The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  I RUN DOWN THE GALLERY, calling the king’s name. My feet ache with every step and my throat is raw, but that does not stop me. I see the face of the king—old and ruined—and the door of the chapel slams shut before my face by unseen hands, as if God Himself is locking me out. As the guards pull me away I’m screaming, straining against their arms. But the dream continues: another run down the gallery, screaming, the faces of staring courtiers blurring by me as I run. The look on the king’s face and the slam of the chapel door shudders through my bones.

  I WAKE SUDDENLY, my whole body tense, my legs cramped. Joan sleeps in the bed beside me. For a moment I cannot tell what is real and what a dream.

  I look around—I’m in my bedchamber. Things slowly start to look familiar. And I realize that my head is different than it was before, split into separate chambers: in one there is sleep and dreaming, a place of oblivion haunted by ghosts (Henry’s face: old, ruined). In another chamber is a great, towering fear imposing itself upon me—I scurry away from this chamber as soon as I sense its foreboding presence.

  But the third chamber—I will dwell here for a while: it is clear, though small and cramped. There is something I must do, something urgent that must not wait another moment. A message must be sent—one too sensitive for ink and parchment.

  Stepping from my bedchamber, I make my way toward the fire, which barely flickers in the hearth. Quietly, I approach Lady Rochford, who is seated in a chair by the fire.

  “Jane,” I whisper, but there is no response. I touch her shoulder, but she gasps and flinches from my touch. I’m taken aback at the sight of her face: she is ghostly pale, mumbling a fervent stream of words beneath her breath.

  “Jane?” I ask, but she does not answer. She is staring at me with wide eyes, but I don’t think she can see me. I don’t know what she sees.

  “Catherine.” Joan is beside me, pulling me away from the muttering Jane. She pulls me back into the bedchamber.

  “You must find Thomas,” I whisper. “He must leave court, immediately.” I must trust Joan, I have no other choice. I think to ask her about Jane, but I dare not mention it.

  “Of course. I will tell him, directly. I assure you.” Joan helps me back into bed.

  This is my only hope, now, that this will end here. That nothing more will be discovered. What I did is done, and I’ve prayed to God for forgiveness, and I’ve put it all behind me. Now I can only hope that I will receive forgiveness, and protection. I will gladly bear my sorrow and terror, at least knowing that Thomas is safe.

  I settle back into bed, blinking. When I close my eyes, I see hawks circling overhead, shrieking. Their black wings spread against the blue sky.

  XXXIV

  Cranmer arrives midday, this time alone. He spins out the same questions, persisting in order to uncover even the most intimate details of my relationship with Francis. Though I’ve attempted all day to prepare myself for further interrogation, I can feel the great black maw of fear opening up beneath me, threatening to swallow me whole. I’m worried that the words aren’t coming out of my mouth in the right sequence, or that I’m not even speaking English anymore. I don’t know how much they know, and I fear saying too much and incriminating myself further.

  “Dereham has been heard to say that if the king were dead, then he may claim you as his wife,” Cranmer informs me. “He says that you were betrothed to him before your marriage to the king. This prior betrothal would render you an unsuitable bride for the king. You married King Henry under false pretenses, already the promised wife of another.”

  “There was no proper marriage contract,” I insist. “I never intended to marry Francis Dereham.”

  “And yet you allowed carnal relations with him, even without benefit of a precontract?”

  “No, I mean, I—” Am I damning myself further? Which is worse? Which makes me more unfit to have married the king? “He called me his wife, but we were not married. It was his own pride, his own boastfulness to claim me as his own. I’ve only once been properly married. Only once!”

  I slide off my chair and fall to my knees on the ground, my head lowered. “Please, I beg you, please let me see the king. I must explain all of this to him.”

  “You will not see the king, Catherine, but I am here to offer you the possibility of His Majesty’s mercy. Your only hope is to make a full confession of your faults.”

  “Is this the king’s decision?” I ask, thinking suddenly of the king’s illness earlier this year, and how I was barred from his chambers. “The king does not want to see me?”

  Cranmer shifts slightly in his chair.

  “Please, please allow me to see my husband. He chose me as his queen; I should at least be granted the opportunity to explain my actions directly to him.”

  “No, the king has made his requirements plain.” There is something sharp, jagged, lying beneath the archbishop’s calming tones. “You must confess all if you hope to receive the king’s mercy.”

  “You are asking me to admit to a precontract that did not exist. I will not do it.” My ladies are right: they cannot condemn me for actions that took place before my marriage, before I ever met Henry, before I ever came to court. “Did your carnal relationship with Dereham continue after your marriage to the king?”

  “No.”

  “You appointed your former lover to a position in your household, is that correct?”

  “Yes, he came to me, he wanted a position. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t . . . nothing happened between us.”

  “My queen.” Cranmer’s voice is softly menacing. “Dereham has already condemned himself by speaking of the king’s death. It is already over for him. Now you must think of yourself. A complete written confession is your only hope for mercy.”

  Dereham has condemned himself. Speaking of the king’s death. I try to make my mind blank, to disconnect myself from these thoughts.

  He leads me to a writing desk, produces a piece of parchment, and urges me gently into the chair. All of my life there has been someone to tell me what to do, what to say, how to act, what to wear. My family has already deserted me, disowned me in disgust with my behavior. Now here I sit across from my Lutheran enemy, urged to write a confession of my sins against my husband, the king. Do I have the option to refuse?

  “Catherine, these are grave offenses against His Majesty,” Cranmer murmurs. “But the king is willing to be merciful if you are completely honest.”

  Completely honest. How vexing I find those words.

  As I submit to his insistence to write my confession, I feel that I am barely here anymore, barely living in this skin and bones that are my body on this earth. I float up above the proceedings, disconnected, watching it unfold like a play, or a farce.

  I deeply regret that I have injured the heart of my dear sweet prince whose kindness and favor mean everything to me in my life. I will confess to concealing former faults in the light of my love for you, my dear king. I confess to you now in the hopes that you will look with sorrow and mercy upon the weakness of my female mind and female flesh, so desirous to be taken into Your Grace’s favor . . .

  I write the truth about Manox in as brief and succinct prose as I can manage: we kissed and I was a foolish child who should have known better. In regard to the matter of Francis—no doubt he has told them, I can tell by their questioning that they already know the truth. Torture aided his confession, most likely, in addition to the bitterness he felt toward me for rejecting his love.

  Still, I must choose my words carefully. I admit that I allowed him to court me in secret when I was but a child unschooled in the ways of proper love and honor. I confess the details of our relationship: the tokens of affection we exchanged, and the habit we began of calling each other husband and wife—terms of endearment, merely. But in spite of the various times he took liberties with my person upon my bed in the maidens’ chamber of Lambeth, I never made any formal promise to marry him.

  “How could I have?” I turn to Cranmer, who peers ov
er my shoulder at the paper before me. “I am only a girl. A girl does not choose whom she will marry.”

  I end with a solemn request for compassion for a girl who was pulled too strongly by her emotions and granted little guidance in such affairs. Henry already finds the female flesh weak, so I think this will be the most effective way to explain myself. Indeed, I can think of no other explanation at my disposal. A king’s lust and obsessions are called love and become law, but these same impulses in a queen are treason.

  I think Henry and I are more alike than we will ever know.

  “Come now, Catherine.” Cranmer’s voice is soothing, cajoling. “What new fantasy has come into your head? If there is more, you must tell it. You can confide it in me.” I lift my hands and feel the tears pouring down my face. I am gasping—the sound of my sobs frightening to hear.

  “The king’s mercy makes my offenses appear even more heinous than they did before,” I cry, my voice wavering with sobs. “The more I consider the greatness of his mercy, the more I do sorrow that I should have so injured the heart of His Majesty. Please tell him that. Tell him that he is my husband—my only husband—and that I will die claiming him so!”

  Let him give the king my confession, and tell him of my bitter repentance. I am not Francis Dereham’s wife, I am Henry’s wife. His beloved wife, for whose love he was thanking God mere days ago. He will need to see me, and he will forgive me. I will not allow Cranmer and Norfolk and all his council—men with their own intentions—to convince me otherwise. Henry’s great old heart has been through too much heartache to permit any more. He will welcome me back into his arms, into his heart, and we will be all the sweeter with each other when he does. I can see it all when I close my eyes: Henry and I, together, our tearstained cheeks pressed side by side.

  When I look up and blink my eyes, my vision is fogged. Cranmer is leaving, and the ladies rush into the room to my aid. But I will be fine—I have confessed, and now await the king’s mercy. And he will be merciful, for Henry loves me. I am not like cousin Anne, whom he wanted to be rid of. I am Catherine. We danced just a few nights ago, before all of court, and he told me I looked beautiful. He told me that he loved me. I clamp my hand over my mouth, to keep the words inside. Henry loves me. He will save me from all of this.

  XXXV

  I’ve been imprisoned in my chambers for mere days, but it feels like years. I often walk from room to room, restless. It is a double imprisonment, spent visiting and revisiting old thoughts and fears as I walk, unseeing, from one room to the next, then back again to where I began. I’m waiting for Cranmer and Norfolk to arrive again, but I know that I will not say anything more to them. I will speak only to my husband, my king.

  Joan sets a tray of food upon the table before me; her hands are trembling, and the tray clatters upon the polished table. I look up and see that her face is white as snow.

  “Joan?”

  “I’ve just overheard, Your Grace.” She kneels before me, gathering my hands in hers. “The king has left Hampton, with only a few attendants.”

  “The king has left?”

  “Yes. They say he has gone to Oatlands Palace.” Her eyes flutter away from mine, nervously.

  “The king has left me here, alone?”

  “Was I right to tell you?”

  “Of course. Perhaps he is going to read my confession, in private,” I remark lightly. “Oatlands Palace in Surrey—that is where we were married.”

  “I know, Your Majesty.” She bends forward and presses my hand to her lips. “You will tell me if you need anything?”

  “Of course I will, Joan.”

  I need to see my husband. I need to calm his fears. I need for his love to save me.

  THE TRAYS OF FOOD ARRIVE, and hours later they are taken away in the same state. This is one of the few ways in which I can see that time is still passing, that it does not stand completely still. I watch the sun rise in the window, and then I watch it set, and I sit and hum softly to myself in the blackness. The blackness is particularly dangerous, full of evil, whispering things.

  Cranmer and Norfolk came to visit, but I told them nothing. How am I to gauge what to tell them so as not to reveal more than what they already know? Jane went into my privy chamber upon their arrival and she has not been out since.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Lisbeth and Dorothy, when I see them removing the knife from my dinner platter and wrapping it in a napkin. They look at each other.

  “Tell me—what are you doing? You can eat the dinner yourselves, you know that I will not. But you must answer my question.”

  “Norfolk told us to, my queen.” Dorothy dips a quick bow as she says this, but I see that she cannot look me in the eye. “He was afraid you may attempt to harm yourself.”

  “Indeed, Norfolk is very concerned about my well-being.”

  “We are concerned, Your Grace.” Lisbeth reaches her hand out to my arm, but I shrug her away. I return to the window again, because that is where time moves. That is the only place where time still moves.

  THE SUN HAS SET, and my chambers were raided: Joan, Dorothy, Lisbeth, Katherine, Malyn—all of them have been taken in for questioning, to glean what they know about my dalliance with Francis.

  In the silence of their departure, weariness threatens to overtake me, pull me under. But when I close my eyes, the screaming gets closer, louder, until it fills my head: Manox and Dereham, locked within the Tower, stretched upon the rack. What will they do to them? What will they confess? Will Thomas be safe? What about my ladies?

  But I already know: my ladies will not need torture. The words will spew out of their mouths without a second thought. They will betray my confidence to save themselves, I am certain. Had they not been thinking solely of their own gain when they requested posts in my chambers? There was nothing I could have done to stop them. Nothing I could have done. Instead it appears that I was reliving my days at Lambeth here at court, with all of my ladies around me and my paramour given a position in my household. I cannot deny the wickedness of this vision. Is this what Henry thinks of me, now? Is this how far I have fallen in his eyes?

  The images shift, change: now I see Henry. I’m lying beside him upon his great royal bed, with the sheer golden curtains. Henry is sleeping. I can’t think of Thomas now, or else the king will know: he will see my dreams, he will know all. I hover over the king’s sleeping face in the darkness. His eyes fly open suddenly, and he wakes with a horrifying roar, his eyes livid with fire.

  The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him.

  I’ve made a fool of the king on his marriage bed! I hadn’t meant to but I did. He grasps my neck, ready to choke me to death.

  A strangled cry in the darkness startles me. I am awake now, completely awake, sitting upon a window seat and fully dressed. I peer into the darkness and fumble forward on trembling legs. A hand grabs my arm. I gasp in fear, but I can’t release myself from the icy grip.

  “Be careful! Be careful where you step.”

  “Jane? Jane, what is wrong?”

  “Be careful where you step, the hole has opened up.” She points a white hand into the shadows before us. “The pit of darkness.”

  “Jane, you must talk to me.” I put my hand upon her arm, cautiously. “We must decide what we will tell them—and not tell them. They are going to question you, soon enough.”

  “It does not matter what we tell them, fool!” she snaps.

  “Watch your words, Jane.”

  “Watch my words? I’m watching them. I can see them pouring out of my mouth.” She pants, frantically.

  “Then stop pouring them. Watch what you say—say nothing. Answer none of their questions.”

  “It is too late, Catherine, for you and for me.” She steps close to me, a slice of cold moonlight from the window lights upon her face. Her eyes are wide, unblinking. “It has been a long time coming for me. Guilt or innocence does not matter. I know more about court than you do, my queen. I’ve seen fa
r more than you’ve seen.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “Or haven’t seen, more like.” She laughs at this, a thin, wheezing laugh that sends a chill through my bones. “I haven’t seen many things I’ve said I’ve seen. You must understand this about court, Catherine: if they want to do away with you, they will find some way to do it. They will find any way to do it, it does not matter if it’s true or not.” A slight smile sharpens the corners of her mouth. “Just like we did to your cousin Queen Anne.”

  “What do you mean, what we did, Jane? What did you do?”

  “I did what they wanted me to do. I played an important service to the king. He was tired of her—he was sick at the sight of her. But how to be rid of her, really rid of her noxious presence? They said she was a witch, and in some ways it was true, mark me!”

  She shakes my arm viciously at this, pushing her face close to mine.

  “But there had to be more than that, there had to be much more. So I told them about her couplings with courtiers, a lowly court musician—even her own brother.”

  “Your husband.”

  “Yes! My husband, my darling husband, already sick at the sight of me, from the moment we were wed.”

  I see fire in her eyes, now, a dark flame smoldering there. Her look burns me.

  “So I said that I saw them together, in her high royal bed. A travesty against God. You can see many things, if you want to see them, if it is convenient to see them.”

  “Then it was all a lie?”

  “They wanted to be rid of her, and so did I. And her rotten brother along with her! So I helped them. I helped them using Anne’s own words against her—and then I added my own, for good measure.” She laughs again: a startling, guttural sound.

  “Who are they, Jane? The king wanted to be rid of Anne, but who else?”

  “The king; the king and more than the king. All the rest of them—the Boleyns, the Howards.”