The King's Rose (8 page)

The king arrives to escort me to the royal pew in the Chapel Royal, for Mass. The chapel is flooded with multicolored sunlight from the stained-glass windows, lighting the curved vaults of the gilded ceiling. Looking down upon the upturned faces of the assembled court, I imagine I see varying degrees of shock and admiration rippling over their expressions as they gaze upon their new queen.

I’ve done it,
I think, triumphantly, the choir of male voices rising as Mass begins.
They can all see that I’ve done it. I’ve won the heart of the king.

A HOST OF SILVER TRUMPETS
blares a fanfare as Henry and I enter the great hall; the sound shimmers in the air before us. There are hundreds of people here—the entire court is assembled for a banquet in my honor. The king leads me to the front of the hall, where we are seated side by side beneath the cloth of state: a crimson velvet canopy embroidered with a Tudor rose. All the grandeur makes me think about my coronation. How will it feel when the crown is set upon my head?

We are presented with platters of venison, beef, roast swan, salt cod. The peacock royal is roasted and its skin then reapplied, so that it appears the bird is merely squatting upon the platter, alert, his jewel-bright tail feathers spread in a fan behind him. Even the loaf of bread brought to us is elegantly wrapped in bright orange silk. And for dessert: a marchpane mold of our entwined initials—
H&C
—painted in gold leaf.

My eyes wander around the great hall, taking in the high stained-glass windows, the carved ceiling painted in blue, green, red, and gold.

“It is the story of Abraham,” the king tells me, motioning to the elaborate set of tapestries lining the walls. “I had it commissioned.” Scenes of the biblical tale are depicted in vivid color. In the tapestry closest to us, Abraham gazes at his infant son.

“They are breathtaking, my lord.” But it is more than that; I can see why Henry identifies with Abraham, who was also in dire need of a son and heir.

“As breathtaking as the gooseberry tarts?” The king laughs, urging another tart onto my plate and putting his arm around me.

“You know well how to keep your wife happy.” I bite carefully into the tart, chewing in rapture. What he doesn’t know is how long I went without such indulgences.

“Indeed, I do—what pleases my wife pleases me the more.”

At the wave of Henry’s jeweled hand a huge assembly of musicians and acrobats comes forward to entertain us with their antics. I clap my hands in delight over the proceedings, and Henry laughs all the more for my enjoyment. He pulls me close to him, stroking my cheek lovingly with his jeweled hand. The eyes of the court are upon us, appraising the king’s love for his new wife. The cold stones, ruby and emerald, brush against my skin, sending a rush of relief and triumph through my body. There is no one to ignore me now.

Gazing upon the crowd in the great hall, I’m distracted by a pair of dark eyes, watching me. Thomas stands in the corner, his eyes lit by the flickering candles. When he catches my gaze, he does not look away.

The night flowers are blooming, you should see them,
he said, the first time we spoke. I had often noticed him standing in the corner, watching me; he was never one to join in the dance. He was different from the other lords—reserved, even a bit solemn. But there was something so earnest in the way he spoke, the way he looked at me, as if he were laying his feelings bare upon his face.
The garden is most beautiful at night.
I remember the low timbre of his voice, the warmth of his lean, long-fingered hand.

His dark eyes smolder; my flesh turns warm. I look back to the fools and minstrels before us, eager for distraction. I smile, gently: the measured, noble expression of a queen.

 

I H AV E MORE
than seventy attendants of various ranks and positions ready to do my bidding, though I can never be quite certain what all of their roles involve: the lord chamberlain, the master of the horse, chaplains, waiters, ushers, maids. The maids are responsible for the considerable task of dressing me each morning: arranging the farthingale hoop around my waist and tying my sleeves in place. There is even a cupbearer, whose task is to keep full my goblet of wine. From the outside looking in, one would think I had nothing with which to concern myself.

Nearest to me I always keep Lady Rochford, who is adept at court etiquette and the proper behavior of a queen. Our heads are often bowed close together, her mouth demurely hidden behind a lace fan. She constantly counsels me on how to address the various members of court, how to act at public occasions, even how to speak to my royal husband. I’ve come to dread the anxious fluttering of her fan, knowing that it signals some obscure impropriety.

Only in my own chambers, in the company of my ladies, can I find some peace. I spin into the room in my new gown: bold blue silk with long, drooping sleeves.

“How beautiful, my queen!” Lady Ashley, Lady Christina rush forward, quick to lavish praise on me. The duchess walks forward to inspect me, her steely eyes running efficiently from my copper hair to my velvet-shod feet.

“It’s rather French, isn’t it?” she comments, perhaps a bit warily.

“Say what you will.” I turn to the mirror to inspect myself. “The French fashions are by far the most becoming, and I’m sure the king is appreciative.”

“We can all see that is true,” the duchess remarks with a prim smile.

“Look,” I urge, thrusting my sleeves before her, “this bears the new trim.”

The duchess takes my arm in hers, and her face instantly brightens. My motto has been embroidered in gold thread around the sleeves of the gown:
Non aultre volonté que la sienne.
No other will but his.

“Well done,” she says. “I am sure the king approves.” Her eyes communicate more than she dares say aloud, that it is reminiscent of Jane Seymour’s motto, “bound to obey and serve.” I have followed the duchess’s advice to use Jane as a model. That is, in all ways except for my wardrobe: the sleek French hood is simply far more elegant than the traditional boxy English headdress the late queen preferred.

For my royal emblem I have chosen a red rose, encircled by a gold crown. It is a symbol of my royalty, and an allusion to my impending coronation. All of court has heard the king call me his “rose without a thorn.” This symbol is being painted onto stained-glass windows, entwined with our initials. Designs have been rendered for a set of elaborate jewels: rubies to represent the petals of the rose, and a gold wire twisted into a crown set with diamonds.

“In all my years I’ve never seen our king act quite this way,” Lady Edgecombe remarks, her eyes lowered to the embroidery in her lap. “Not with his other queens.”

“He certainly loves nothing more than to indulge his young bride,” Jane adds. “I think it quite romantic.”

And I think it quite necessary. What better way than these gowns, these jewels, these newly decorated apartments, to put Henry’s love for me on display? To convince all of court of the validity of their new queen?

“Still, perhaps it would be wise not to take such advantage of his majesty’s generous affection,” Lady Edgecombe remarks, “or else the coffers will soon run dry.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you would act with such prudence were you in my position, Lady Edgecombe.” My cheeks burn at her insolence; I am queen, why should I refuse any gift offered by my generous, loving husband?

“I beg your pardon, my queen,” she mutters begrudgingly, and returns to her embroidery.

“I have new samples for you, Your Grace,” Mistress Elle announces, lumbering into the room, arms laden with bolts of cloth. “Bright colors, straight from the palace gardens, just as you requested.” I follow her to the window seat to inspect the rose pink, crimson, and saffron silk. Mistress Elle holds a length of yellow silk beneath my chin.

“It is the color of summer,” she comments.

When I turn to look in the mirror I’m struck by a sudden memory: stories of Anne Boleyn enchanting the king by dancing in a bright yellow gown. I pale at the sight of my face. I am the best loved of all of Henry’s wives—everyone says that he indulges me far more than any of the others. Why will their memories not leave me in peace?

“The king will find you quite lovely in this, I’m certain,” Mistress Elle adds. Do I detect a hint of a sinister smile on her face? The king found Anne Boleyn quite lovely in yellow silk, with her long, flowing black hair. I am eager to reprimand her, but cannot think what to reprimand her for.

“It is a weak color,” I remark in disapproval. Lady Edgecombe looks up from her embroidery; usually I like everything I see, and want a gown made in every color, every fabric. “I prefer a richer shade, like the crimson.”

“Of course, my queen.” Mistress Elle nods obediently, no glimmer of mockery visible on her face. Had it been there, or have I imagined it?

At Hampton, Henry is often sequestered with his advisers, clerks, and members of his Privy Council. I spend the daylight hours entertaining myself with plans for my wardrobe, or redecorating my chambers, or taking walks in the company of my ladies around Hampton’s lush gardens and beautiful courtyard. Today it is too hot for a walk outdoors. We wander the vast stone hallways, admiring the large, brilliant tapestries depicting gods and heroes of ancient myths. There are times I miss my solitary rides, or the private lute playing I enjoyed as a lady-in-waiting, tucked away in the royal gardens. Now I may do whatever I please, but never alone.

My footfalls echoing along these halls, I think of the yellow silk. I’m well aware that Queen Anne adored Hampton and spent much time here. It had been Cardinal Wolsey’s palace, and the king gifted it to Anne upon the cardinal’s death. I pass beneath a twined
H&A
carved into the gateway of Hampton, feeling for a moment that her ghost watches me from overhead. But I try my best to banish these unpleasant thoughts, for Hampton is a beautiful place and I cannot help but love it here.

“What is down this hallway?” I ask the others. A dim gallery stretches before us, lined with portraits. I press on into the darkness, as if heedless of lingering ghosts.

One particular portrait gives me pause. With a flutter of my hand, a servant rushes to light some candles from the flames of a nearby fire. As a torch sputters forth in flame, a faint gasp of recognition ripples through the ladies as the portrait is revealed. It is the Golden Prince—my Henry when he was first crowned king, when he was but a few years older than I am now. He stands tall and slim and strapping, an image of youth and vitality. But I instantly recognize the bright blue eyes, the curved pink mouth, the red-gold hair the same color as the wisps upon my lord’s head.
Is this my husband?
Perhaps. More accurately, this was Katherine of Aragon’s husband, the young king the Spanish princess married so many years ago.

“He was the most beautiful prince a country could hope for,” the duchess had told me about the young King Henry, her voice uncomfortably wistful. “He was a strapping athlete, with the heart of a poet.” Her eyes had turned glassy, staring off over my shoulder. “Think of that when you look at him, Catherine. That is what he wants you to see.” And now I’m gazing at the eyes of the Golden Prince himself: just as handsome as the duchess had described, in that first blush of youth and power.

We stand here quietly for a moment, all of us silently appraising the form of the Golden Prince. When I turn and continue down the dim gallery, I feel those bold blue eyes watching me pass. Now I have one more ghost following me down these halls: the ghost of the beautiful prince my aging king once was.

THE SUMMER HEAT increases, the air torpid and thick. The king has been busy during the day and night with official matters of state, so I am told. My days are spent in the company of my ladies, wandering the palace gardens where the royal gardener’s creations—a roaring lion’s head carved from a bush of red roses—have begun to wilt in the glaring sun. We find solace from the heat in my chambers, spending hours on embroidering altar cloths and other subdued tasks. But by the evening I’m restless, ready for the celebratory banquet, my legs prickling with the need to dance.

It isn’t until I’m seated beside the king that I notice how weary he seems. Not the same rejuvenated Henry riding at the head of the pack during our honeymoon in Surrey, this Henry is breathing heavily. And something else: his left leg has been tightly bound beneath his hose, the foot elevated upon a pile of cushions. I note this out of the corner of my eye, but do my best not to acknowledge it directly. His face seems older than it did just days ago, sagging in the heat. The face of the Golden Prince rushes back to me, unbidden. I am relieved by the antics of the fool, here to distract us from the discomfort of an oppressive summer evening.

When the dancing begins, the king nudges me.

“Go on, Catherine,” he urges me. “Join in the dance. Show them the way it should best be done.”

“Not tonight.” I shake my head and take another sweetmeat. “I would rather stay here beside you, my lord.”

“Oh, come now.” He sighs. “You know how I like to watch you. Look.” He gestures over to a corner of the hall where his grooms stand around, sipping ale and watching the ladies dance. I flutter my eyes over them only briefly, cautiously.

“Take Culpeper over there, your cousin, see?”

I look over at Thomas, though every part of me wants to resist. He looks very handsome standing there, smiling.

“He never dances, your cousin. I think he doesn’t know how. Too clumsy on those long legs of his.” Henry tilts his head back and laughs.

I prefer watching you.
Thomas’s voice echoes in my ear. Then he had pressed my fingers to his full, soft lips.

“You should show him how,” the king says.

I open my mouth to protest, but Henry waves his hand in a swift swirl in the air over his head. Thomas sees the motion and immediately walks to the king’s side and bows; he does not look in my direction at all.