The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  There it is—the tap on the door. Malyn responds, ushering the young men in—Francis among them. Wine is poured, a bowl of strawberries set upon Dorothy’s bed.

  In the midst of the laughter, Lisbeth starts singing. She is seated upon her bed, the firelight behind her bright upon her golden spiral curls. Joan and Malyn begin to dance, their nightgowns whipping briskly around their exposed ankles, the linen thin with the firelight shining behind them. The men applaud their efforts, lifting their goblets of wine in a toast.

  “It’s your turn, Catherine,” Lisbeth says, smiling. “Francis is here to dance with you.”

  All eyes turn to look at me, and I look down at myself. I’m not dressed in a white nightgown. I’m dressed in the gown of gold I wore on my wedding day, the royal jewels around my neck.

  “No,” I tell her, “I can’t. I don’t belong here.”

  “Of course you do, Catherine.” Lisbeth smiles. A young man sits behind her on the bed; he wraps his arms around her and kisses her upon the neck. She closes her eyes and begins her song, again.

  “This is exactly where you belong, Catherine.” Suddenly Francis is beside me, pulling me close to him. “You are my wife, after all. We are already married.” He is pulling me over to the corner bed, the bed that we shared. I am fighting him, and all the other ladies are laughing.

  I wake with a gasp. The room is dark: my chamber, in my royal apartments. It is late at night, a fire roaring in the hearth before me.

  “Are you all right, my queen?” the ladies murmur. “You fell asleep.”

  “I am fine,” I tell them, breathing deeply. “It was only a dream.”

  “Of course it was only a dream. You are safe here.” A lady rests her hand upon mine and urges me to lean back upon the cushioned chair. I look up and meet her eyes: it is Lisbeth, smiling at me.

  Now I remember. Yes, of course, I remember. They are here, already. The ladies of Lambeth are all here. I try to keep my expression clear, unaffected.

  “Here,” Lisbeth says, patting my hand, “this will calm you.”

  She closes her eyes and begins to sing. The song of the maidens’ chamber. The song of my past. The other ladies smile, their eyes glossy in the low light.

  IN THE KING’S ABSENCE, the circles of intimacy in my household have simultaneously grown in size and constricted tighter around me. The outer ring includes my older sister, content to work on her embroidery and not particularly interested in the game of court life going on right under her nose. In addition to Isabel are the others appointed to their posts by outside forces, including the pretty Mary Seymour, to whom I have been outwardly kind and generous, though I am careful to keep her hidden behind taller women when we walk, and choose dances that she struggles to master. The next, smaller circle consists of the senior matrons long acquainted with service in the queen’s chamber—to a variety of different queens—who keep strict control over the younger maids.

  The innermost circle, the maids of my privy chamber, now consists of the ladies of Lambeth, as well as my maid of honor, Lady Rochford. Joan, Lisbeth, Dorothy, Katherine, and Malyn smile at me sweetly and sometimes—I imagine—a bit knowingly, as if over an amusing secret. We link our arms on walks in the galleries and halls. They dine with me in my presence chamber, and perform the prettiest dances when the meal is done and the chamber is lit with candles.

  Jane sleeps in my chamber with me, and the others sleep in the two adjoining rooms. These are the first faces I see in the morning, the first to know if I am feeling well or ill. I sit in a chair as they flutter around me, putting rings on my fingers and arranging my hair, tightening my corset stays until I can barely breathe. They accompany me to Mass. They are the first to tend to my needs and also the first to receive my gratitude, most often in the form of gifts. They will bathe and perfume me in preparation for my nights with the king, and will be the first to know if my blood has arrived, or if the sheets upon my bed require changing. They will be the first to know if I sleep alone at night, or if I sleep at all. Wherever I walk, they follow in a sumptuously dressed, obedient flock, like the feathers of a peacock’s tail, sometimes crowding in a neat crescent behind me when I linger before a painting in the hall, other times at a safe distance as I talk to the Duke of Norfolk, to offer the illusion of privacy. But this is certainly an illusion; just because they do not speak does not render them incapable of hearing.

  “You surround yourself with mere children, Your Grace, you must know that,” Lady Edgecombe informs me. “If not for Lady Rochford, I know not how this household would run.”

  “They are not children,” I inform her, carefully. “Just yesterday you praised Mistress Lisbeth for her dancing, and Mistress Malyn for her embroidery.”

  “They are inexperienced in the ways of court, and I fear will be of little help to you.”

  “They are a comfort to me,” I answer her, and smile. And she believes me. We all play our roles very convincingly.

  “I REGRET TO INFORM YOU, Your Majesty,” Lisbeth intones, her bright green eyes fixated on her reflection in the mirror as she arranges her golden curls, “but I’m afraid your household is dreadfully dull.”

  “Lisbeth! Watch yourself,” Joan reprimands, but I know better than to act a haughty queen to Lisbeth.

  “Does a life of luxurious propriety not suit you?” I inquire.

  “No, and I don’t think it suits you either. Embroidering altar cloths, Catherine? Are you Queen Jane, all of a sudden?”

  Her words sting me.

  “Oh, don’t be so cruel to her, Lisbeth. Show some respect to your queen!” Katherine cajoles, but it is partly in mockery—whether of Lisbeth or of me, I cannot decipher.

  “You cannot tell me that you admire the prim, pious, permissive perfection of the jewel of the Seymour clan?”

  “It’s certainly not the fun that Anne had at court,” Dorothy adds, her voice low. At this remark, their eyes dart toward one another, wary smiles playing at the corners of their mouths, eager for my reaction.

  “I think it best not to partake in the type of fun Anne had at court, for it was all short lived,” I say, my voice an imitation of the duchess’s stern tone. But I soften it with my own smile. “Still, your comments are duly noted.”

  The ghosts of my past are now flesh and blood in my privy chamber, holding my hand and plaiting my hair and turning the coverlets down on my bed. How does one please a ghost? How does one keep the past from haunting the present?

  TO THE DELIGHT of the newest members of my household, I hold a Saint Valentine’s celebration in my presence chamber. I invite a host of musicians, and the ladies practice their newest dances before an audience of young male courtiers. The unwed ladies write their names on billets; with eyes closed, the young lords draw the name of their partner for the evening, pinning her name to their sleeves. The night is spent dancing in pairs, drinking wine in the secluded darkness of the chamber. The candlelight flickers; the woven faces of lords and ladies peer from the tapestries, spying on the unfolding scene.

  I would never have dared to indulge in such an event in the king’s presence, but the happiness of my ladies is integral to me, now. They know too much about me. I need to know what makes them content in order to ensure their loyalty. At the very least, I can remove myself from the flirtation and play the serene monarch, surveying all assembled. Luckily, there is no one here to tempt me otherwise—he has accompanied the king, a dutiful servant.

  I know well what makes these ladies happy: they flirt candidly with young lords, and then challenge one another to execute the most difficult new dances before an enraptured audience. The courtiers are clearly enthralled by these new additions to my household, and enthusiastically applaud their efforts. I prefer to stay seated, denying my feet their urge to join in the dance. In spite of the fine music and noble company, the entire evening strikes me as frighteningly, obscenely reminiscent of our late-night parties in the maidens’ chamber.

  “A lovely turn, lovely!” the lords cry at th
e end of their performance.

  “Our queen is most gracious, to prepare such an entertainment for her household.” A young courtier bows reverently before me.

  “Our queen loves nothing more than to be entertained,” Lady Edgecombe remarks, her eyes cast down to her embroidery. She clearly does not approve of my inviting male courtiers to my chamber, but what could possibly happen with her, and other senior ladies of the household, present? “I suppose you would only approve if I spent my days and nights stitching shirts for the poor,” I comment. “But why must I devote my time to such things if I have a lady such as you to do it for me?”

  The ladies of Lambeth laugh loudest at this; Lady Edgecombe purses her lips.

  “Our Queen Catherine is a romantic, a dreamer,” pronounces another of my pretended swains, “and I have just the gift for her:

  “ ‘The flaming sighs that boil within my breast,

  Sometime break forth, and they can well declare

  The heart’s unrest, and how that it doth fare,

  The pain thereof, the grief, and all the rest.’ ”

  “Oh, how beautiful. Did you write that?”

  “I am afraid I have no talent such as this. It is a poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt which I share with my fair queen.”

  “Sir Thomas—I shall invite him to court! I would love to have a true poet nearby, to recite to me his verses.”

  “Then you’d best choose another poet,” Katherine sniffs, “for Wyatt’s in the Tower again.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Treason—a religious matter, of course,” Joan remarks. “They think he’s a Lutheran.”

  “It’s more than that,” Lisbeth says slyly. “The king’s been against Wyatt for a long time, regardless of his religion.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but Lisbeth offers only her sultry smile.

  The young lord bows his head humbly. “If you do not think it impropriety, my queen, I will explain: the heart’s unrest Sir Thomas suffers in his poem was due to his affection, years ago, for a certain Lady Anne.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Another young man smitten with Anne’s love spells. It makes me sorry for him, to have lost years of his life in the Tower for a woman not worthy of such pure feeling, such beautifully written sentiment.

  “You should free him, Catherine,” Malyn urges dreamily. “Petition the king and free the poet. Oh, wouldn’t that be romantic?”

  “Yes, Catherine—free the poet!” Lisbeth announces, her hand resting on her paramour’s shoulder. “That would make all of your ladies happy. And you do want us happy, don’t you?”

  I choose to ignore the underlying threat in Lisbeth’s voice. I request the words of the poem to be written out for me. I can only wonder what Sir Thomas might write for me, if I were to see him freed from his imprisonment. This would be a greater work than any altar cloth, surely. Perhaps taking up the cause of a poet might prove I am more than the silly girl some courtiers still presume me to be.

  XXIV

  “You had best calm the celebrations in your chambers, Catherine,” the duchess informs me. Nothing stays secret from the duchess long. “The court has begun to gossip about raucous parties in the queen’s chambers. Must I remind you that you are not a maiden anymore? You are a queen, and must attempt to behave as one.”

  “It has nothing to do with me,” I say, bitter at her eagerness to scold me. “It has to do with Lisbeth, and the others. I have to entertain them, make them loyal to me.”

  “You cannot indulge their every whim. You know well the type of fun your ladies enjoy. Are you going to re-create Lambeth for them, here? You are a queen, Catherine, not a blasphemous, wanton child.”

  “I don’t see what else I can do—I have to keep them happy. I have to keep everyone happy!”

  The duchess folds her hands primly over her gray silk, motionless as a statue; her face is hard, as if sculpted from cold marble.

  “You’ve made a fine mess of things now, haven’t you?”

  I turn on her, livid. “You told me to welcome them to my household!”

  “I told you that because it was your only alternative. Now these girls—this pack of wolves—have infested your privy chamber. And now they’ll have you do their bidding, indulging their every fantasy, however inappropriate. You are queen, you cannot let them make you their slave.”

  I am already your slave, I want to tell her, but I wouldn’t dare.

  “You have opposition here, Catherine. People are watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “The Seymour family, and anyone with heretical tendencies, would be eager to remove a Catholic queen from the throne by whatever means—especially before you’ve produced an heir.”

  An heir, an heir . . . why is it the one thing which I haven’t yet accomplished is the most vital, even after all I’ve achieved? Still, I’m relieved when the duchess doesn’t mention anyone else—those pale blue eyes I saw peering out of the devil mask at Twelfth Night. I must have been mistaken. I can’t mention it, for saying it aloud would make it too real.

  “You look tired, Catherine.” The duchess sighs. “That won’t do. The king is returning tomorrow, and it’s imperative that you look your best.” She confers with Jane about preparing a bath for me, but the thought of submitting myself to their insistent scrubbing and vicious comb makes me want to slump to my knees in weariness.

  “I am tired,” I blurt, suddenly near tears. “It’s wearying, having all of these people to please, not knowing what they might do or say against me.”

  The duchess moves forward. For a moment I consider trying to embrace her, but as much as I may desire it, it is impossible; the duchess is unyielding. She grasps me by the arms and shakes me so vigorously that I gasp in fear.

  “This is all your own doing, because you acted a child and a whore and spread your legs for some boy to enter you, with a whole host of women witness to your sin. You ruined yourself, Catherine.” With one last shake she thrusts me upon the bed.

  “You are still a child, but we found you a way to the throne of England. Now your past has come back to haunt you, as dark pasts generally do. And now we all must be wary of what messes you’ve made. I’ll not be bothered with pity for you.”

  WHEN HENRY RETURNS, I fall into his embrace without reservation.

  “I’ve missed you, my lord.”

  “Ah, Catherine, how I have missed you.”

  Will he detect the change in my household, the change in me? He holds my hand during the banquet to celebrate his return, and we watch the ladies dance. As the music ends, Lisbeth flashes me a daring smile and a wink, just as she did years ago before adjourning to her bed with her latest lover. The sight of that lascivious smile here in the hall, with the king at my side, is yet another alarming reminder of what my life has become.

  In light of all of this, I think I could benefit from some additional popularity and appreciation from my courtiers.

  “He has been missed at court,” I say sweetly, pretending innocence of the reasons underlying Thomas Wyatt’s imprisonment. I have calculated just the right moment to bring this petition before the king: we are lounging privately in his chamber, and I am arrayed in rich wine-colored velvet that lends a heightened color to my cheeks.

  “He is an unworthy man for court,” Henry growls. I dare to laugh lightly at this, and he shoots me a dark look.

  “You don’t understand why I value such a poet, Henry. Please, let me explain it as well as I can.” I slide closer to him and take his hand in mine, my cheeks warm and blushing and my eyelids fluttering. Very effective. “You are a poet, Henry. Just like Sir Thomas. You have poetry in your head all the time, but your wife has no head for letters.”

  He opens his mouth to disagree but I press on, smiling bashfully.

  “But I crave poetry, all the same. Release him, and you will be offering poetry to those who have no gift for it themselves.”


  Through Henry’s sigh, I can hear a hint of resignation.

  “Let’s talk no more of it tonight,” I tell him, pressing myself close to his arm. “I missed you when you were gone. I’m glad that you are here now, with me.”

  I KNEW I HAD HIM, and I was right: all it took was my earnest pleading, then flirtation and indulging the king’s sexual desires. The king’s resolve against Wyatt gradually softened, and he was released in the middle of this month. Henry enjoys indulging my whims, and the decision has met with great approval at court.

  “My sweet, compassionate wife,” he says, embracing me as we enter the hall for dinner, “nothing gives me more pleasure than to make you happy.”

  I’ve also arranged other releases: old-maid Helen Page and my own cousin John Legh had been imprisoned for petty crimes. I am indeed a caring and generous mistress, and no one can dare say otherwise. It is only late February and yet everyone seems so cheerful you would think that spring had already begun. I bask in a special approval from Henry, and all the rest of the court. The surge of appreciation and popularity reflects upon Henry as well; it comes at a good time, distracting people from news of unrest up north.

  Meanwhile, the plight of yet another prisoner has come to my attention: Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury, has spent years locked in a cold cell in the Tower. She’s at least seventy years old and has been nothing but a devoted servant to the king; it is her family that is the problem. Pole is the last of the Plantagenets, who also have a claim to the throne—one that supersedes the Tudor claim, though few are bold enough to state it. The king has long feared that the countess’s son, Cardinal Pole, may use his own mother to usurp the throne. After refusing to support the king’s divorce from Katherine of Aragon, Cardinal Pole fled England and the king imprisoned his mother so no one could use her as a pawn for power.

  This woman is a victim of the ambitions of her own family, imprisoned for sins she has not committed. The king often fears the wrath of God—I cannot imagine that God will look kindly upon a king who has locked up an old woman and left her to rot. If I could see the release of the countess, that would be a queenly act above all others.