The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  “I thank the Lord for the good life I have led and trust to lead with my queen. I thank the Lord for granting me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I now have,” Henry murmurs, his voice low and humble. He asks the bishop present to make prayer and give like thanks with him. My cheeks turn warm; the king is happy, and feels blessed to have me.

  As we leave the chapel, Archbishop Cranmer shuffles forward and hands a sealed letter to Henry.

  “What is this?”

  “A short letter,” Cranmer says, bowing hastily, “for you to read later, Your Grace. In private.”

  As Henry puts the letter in the pocket of his doublet, Cranmer’s eyes flutter briefly over mine. He turns and hastily leaves the chapel.

  THE NEW GOWN I’ve had made is truly special, just as I dreamed it would be: dark purple velvet with gold lace panels in the skirt and tissue of gold set into the sleeves. The neckline is embellished with a series of amethysts, matching the smaller series of stones on the trim of my purple velvet hood.

  The main chamber is full of ladies already sipping from goblets of wine as they help to ready me for tonight’s banquet—a celebration of the successful northern progress which was at first postponed in light of the prince’s ill health. All the members of my household line up accordingly to prepare for our ascent to the main hall.

  “Where is Francis?” Joan asks, peering through the crowds of people.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.” I turn back to the mirror for one last inspection of my gown and hair in the glass.

  “Perhaps he’s gone hawking?” Dorothy suggests.

  “He should know enough to return in time for supper,” Lady Rochford snaps.

  “I say good riddance,” I remark quietly. In spite of the favors and gifts I’ve bestowed upon Francis in order to ensure his good behavior, I still shiver to see him—a ghost virulent with wicked secrets—walking among the dazzling array of courtiers that is a part of my new life. I suppose it will merely take time for me to become accustomed to his presence, just as it did when the ladies of Lambeth became a part of my household.

  “Beautiful, Catherine!” Henry exclaims, taking my hand in his. He laughs as I spin before him. “You were born to wear royal purple!”

  Henry pulls me onto the dance floor, before all assembled. I feel that bliss of triumph as he spins me to the song of the lute and drum and wooden pipe. I hear the crowd gasp in admiration as my velvet gown spreads out around me in waves of violet, the gold lace sparkling in the candlelight. Perhaps I can be happy as Henry’s queen, perhaps I can put all the past behind me.

  Henry pulls me close when our dance is complete and whispers in my ear.

  “You look beautiful, my love, my queen.”

  I hop up and kiss him on the cheek, spontaneously; the audience breaks into laughter and applause.

  JOAN, LISBETH, AND Dorothy huddle around me in the warm dimness of my chamber, pulling the rings from my fingers and brushing my hair smooth. Katherine is busy putting my velvet gown away in an oak chest; in the mirror I can see her admiring it, caressing the folds of the fabric.

  A knock at the door makes the ladies fly to attention, ready for their obeisance to the king. But a page appears instead. I pull closed my fur-trimmed robe to receive his message.

  “I’m afraid the king will be unable to visit you this evening.” The page bows formally before me. “He is busy tending to official matters.”

  With another bow, the page departs, his shoes clicking harshly upon the flagstones.

  “Surely you will see him at dinner, tomorrow,” Lady Rochford says, consolingly, no doubt noting the furrow of my brow.

  “The king did not seem unwell at supper this evening,” I remark thoughtfully.

  “No, on the contrary, he seemed quite well. Quite happy.”

  “He has not complained to me of pains in his leg as of late. Have you heard of any such pains?”

  “No, but I could ask his grooms about his condition. I could ask—”

  “No, don’t bother,” I say quickly, pulling myself into bed. I don’t want to hear the name she is about to say. “You are right. I’m sure I will see him tomorrow.”

  I sink beneath the covers as Jane blows out the candles, and the ladies retire for the night. I’m left here, blinking in the firelight, not ready for sleep. My mind wanders to forbidden, secret places: the hidden chamber at Pontefract. His warm fingertips trailing down my back. His low voice. His eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness. His kiss. My chest clenches, alive and pulsing, in pain. I open my eyes, blinking, as if trying to pull myself from the waters of the deep, pull myself up from drowning.

  Please, God, forgive me for my sins . . . I think that perhaps, like Henry, I am a complicated creature, with a prayer upon my lips, and my heart full of sin. Please, God, please, Henry, forgive me for my sins . . .

  IT IS EARLY and the windows of the main chamber are open, letting the fresh breeze waft through the room, shifting the tapestries upon the walls. I am waiting for the king to arrive, to escort me to Mass in the Chapel Royal. While I am waiting, the girls see fit to entertain me. Katherine stands in the middle of the room, a smile upon her face.

  “No no no, Malyn—it goes like this. Watch me.” She flicks her wrist toward me and I begin to play a lively tune upon my lute. Katherine dances, lifting the skirt of her full gown in her fingertips so that we may better see the swift movement of her feet. The girls cheer in response.

  “All right, now we all must try it.”

  “We need another minstrel to play for us.”

  “I’m sure you know the song by heart. We’ll simply sing the notes aloud. Come.” I join the circle and flash my eyes at the other ladies. Dorothy and Joan are already giggling; Lisbeth shushes them, but this only makes them giggle more. As soon as I sing the first note, the rest jump into the dance in a rush of footsteps and overlapping voices. We turn in a circle, gliding and hopping around the room. I sing the song faster, and the ladies do their best to keep up until Katherine steps on Joan’s train, and both come tumbling into each other, laughing in a heap upon the floor. We all applaud anyway, our cheeks pink from laughter.

  When I turn, I’m startled to see two of the king’s guards in the doorway of my chamber. I greet them warily.

  “I was expecting the king,” I say, trying to conceal my concern. “I trust there is nothing wrong with my lord?”

  “We are here by order of King Henry,” one guard explains. “You are to remain here, and await the king’s pleasure.”

  “Remain here?” I ask, nearly laughing, “Whatever do you mean? I’ve been waiting for him to arrive. We were just practicing our dancing while we waited.”

  “This is no more the time for dancing,” a guard informs me as he strides into the room. I shiver at the sound of this. I watch as he opens a box of jewels from my dressing table. He inspects the contents briefly, then snaps the lid shut.

  “Will I meet the king for dinner?”

  “No. You will keep to your apartments. Your meals will be brought to you, here.”

  “What is happening?” I demand, panic making my voice rise. Something must be terribly wrong.

  “You are to keep to your chambers.” His words are slow and deliberate. “We are here on the king’s orders.”

  When the other guard moves into the chamber, I see my chance and take it. I dash out the door, down the hallway. Unless he is ill, Henry will be on his way to Mass. I streak down the gallery, my slippered feet pounding like a heartbeat upon the stone floor. I have to see Henry. I have to see if he is well, if he knows what’s happening. Did something happen to him? What could have happened?

  “Henry!”

  Suddenly I realize that I’m screaming. The courtiers in the hallway turn to look at me in shock and fear. Not even the queen uses the king’s name in public, but I can’t help myself. I run down the hallway, cutting through straggling onlookers.

  “Henry! Henry!”

  The guards are clo
se behind me. I hear them calling my name. I am his rose without a thorn, I want to tell them—why wouldn’t he want to see me? What is wrong with him? Why will they not let me see him? Is he sick? Is he dead? I can’t stop these thoughts from entering my brain, along with others, even more frightening: Is he angry with me? Have I done something to offend the king? The hallway echoes with my voice.

  “Henry! Henry! Henry!”

  I see him entering the chapel, and the sight of him sends a shock through my bones. A moment later, the door of the chapel is slammed shut. The guards catch me roughly by the arms and pull me back.

  “Henry! Henry!” I cry, but it’s as if no one hears me, as if I no longer make a sound. They pull me back to my chamber. When they close the door behind me, I hear a key turn in the lock, a bolt dropping into its catch. The ladies stand in a shocked circle, staring at me.

  “You look like a ghost, Catherine,” Joan says, grasping my hands in hers and pulling me close to the fire. “What did you see? Tell me, what did you see?”

  I feel as if I have seen a ghost. I saw Henry, but not the Henry that I have known. This Henry was so old, decrepit, his face gray, his back hunched in weariness and defeat. This Henry would not look upon the face of his wife, would not respond to her calls. He created me, transformed me into what he desired. I am nothing without his desire. What will I be without him? I fear that I may vanish from the earth, no longer fit to exist.

  I do not know what has happened, but from what I just saw of Henry I can imagine what is true: he has discovered a thorn on his rose. I have shattered the heart of the King of England. God knows what will become of me, now.

  XXXIII

  Breakfast was brought to my room, but I have no interest in eating. I alternate between pacing the main chamber and sitting listless before the fire.

  Since my imprisonment, the days have passed in strangely mundane fashion. I am kept to my suite of rooms here at Hampton, but I have not been robbed of my privy keys. I have relative freedom, walking through the connecting chambers where my ladies continue to play cards, work on their embroidery, sit chattering before the fire. It appears so ordinary, this sequestered life, and there are moments when I could fool myself into believing that nothing is amiss. But then the panic returns—black clouds rolling in, obscuring my vision—and I am caught midstep, speechless, motionless with fear.

  Apparently, little is known beyond these walls. I interrogate my ladies upon their return from dinner, but they assure me they’ve heard nothing whispered in the great hall. They have also not seen the king, but that is not out of the ordinary, either. If he is angry with me, which he must be, his response thus far has been lenient. I am still wearing the royal jewels. I am still his queen. But beyond these facts lies the hovering darkness of the unknown: like a lion waiting to pounce upon his prey.

  It is just before supper, when I would be going to sit with Henry for a meal in his chambers. I look up to the door, expecting to see him there. Instead, Archbishop Cranmer and my uncle Norfolk stand before me. The duchess has warned me that Cranmer harbors heretical beliefs and will not support a Catholic queen. I am relieved that Norfolk is here as well.

  “Am I to see the king?” I ask. “I need to see him.”

  “No,” Cranmer answers. He lifts a hand to dismiss all of my ladies. I watch, helpless, as they file into adjacent chambers and shut the doors quietly behind them. Now I am alone. I look directly at my uncle for my appeal.

  “Please, please let me see him.”

  My legs tremble beneath me. Cranmer leads me to a chair, I sit upon it heavily.

  “We must ask you some questions, Your Grace, about matters that have recently come to light,” Norfolk begins. He glances at Cranmer, whose eyes don’t leave my face.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Henry Manox, while you were living with the duchess at her Horsham residence?”

  My eyes race from one dour face to the other. If they are asking me, that means they already know.

  “How do you—why? Why do you ask?”

  “We have an account from Mary Hall. The evidence she has offered requires that these questions be asked, my queen,” Norfolk answers; his words are deferential but his tone is stiff.

  “Mary Hall? I know no Mary Hall.”

  “The account was delivered to me by her brother, John Lassells,” Cranmer obligingly supplies. “I must ask again, what was the nature of your relationship with Henry Manox?”

  Mary Lassells—the duchess’s chamberwoman who years ago had scolded Manox for his foolish dalliance with me. But what else do they know? What else?

  “He was my music tutor.”

  “Did you have carnal relations with Henry Manox?”

  “No.”

  “How well did you know him, in other physical ways?”

  I look at Norfolk for guidance, but his sharp eyes pierce through me. He had not been interested in my past when the king was first showing me favor. I look down and notice that I’m kneading the skirt of my gown, leaving dark blotches of sweat upon the blue satin. My face burns hot with shame.

  “He was my music tutor . . . and we kissed.” They must already know this. But how much more do they know?

  “You kissed him. And did he touch you? And did he know you carnally?”

  “No, he did not. He did not.”

  “Francis Dereham,” Norfolk says, his voice icy cold. “What was your relationship to Francis Dereham? Did you have carnal relations with him?”

  “That’s all gone,” I blurt out, looking down at my hands. “I burned it. I burned it all just like you told me to.” But I’m crying now, and I don’t know if they can hear me. I’m sweating through the satin, but also shivering violently. You told them I was just like Jane, you formulated the lie! I want to scream this but the sight of Norfolk’s cold eyes frightens me. His mouth is turned down in disgust.

  “Were you naked when you lay with Dereham in bed? Was he without both doublet and hose?”

  “I—I don’t know. No.”

  “Did he know you carnally? Were there others in the room who saw you?”

  My eyes wander the room frantically, alighting upon the tea set, the carafe of wine, the deck of cards, the embroidery sample abandoned midstitch by one of my ladies. It is all so ordinary, so miraculously unchanged.

  “I burned all of that life—I burned it.” Now my shivering has become shuddering. Tears stream down my cheeks. “I burned it just like she told me to.”

  “Burned what?” Cranmer asks, “As who told you to?”

  “Ask the duchess! She will tell you there was nothing to it, nothing that couldn’t be burned and forgotten. She knows all!”

  “We have already spoken to the duchess,” Norfolk remarks calmly. “She has assured us she knew nothing of the immoral life you led before your betrothal to the king.”

  Burn your life, Catherine. The duchess’s words echo through me. Perhaps now she’s taken her own advice, seeing as I have already been strapped to the pyre. Just as Jane warned me—she warned me! This is how the Howards work: better to be the one to light the flame than to end up burning yourself.

  I feel like I am burning, right now. I can feel the flames upon my flesh. I can’t stop myself from screaming. “Catherine—Catherine!”

  Their voices are very far away. My head tips to one side. It just keeps tipping. I’m falling, falling a very long way down.

  “IT WAS NOTHING out of the ordinary,” I mutter, worrying my handkerchief in my damp hands. My eyes sting, the skin around them tight with dried tears. It is late, and I’ve not eaten all day. A tray of food lies untouched upon a nearby table, but the sight of it makes my stomach turn. The ladies sit around me by the light of the fire.

  “Of course it wasn’t, dear,” Joan consoles me. “We all know that.”

  “We all did such things, especially at Lambeth.” I flash my eyes at all of them; they know they are guilty of similar acts. No one in this room is wholly innocent. But I suppose their indis
cretions mean little, while the concealment of mine was an act of treason.

  “Many young girls do. And you told me yourself that Francis promised to marry you.”

  “But I could not marry him,” I tell them. “The king chose me. He proposed marriage. There was nothing I could do. You cannot turn down the hand of the king.”

  “I’m sure they will understand that, dear. Francis will tell them. They cannot trouble you now for what was done before your marriage to the king.”

  “And what you did with Francis was not out of bounds, considering your precontract.”

  Precontract. That word meant divorce for Anne of Cleves, and she had not consummated her betrothal. What will my family do with me if the king divorces me?

  “Francis will tell them?” I look up again. This time the ladies avert their eyes from mine.

  “We thought he was out hawking,” Lisbeth murmurs. “No one has seen him.”

  “We believe that he’s been taken in for questioning,” Joan tells me, but there is more to this than they dare to say aloud.

  “Then he’s been taken to the Tower,” I breathe. But this cannot be real. Nothing as horrifying as this can be real. In fact, this whole room seems unnatural: the glowing fire, the quiet circle of ladies. Where is Lady Rochford? I need to talk to her about this. I turn and see Jane sitting in the shadows. She’s usually in the center of the circle, right by my side. It’s odd to see her lurking in a corner—wrong, wrong. All of this is wrong.

  “Lady Rochford?” I ask. “Jane?” But her bent form offers no response. She clutches at her dark skirt, wringing the fabric. Something about her pale hands in the shadows seems familiar, frightening. I can’t understand why.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Joan tells me. “You had best get some rest.”

  The other ladies do their best to coddle me, to calm me; they comb my hair and ready me for bed. I am so exhausted from worrying and crying that I actually fall asleep.