The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  He reaches out to rest his hand upon my own. I am smiling, wistful, seated on the royal barge, the green velvet cushions laden with flowers.

  “I only hope that it will please you.” The king smiles.

  “Of course it will please me,” I tell him. It sounds so convincing I nearly believe it myself. Over the king’s great shoulder I see Lambeth receding into the distance as we glide away from the water gate. As the sunlight slants, I see a series of pale faces pressed against the glass of an upper window—the window of the maidens’ chamber. At this distance their faces are blank, expressionless, like ghosts’, but I can feel their eyes on me.

  “Do not turn pale, my dear.” The king laughs. “You are leaving one home but will be provided with many others, far grander than Lambeth. Now the royal residences are your home.”

  “Of course, my lord.” I blink, turning my gaze back to Henry. But even as the barge drifts out into the vast Thames, I feel watched, from beyond, by my past.

  “ I ’M GLAD WE will be married soon,” King Henry tells me. The sun has set upon this day and made for a cool evening; a fire scented with cinnamon and applewood crackles in the hearth. King Henry and I are seated in the main chamber of my apartments. The ladies—my ladies—sit in the adjacent room with several grooms of the king’s chamber, whispering over their card games and embroidery.

  “I look forward to it as well, my lord.”

  I am seated beside him on an embroidered dais, very conscious of our physical closeness. I glance up and spy Lady Rochford, scrutinizing my every movement, my facial expression, the reaction of the king to whatever I say. The king doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he is so accustomed to being watched that it simply fails to register in his mind. The life of a king is a life lived in public.

  I think I see a hand pass before the doorway; the edge of a velvet cape, an elbow encased in satin. Thomas is standing there. I avert my eyes carefully, gazing at the sapphire glittering darkly upon my finger.

  “It rather dwarfs your hand, doesn’t it?” The king laughs, tapping the stone with his own jeweled finger. “Your little fingers will be weighed down by jewels, very soon.”

  “You know well how to delight a young maid, Your Majesty.” The king is staring at me, appraising the soft white flesh exposed above the collar of my gown.

  “I yearn for you, Catherine,” he whispers hoarsely. I look down at my small hand in his great one, not knowing how to react. My eyes flutter, my vision blurs.

  “You must know this,” he persists. “I’ve yearned for you since the moment I first saw you.”

  “I—I didn’t realize.”

  “I’ve flustered you! Don’t be bashful, my dear.” His laugh is a low rumble, unmistakably masculine, suggestive. He rests his fingers delicately upon my shoulder; they radiate heat against my skin.

  “I am glad that I please you, Your Majesty.” I blink, meeting his gaze in a brief flash. “I hope that I will please you.”

  “Do not worry about that.” He strokes my neck and chin lightly. I stare instead at the fire, the bright orange flames flickering in a frantic dance.

  “Our pleasure will wait until the wedding ceremony is complete, Catherine. Do not worry, there will be pleasure for both of us, you will see.” He laughs again and I smile shyly in response, my cheeks burning pink. He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger and gazes into my eyes.

  “I would not threaten your purity, your maidenhood, until we are properly wed.”

  I have never heard such a noble thing as purity discussed in so lascivious a tone.

  “I thank you for this, Your Majesty,” I whisper. I press my newly jeweled hand upon his and shift again upon the dais, my arm brushing against the sleeve of the king’s doublet. My face (a measured expression, a beautifully constructed mask) reveals equal parts nervousness and eager anticipation. I must hide all weakness from my king—except, of course, my weakness for him.

  The king laughs at his own passion. He rests his hand upon my leg, stroking the nap of my gown. His hand is massive; the sight of it upon my knee makes my throat constrict.

  “You are a warm-blooded creature under there, are you not, Catherine Howard?”

  “Of course I am, my lord.” I smile and squeeze his hand warmly.

  The Duke of Norfolk has done well to convince the king of my purity, chastity, devout Catholicism (without being too prim or pious), and delightful attitude. Now I need merely live up to the mythos created about my personality. The king must never know that his wife is half person, half fiction. I wonder if this is how the king must feel—needing to be so many different things, for so many different people. Lucky for me, I suppose I need only please him: as a maiden, as a lover, and as a wife.

  I have only three days to prepare myself.

  VII

  For the wedding ceremony I will wear the royal jewels—last worn by Queen Jane—and a gown of cloth of gold. Lady Rochford and the duchess assist in the final fitting of the gown; its metallic luster is warm and provocative. I feel as if I’ve been dipped in a pool of gold. The double strand of rubies and pearls is cold against my neck, and each time I shift it with my fingertips I feel a certain thrill rippling over my flesh. I stare at myself in the mirror, glittering like a jewel in the candlelight.

  “What a beautiful bride.” Jane pats my cinched waist in approval. “The gold was a wonderful choice, for your skin and your hair.”

  “What a beautiful queen,” the duchess remarks resolutely. “You will wear this gown when you arrive at court, and are presented as queen.”

  “And perhaps for her coronation?”

  “No, a new gown will be made for the coronation—white and silver, perhaps, or purple and silver. Something grander, more regal, with a longer train.” The duchess turns back to me, studying my reflection in the glass. I lift my hand to touch the jewels at my neck again, but she smacks it away.

  “Don’t fidget, Catherine. You must be poised, serene.”

  I stand still. She stares at me.

  “You burn through the room, think of that. You are like a trail of fire in this gown, burning through the room. You must hold yourself properly, holding your head high like a lighted torch.” Her eyes pierce mine. “Walk for me.”

  I turn and walk around the chamber, practicing how to hold my head, how to move gracefully, the gown sparkling around me. But my mind is full of the other words the duchess shared with me, in private: Burn your past, burn your life . . . And here I am, walking the length of the royal apartments—my apartments—dressed like a flame.

  “Lift your chin, Catherine. Now try a small smile—nothing too garish.”

  Now that I am to be put on display as the king’s new bride, there are so many things about myself, my past, and my fears that I must conceal. All weakness must be hidden far beneath the surface, and the surface must be tailored to fit the demands of the moment. I will be tailored, time and again, like a gown of satin or velvet or silk.

  “That’s enough,” the duchess pronounces. “You must bathe tonight, Catherine, and then get to sleep. We’ll not have you looking weary on your wedding day.”

  I submit to their aggressive attentions as they unlace me from the delicate gown and strip me of my silk underclothes. Naked, I move closer to the fire for warmth. The duchess considers me for a moment, as if to calculate how pleased Henry will be with the body of his new bride. I lift my arms across my chest and lower my head, discomfited at the sight of my own bare legs, the minnow-shaped birthmark on my upper thigh. I worry that my secrets can be seen, a confession written in fingerprints upon my flesh.

  “In you go.” The duchess urges me into the tub as Lady Rochford pours in more water from the kettle warmed in the hearth.

  “It’s hot.”

  “It has to be hot.” Lady Rochford attacks my hair with soap and brush while the duchess inspects my fingernails. Once they are done, I am dressed in a silk nightgown, and my hair is carefully combed.

  “Jane will stay here with you,”
the duchess tells me as I pull up the covers. “She will be readying for bed shortly. Now you must sleep.”

  “Yes, Duchess.”

  When I’m sure they are gone, I slip out from the covers. I open my oak chest and pull out the small wooden jewelry box. Jane was satisfied with the papers she watched me burn those nights ago at Lambeth, but she does not know what I know. The false bottom of the box conceals yet more letters and trinkets beneath—even more precious than those already fed to the flames. Still I know that Jane is right, I cannot keep them. Every night I intended to do away with them as soon as I had a moment alone, but I’ve been too exhausted to contemplate the endeavor. In weary moments I have entertained the notion of saving a letter or two . . . but no, it is too dangerous. And I had best take care of it now. I pull the letters from the box and sit upon the floor, before the fire.

  I was so young then, so young and so foolish. I shake my head over some old pages of music written for me in the flowing script of Henry Manox. The duchess appointed Manox as my music tutor, to teach me the lute and the virginals during my second summer at her residence in Horsham. I can laugh at these relics now: a page of composition, a scrawled letter requesting a private meeting in the chapel at midnight, another professing his undying affections. Manox’s words, and later his kiss, sent me spiraling into the blissful dreams of a child playing at love. But it was a kiss, only—I never indulged his begging for more. He was merely a servant, after all. When he dared boast that he might have my hand in marriage, he was reprimanded by the duchess’s chamber woman, Mary Lassells, who reminded him of his place in this world—it was not in the bed of a Howard daughter. She was right, and I was thankful for the affair to be over.

  This note bears a sharp, jagged scrawl—Francis Dereham’s hand—the sight of which makes me cringe. Here are some tokens he bestowed upon me, in our time together: a dried flower, a handkerchief embroidered with a friar’s knot. At twelve years old I moved with the duchess to Lambeth, and was eager to be as sophisticated as the other ladies who shared the maidens’ chamber. Joan, Lisbeth, Dorothy, Katherine, and Malyn held revelries there at midnight, sneaking in their suitors and feasting upon strawberries and wine. Here is a bit of leftover ribbon, once used to embellish my white linen nightgown; I rub it between my fingers.

  Francis, a fair young man with pale blue eyes, attended these secret parties. He drew me into the circle of candlelight and lavished attention on me. He called me his love, his wife—no one had ever been so tender with me before. He promised to marry me, to protect and care for me, but I worried that the duchess would not approve. Francis assured me that the choice was ours: we were already married, he said. Saying the words made it true. Words are powerful in that way—and actions even more so.

  The thought of it all gives me a chill; I generally avoid any thought of Francis. It was not an uncommon thing—the other ladies had companions in their own beds. But that does not make it a wise thing, as I’ve now learned. He was not a fit suitor for me, being poor both in money and stature. A Howard daughter is destined to have a good marriage arranged by her family, and she had best maintain her purity to attract the most worthy suitors. I was too busy basking in Francis’s affection to consider what I was risking. It all seemed a delightful game: calling each other husband and wife and acting out our roles on my straw-stuffed mattress. Perhaps Francis sought to gain a better place in the world by staking a claim to me, but it was not my decision to make. He departed on a business venture overseas, and soon after that I was secured a place at court and our relationship—as far as I was concerned—was over. I have not seen or spoken to him since he left. The past is over and done, and I’m glad to be rid of it.

  I thrust the ribbon into the flames. One by one the letters and tokens are tossed into the hearth; the fire snatches them up hungrily. I feel a sense of relief as I watch the pages curl and blacken. I am becoming a real woman, watching the dreams of my childhood turn to cinders and ash.

  But there is one stack of letters left, each one folded into a small, careful square. This was how Thomas and I communicated, soon after my arrival at court: while walking by me in the hall, or exiting the chapel after Mass, he would swiftly pass a note from his palm into my own. These were the days before a sapphire necklace was ever clasped around my neck, when my heart was still my own.

  I pull the ribbon fondly, trying to laugh at myself. How young, how innocent I was . . . though it was all mere months ago, and the thought of my loss is still raw. Thomas is a groom in the king’s privy chamber, with an illustrious career ahead of him. Upon my arrival, he was already well known at court as a favorite of the king. No doubt our families would have approved . . . But it doesn’t matter anymore, it can’t matter. Since then my entire world has changed: few things can send such tremors through a person’s life as being loved by a king. Scanning over the lines of text, my eyes begin to blur.

  My dearest Catherine, how I so long to hold you close to my heart and call you my only love . . .

  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.

  VIII

  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.”