically stubby wooden swords, like drunken pirates. They urge me toward the castle—constructed from lengths of red velvet and white satin draped over a wooden frame—standing at the end of the hall. I hurry up the stairs at the back and stand in the topmost tower window. The crowd turns to see me there, glittering in gold, waving an enormous white silk handkerchief as a sign of my distress.

“Save the queen!” the crowd shouts, amidst applause. “God save the queen!”

Now the king arrives—dressed in black silk and cloth of silver, looking like an armored knight—and the crowd erupts with cheering. It has been many years since the king has participated in a masque.
Anything for you, my fair bride,
he told me. Henry does not break a smile, ever the proud knight. He moves forward into the crowd of kidnappers and dispatches them with a few graceful thrusts of his silver sword. Once the last groom falls limp at his feet, Henry overtakes the castle itself, emerging through the red curtain with me in his arms. The crowd, including my ladies, cheer loudly enough to drown out the music.

As planned, the scene concludes with a dance. The king spins across the floor with me in his arms. I feel the tips of my toes clearing the floor as he lifts me into the air. He laughs joyously at the smile on my face.

“You’ve saved me!” I whisper in the king’s ear, breathless. “Like a true hero.”

“No, my dear,” he whispers, smiling. “You have saved me.”

 

THESE DAYS IN SURREY
have been an endless round of hunting expeditions, archery, outdoor games, and elaborate masques to celebrate our nuptials. The king was an athlete of unparalleled skill and vigor in his youth, so I’ve heard. Though he has aged, I can now see a glimpse of that nature revealed. Henry is a new man, invigorated, and each day ends in the revelry of the night: Henry and I lying atop the massive royal bed with its dark wood and mother-of-pearl inlay.

“Are you enjoying your marriage thus far, my wife?” he asks, his face nestled close to my ear.

“Yes, of course I am, my husband.” I giggle at this, in that way that charms and amuses him. “And I can’t wait to see Hampton, and all the rest of the court.”

My marriage to the king is still a secret, even from the king’s Privy Council, though I imagine rumors have long been rampant in London. Tomorrow, after ten days of honeymooning here in Surrey, we will journey to Hampton Court, where Henry will present me to the full court as his queen.

“Ah, yes, Hampton.” Henry lets out a long sigh. “I will rather miss our summer retreat. This season is best spent in the country. It is quiet, secluded. Court is full of eyes and ears,” he murmurs ominously. The fear must be evident on my face, for he laughs aloud and wraps his arms around me.

“Do not look so frightened! I will protect you, Catherine. Do not worry.”

“I need not worry,” I tell him, my arms encircling his neck, “as long as I have you to protect me.”

“My sweet wife.” He sighs, holding me tighter.

“Henry,”
I whisper in his ear. “I like saying your name, when we are alone.”

I am becoming accustomed to this: the two of us together, alone in the royal bedchamber. I feel safe now in Henry’s arms, protected by his love and affection. With the king’s arms around me, I have nothing—not even the eyes of the court—to fear.

Hampton Court spreads out before me, resplendent, beneath a pure blue sky. The glorious red-brick façade shines golden red in the sunshine.

Upon our entrance, courtiers drop to their knees in obeisance. Whispers, like the rustling of a hundred crows’ wings, follow in the wake of my every step as I’m escorted to the queen’s apartments: a presence chamber, a drawing room, and finally my bedchamber, where the tall windows reveal a view of the royal gardens, riotous with color. All of the ladies of my new household—too many to count—hover around me, kiss my hand, and pledge their oath of service. I relish the sight of Lady Ashley, bent in dutiful reverence before me. But I’m sure their whispers will rise and fall as soon as I depart. I was once a maid in the queen’s chambers, I know what it is like. What they don’t know about me their whispers will invent.