The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  I broach the subject first as merely an act of basic kindness and charity: to clothe an old woman properly for the coming winter. Henry softens at this meek appeal, and allows me to request a list of garments be made for the countess and delivered to her cell: a wool kirtle, a satin nightgown, a furred petticoat, a warm cloak, and four pairs of wool hose, all paid for—with the king’s permission—from my own purse. But is this really enough? What if I could do more, and save this woman from suffering? If I could secure her freedom, I would be looked at differently by all of court, and might gain some much-needed respect.

  “She is an old woman, Henry,” I prod, carefully. We’re seated before the fire in Henry’s chambers, the firelight flickering in random patterns upon the carved wooden walls. I know when my ability to charm the king is at its height: alone, together, by candlelight, wearing a gown with a low, square neckline.

  “Her imprisonment is a king’s concern, Catherine.”

  “I know, you are right. But the plight of one so lowly as the countess is also God’s concern.”

  “Do not lecture me, wife.” His blue eyes flash at mine—it’s clear that I’ve lost already. So quickly. Perhaps I had no hope of winning at all.

  “Would you like to hear some music, my husband?”

  And so I am the simpering maid, again, the pretty plaything. It seems the only permanent role my husband desires for me to play.

  XXV

  I sit before the fire in the dining hall to await the king’s arrival at dinner. It is a beautiful day out, cold but bright. I hope that a hard ride might ease his troubles, for I’ve heard the king is angered by more rumors of rebellion in the north. The people there consider themselves devout Catholics, and have rumbled their dissent ever since the king separated from the pope in Rome and put himself at the head of the Church of England. There have been reports that the rebels intend to start a war as soon as the weather warms enough for battle.

  What succor can I offer a king who faces an uprising of his own people? I do all that I know how to do, taking extra care in preparing myself for our dinner.

  But instead of my king, a comparatively tiny page appears.

  “His Majesty is attending to affairs of state today, and regrets that he cannot dine with his queen.”

  I open my mouth to ask when the king will be free from his duties, but after another bow the page quickly disappears. I’m struck by the harsh succinctness of the message—not the usual words that Henry would send to his beloved. Is he angry with me? Has he simply forgotten me? My cheeks burn with fear at the thought.

  AFTER DINNER WITHOUT my king, I learn that there is to be no banquet for tonight’s Shrovetide festival, usually a night of great feasting and dancing before the days of Lent.

  “Had the king told you anything, Catherine?” Lisbeth laments. “Wouldn’t he have told you if he wasn’t planning a banquet, or a masque?”

  It is dangerous to guess the mind of a king, I want to tell her, but I know that I cannot. The sight of Lisbeth’s pout makes me boil with anger. She is a nothing but a selfish child, and now I must contend with her disappointment when I have far more important things on my mind.

  “Then we will have to celebrate tonight in your chambers,” Katherine remarks. It is all a game to them, all of this. “Don’t you agree, my queen?”

  A small group of lords dine in my presence chamber, to the delight of my ladies. All of the courtiers smile and greet me graciously, and the musicians do well to impress me with their talents, but I can see what lingers behind every smile, every pretty word: they are wondering what is wrong with Henry, why the king is not presiding over a grand feast, seated beside his queen. I try my best to smile so as not to let on that I know as little as they do.

  AS THE LADIES ready me for bed, I listen only vaguely to their steady stream of chatter. It is a lost day, and I feel likewise lost. When Jane enters my chamber looking anxious and pale, I wave my hand to dismiss the others. They remove themselves quietly and close the door behind them.

  “Jane, what is happening?” I clasp her hand in mine and pull her close.

  “I spoke with your cousin.” She squeezes my fingers. “This information is from him: the king is dreadfully ill.”

  “What is wrong with him?”

  “It is the ulcer on his leg that pained him all during Christmas. This time it has closed over completely, causing a dangerous imbalance of bad humors. He was raving this morning like a madman, and then turned black in the face.”

  “Raving? What about?”

  “That he has an unhappy people to govern—a people he will shortly make so poor that they will have neither the boldness nor the power to oppose him.”

  “The northern rebellion.” I sigh, somewhat relieved.

  “There is more—he’s blamed the Privy Council for the execution of Cromwell, saying they used false accusations to persuade him to execute the most faithful servant he ever had.”

  A coldness settles deep inside of me, a freezing of the soul: the king could regret such an action, a decision of life and death?

  “This is dangerous talk, Jane.”

  “Indeed, and since then it has become worse. As of this evening, the king has been altogether unable to speak.”

  “The king is ill, and speechless? Do they know how to cure him?”

  “They fear for his life, Catherine. And I fear for yours.”

  “For mine?” I let my gaze break from her intense stare.

  “There has been talk of poison, my queen. And if he has been poisoned, there are those who will blame you.”

  “Me? Why would I dare such a thing? How would it benefit me?”

  “A dowager queen is afforded a great deal of luxury and honor, if not power. And if you were already with child—”

  “What does Thomas say? Does he fear for the king’s life?”

  “It is hard not to fear for it, to see him in such a state. You must be careful, Catherine.” I see her eyes glance down toward my belly in my white gown. Though small, it is round—the same roundness I’ve always had, though perhaps a bit magnified from all of my indulging on rich food and drink. But I know well that no infant prince resides there. I move beneath the covers to conceal myself from her gaze.

  “I will see the king tomorrow,” I say calmly. “I will see him and make my own judgment. Thank you for this information, Jane.”

  I squeeze her hand and bid her good night. I lie in bed wide awake, watching the flames slowly die in the hearth. When they are burned to cinder and ash, I shiver, nestling deeper beneath the covers, searching for comfort and sleep.

  SEVERAL GOWNS LIE discarded upon the bed—this one too garish, this one too somber. It’s important that I choose the right one. It is the only thing over which I have any control.

  “The dark red sarcenet,” I announce, twisting my petticoat around my hips and stepping into the waiting gown. In the mirror I look bright and warm and cheerful. I don’t look like a woman going to visit her elderly, ill husband. But I am.

  “I would like to see the king,” I inform the guards at the king’s apartments. One of them opens the door, but does not bid me enter.

  “I am sorry that the king cannot see you at this time, my queen.” His obeisance is effusive, pandering.

  “Does the king not wish to see me, or is he unable?”

  “He is dealing with important matters of state which I am afraid must be catered to immediately. I assure you that he longs to be by your side.”

  I look past the guard’s elbow and spy the other men standing in the distance. One is tall and thin, wearing a dark blue cape. He turns to the door just as I look and I see a familiar face: I think it is Edward Seymour, the brother of the late Queen Jane. The guard closes the door farther, so that only his face is visible in the crevice.

  “I am more than willing to wait, if that would please the king. I would be most grateful to see him, if only for a short walk within the palace.” I smile thoughtfully up at him, daring him to add to hi
s lie. How dare this mere guard lie to me, the king’s chosen?

  “I’m afraid that he will be unable to do so at this moment, but we will call upon you as soon as he is available.”

  I think it best for now to hide what I know. I walk back to my chambers, the quilted sarcenet rustling against my legs like a thousand whispers.

  “IT HAS BEEN three days,” I whisper to the duchess, my eyes blurring until I cannot see the cards in my hand. “I have heard nothing. They will not let me see him. And I think I saw that Seymour brother in his chamber.” “Edward Seymour?”

  “Yes. Why should he be allowed entrance, and the king’s own wife be barred?”

  “He must have an ally within the king’s chamber. He is a Seymour, Catherine. And some say a Lutheran,” she hisses, “and therefore an enemy of yours. Tell me—is there any possibility that you are you with child?”

  The duchess must know the truth of this; she intently scruntinizes the calendar of my bodily functions. I feel as if she’s daring me to lie, to see if I can manage to do so effectively. I look around, carefully; we are alone in this corner, but I’m wary of how close the other ladies are, seated with their embroidery or chatting by the fire.

  “No—don’t answer that,” she says, as soon as I open my mouth to speak. Her eyes flutter away from mine. “You could be; it’s too early to know. There is always the possibility.”

  But there is no possibility. I think to explain the fatigue the king often suffers, preventing him from visiting my chamber, but I remember how such words damned Queen Anne. I press my fingers to my lips, afraid of what may escape.

  SIX DAYS. No word.

  “I must speak to him myself,” I whisper to Lady Rochford, before the others descend upon my bedchamber to ready me for the day.

  “But they’ve barred his chamber, Catherine. If I knew how to get you in, I would tell you—”

  “No, not the king. I need information.”

  She nods slightly. Pursing her lips in resolve, she quietly absents herself as the others arrive to dress me in green brocade.

  AFTER SUPPER I don a fur cloak over my gown and Jane and I take to the garden for a late-night stroll. Jane leads me to a particular secluded corner, where a cloaked figure awaits in the shadows. When he turns, Thomas starts as though in fear at the sight of my face. As I approach I can’t help but notice how pale he is, his face drawn and tired.

  “Thomas, tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’ve wanted to tell you, but they’ve told me to keep it secret. By this time all of court knows he is ill.”

  “How ill? How did this happen?”

  “He is very ill, Catherine.” His dark eyes wince in fear at these words. “He may be dying. I know it’s treason to say so about a king, but I think little of treason when it may well be true.”

  I step back and lean against a hedge, my breath suddenly short. Thomas moves closer, his voice barely a whisper, his head lowered over mine.

  “He has not spoken for days, as if struck dumb in some way. I asked him if he would like you to visit and he reacted violently, as though driven mad by pain. I think he is embarrassed. We all know how he has endeavored to hide his weakness from you.”

  “But if he is dying, will no one tell me? Am I to learn of my husband’s death along with all the rest of the court?”

  Thomas shakes his head.

  “Did someone do this to him?”

  “I do not know that, there is no way to know until it’s over. But there are those eager for the king to die so that young Edward can take the throne.”

  “Prince Edward is only a child.”

  “Yes, but a lord protector would be appointed. That is where the true power would lie.”

  Edward Seymour—if he were lord protector with little more than a babe upon the throne, then he would, by proxy, become King of England. I shudder at the thought of Henry being surrounded by those who wish him ill. The power of a king puts poison in men’s hearts, and I’m afraid of that same poison attacking me. If only I were pregnant! They would not dare harm a queen who harbors an heir to the throne in her womb! But I’m not pregnant, and the king is unable . . .

  If only Thomas could do this for me. The thought shoots through me like a bolt of lightning; everything seems too sharp, too bold all of a sudden. I fear I may faint.

  “You must be very careful, Catherine,” Thomas whispers, his voice hoarse with urgency. “You must be careful of who surrounds you, who listens to your conversations. There are spies all around—please, promise me that you will guard yourself.” Thomas grasps my hand; the feel of his touch sends a shock through me, but I dare not shake him off. His warm hand enveloping mine makes me feel safe, if only for a moment. “It would pain me if you were hurt, in any way.” I need not look into his eyes to know that this is true.

  Jane and I depart, arm in arm, my hood concealing my hair and face.

  “Is it a fine night out, Your Majesty?” Lisbeth asks cheerfully as we enter my chamber.

  “Quite cool, but fine indeed. I can smell the coming of spring.”

  The ladies giggle happily at this. Life is a masque, and I must play my part well. Katherine pulls off my cloak and Lisbeth tugs at the stays of my corset to ready me for bed. Joan pulls the curtains back from my bed and turns down the bedclothes. As a nightgown is pulled over my head, I hear a shriek.

  I struggle to force my head through the neck of the gown, eager to see what all the gasping is about. I walk over to where Joan stands beside my bed. Tucked under the bedclothes, an arrow lies upon the white sheets. Its sharp tip is covered in blood, staining the linen with a gruesome red smear. I reach out to remove it but Joan jerks me away.

  “Catherine, no!”

  Dorothy approaches the arrow instead, all the other girls looking on. She lifts it carefully and inspects the tip.

  “Animal’s blood, certainly,” she says, “deer, most likely.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” Joan exclaims.

  I can’t help but look to Lisbeth and the rest of them, in search of the evidence of treachery. Their faces are pale with distress.

  “Get rid of it,” I say. “Just get rid of it. And there shall be no talk of it outside these chambers.”

  While Dorothy disposes of the arrow, Lady Rochford grasps me by the shoulders and looks deep into my eyes.

  “We must be more careful with you, my queen. We must be always careful.”

  I nod, watching as the linens are promptly changed. I feel uneasy settling into bed where the arrow rested its bloody head just moments ago. There are such things as signs and omens, and people often claim to see them: mystical things, of course. This was not a mystical vision but a savage, intentional act. I fear it is an omen, nonetheless.

  XXVI

  It has been seven days now since the king’s illness began. For the last three days I’ve stayed veritably hidden from the eyes of the court. My ladies deem it safer for me to take my meals in my own chambers while the king is sequestered in his. Every day I watch as Lady Rochford tastes my food before permitting me to eat. I’m considering asking the other ladies to do so as well, as a test of their loyalty to me.

  In spite of the lively fire and the feast laid before me, my feeling of imprisonment in the gilded cage of queenship is now more palpable than ever before.

  The duchess visits, ostensibly to cheer me, but her news is grave. Henry suffers visibly, and has yet to regain the power of speech. Numerous physicians have prescribed a variety of cures, but little change has been made in his condition.

  “I spoke to Jane,” she murmurs lightly, hovering over our gaming table. “She has told me that your monthly blood has just ended.”

  “Only Jane knows, I made sure to keep it secret.”

  “If the king were well, this would be the perfect time for you to be made pregnant. There are already rumors that you are with child.”

  “There are always such rumors. Would that they were true.”

  “It is imperative that
they be true.” Her steely eyes penetrate mine. “There have been other rumors, you know—rumors that the king is concerned that you are barren, unable to have children. The king cannot wait forever,” she says grimly. “Catherine, your life is at stake.”

  “What am I to do?” I feel myself on the verge of panic. “What can I do, if he is ill and not able to bed me?”

  “There are those who do not want a Catholic queen, you understand. Not even a Catholic dowager.”

  “I know that.”

  “Perhaps you would do best to think of yourself, think of your future, and put thoughts of the king aside, for now. He cannot help you now—he cannot even help himself. You are in dire need of a royal heir, in order to protect yourself with the king’s power in the event of his—” Her voice drops, barely audible. “. . . that he does not recover.”

  “What are you suggesting? Any lie I tell of a pregnancy will be discovered soon enough.”

  The duchess thumbs through her cards quietly. We turn back to our game, but I can’t concentrate, my thoughts swimming so erratically that I can’t see the cards before my face.

  “There are those you can trust to help you, Catherine.”

  “I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “You can trust me, and Jane. And you can trust your cousin Thomas. We will all assist you if you decide to take action.”

  “Take action,” I murmur, the meaning of the words unclear.

  “On your own behalf,” the duchess answers. “You may need to act on your own behalf to protect yourself. There are many jealous of your ascension to the throne.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And they will do whatever they can to uproot you. The Reformation party considers you an instrument of Satan—I have seen those very words printed in their religious tracts. They fear your influence on the king.”