The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  She laughs at the shock upon my face, her mouth wide open.

  “There was no enchantment, no witchcraft, Catherine. Anne was just a girl—a girl they propped up on the throne, just as they did with you. But she was common, brutal, challenging. The king tired of her. And when the king tired of her, her family had little use for her anymore.”

  I remember now, suddenly: that night in the midst of Anne’s trial. The cloaked figure at the duchess’s chamber door. The dark cloak and white hands—a woman’s hands. And then Jane testified, and soon after Anne’s fate was sealed.

  “You met with the duchess, before Anne’s trial,” I tell her.

  “Of course I did,” she says. “The duchess is rather brilliant at lying—but I’m sure you know that now. I met with all manner of Boleyns and Howards. We had to get our stories straight. We had to get our lies lined up, in order. The king wanted to be rid of her, Catherine, and we were helping him. There was no saving her, so we decided we might as well help him get rid of her as quickly as possible, and save ourselves.”

  She laughs, but the laughter falters, as if stuck in her throat. She swallows. “And now my time has come.”

  “What are you saying? Jane!” Her gaze wanders from me, suddenly, as if gazing at some other horror standing in the room beside me. Jane’s own ghosts have found her, here. I shake her rudely to wake her from her reverie.

  “And now our time has come. They will not need to lie, Catherine. We did this to ourselves.”

  “You told me that I would be safe—that you would keep my secret. I was in danger, Jane. You told me it was the only thing that I could do.”

  “You could have been safe, you could have been. But now they’ve found a means to be rid of you—Cranmer, the Privy Council, the rest of them, they’ve all wanted to be rid of you, before you bear a child. Not the king, this time, but the power that surrounds him. They’ve found a means to be rid of you, and it will be enough. More than enough. But they didn’t have to make up anything, did they, Catherine? They only needed to find out the truth.”

  She stares at me, her dark eyes wide and unblinking; but her gaze seems distant, as though she is staring straight through me.

  “Be careful where you step, Catherine.”

  She points toward the floor in the center of the dark room.

  “The blackness is there: madness, death. It’s opened up. Be careful not to step into it. If it swallows you, there is no coming back again.”

  She releases my arm and sinks back into the shadows, muttering to herself. I stand here numbly, dumbly. I think that my whole world has changed: the witch wasn’t a witch, after all. Anne was just a girl—a girl not unlike me.

  But the king wanted to be rid of her. The king doesn’t want to be rid of me, I am sure of it. Just this month, this very month, he gave thanks for me, his loving wife. The others may want to be rid of me, but not Henry, my Henry. He is a king—his power must be greater than any they can muster, in the end.

  TIME HAS PASSED, and my ladies have still not returned from questioning. Several meek, lowly maidens tend to my needs as I wait for them to return. But when the guards arrive, they arrive alone.

  “Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford,” they announce as they enter my chamber. We all know what they mean by this. “She is not well,” I say, my voice rough and croaking from my throat. But they pay this no mind. They follow a maid to the privy chamber, where Jane has been staying. The moment the door opens, I hear her scream. The guards lift her in their arms, unperturbed by her wild cries. When she sees me, she begins to scream louder, as if she has seen the devil, himself.

  Anything she tells them will be no more than the ravings of a madwoman—how can they glean any truth from that? Or perhaps the truth is not necessary. They will hear what they want to hear.

  And what about that truth? Was I really acting out of Henry’s desperation to secure an heir, or my passionate desire to spend a night with Thomas? I relive every scene from the summer progress, unwillingly, until they become jumbled in my memory—nights with the king and nights with Thomas overlapping in a frightening series of images, too fast for me to fully understand. Was I simply desperate to be with him, and used this as my excuse?

  It was all for the baby, I remind myself. It was all to save my life. Now, imprisoned in my chambers at Hampton Court, I wonder if this was enough of a pretext for treason.

  XXXVI

  Cranmer and Norfolk arrive, and call all of the remainder of my household into the main chamber.

  “Am I to see the king?” I rush up to Norfolk and ask quietly. He pretends not to have heard me.

  “You will be departing today for Syon House, for the remainder of your confinement. You will be permitted to take three ladies with you. You will be under house arrest, but served as queen.”

  “With only three ladies to attend to me?”

  “Three should be enough.”

  I watch, dumbfounded, as he chooses my maids for me: three bland girls whose names I don’t remember from the group of inexperienced ladies who found their way into my household.

  “What gowns am I permitted to take?” They glare at me: a foolish, prattling girl to be concerned about such insignificant matters as my wardrobe in the midst of my imprisonment. But there is nothing I can do to stop myself. I watch as the ladies gather my belongings: six gowns, six hoods, all of them in somber colors and simple design, unadorned with any cloth of gold or jewels or elaborate embroidery. All of my jewelry will be left behind here, at Hampton.

  I stand with the ladies, inspecting the clothing I’m allowed to take with me. If I don’t inspect this hood closely enough, then I will fall into the great abyss of fear that has opened up before me—just what Jane told me about. I can see it today, even in bright daylight: a black hole in the middle of the stone floor. I carefully step around it whenever necessary, even lifting my gown over the spot so as not to dip it into the blackness. The guards see me do this, but say nothing.

  We are taken by barge to Syon House. It was Syon Abbey for years, until Henry reclaimed it during the dissolution and converted it into a residence. I’m given a suite of rooms with a private bedchamber. These rooms lack the rich tapestries, the luxuriant abundance of velvet pillows of my previous residences. It seems that everything in life has been robbed of its sparkle: my own gown is bland, as bland as the three ladies who stand before me in dark, plain gowns, their faces pale and blank as stone.

  “This is a suitable place for a nunnery,” I remark upon entering my chamber, “and now I shall dress as a nun, as well. I shall dress as you do.”

  The ladies lower their heads, and I laugh at them.

  “Perhaps God will come to me, here.” I feel unable to stop laughing. “No, no, that won’t happen. God left here a long time ago. King Henry evicted Him.”

  Suddenly I hear the door behind us being shut, and locked. This is not a nunnery, or a queen’s chamber: this is a prison. I must not forget that.

  When I turn, I see a pale form staring back at me. I gasp at the sight of the ghost—her face so pale, her eyes so dark. It is Anne Boleyn, staring at me, mocking me in my despair.

  I was no witch! the ghost shrieks. She lifts her arm and points at me, in accusation. I was no witch! I was only a girl!

  “I am only a girl! This can’t happen to me!”

  “What’s wrong, Your Grace? What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t you see her? Don’t you see?” I point toward the ghost, still standing in her accusatory pose. My lady looks at the ghost, blankly, then returns her gaze to me.

  “It is a mirror, my queen.”

  I turn to glare at her; she winces at my expression, but does not falter from my gaze. I step forward, and the revenant steps closer. I reach out and my fingers make contact with a sheet of cold glass.

  Now I can see: it is my own reflection staring back at me.

  MARY, MATHILDE, AND ELSIE are a more subdued trio of ladies than I have ever had in my company. Even their names are plain, a
nd part of me would like to tell them so. But even when I am cross they seem untroubled by my behavior. They are quiet, sedate, but also diligent. This room does still seem a queen’s chamber, if only for their fastidiousness in dressing me, arranging my hair, bringing my meals, and offering whatever meager comforts they can manage. Truly, it is not so mean an existence as I had expected; I am still being treated with some mercy, perhaps there is hope yet for more.

  “You know I won’t eat that,” I inform Mathilde as she places a breakfast tray upon the table.

  “Whatever you wish, my queen. But, for your sake, I humbly beg you to eat. You must be hungry, and it is important for you to keep your strength.”

  “I see no reason for strength, if I am stuck here all day. I don’t know what is happening in the world beyond these walls.”

  “We want you to be prepared for whatever happens, my queen.”

  The other ladies look up from their embroidery, their gazes locked on my face.

  “We all must be prepared for whatever may happen.” Mathilde reaches forward and places her hand lightly upon my arm.

  “What do you know?” My voice is sharp with sudden anger, my eyes burning. “Tell me right now—I order you. Tell me what you know.”

  “I know nothing, my queen, save what you have already been told. Your ladies, along with Henry Manox and Francis Dereham, have been taken to the Tower for questioning.”

  “For torture and questioning,” I tell her, just to see her eyelids quiver with fear.

  “I have not heard it said aloud, but it is most likely true. Yes.” She gazes down at my hand as she says this. “Beyond that, I know nothing more. We none of us know more, but we would tell you if we did.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I whisper. The sound of my own voice frightens me. “I don’t know what I’m waiting for.”

  “We are here,” she tells me. Her voice is calm. “We will wait with you. We will wait for whatever is to come.”

  The hole in the floor is there. I look away from it. I look back to Mathilde’s face.

  “You are tired, you must get some sleep.” She sits on a cushion beside me and reaches up to stroke my hair. I am tired, it’s true, but I’ve been too afraid to sleep, too afraid of dreaming. But the ladies are all seated around me, and a fire is lit. I place my head upon a pillow, just to rest.

  THESE GIRLS ARE not the usual type one finds at court. Perhaps I would have been better met with them as companions than the ladies of Lambeth, in my youth. I dream of this often, in fact: the dream of an alternate life, an alternate Catherine. This Catherine never caught the king’s eye, but instead married Thomas Culpeper and became the mother of his children. I imagine our wedding in lavish detail: the gown, the church, all of my family present, proud of me. It is all so precious, so beautiful, until the moment the king appears to grant his blessing to us both and I awake, screaming and shaking uncontrollably.

  “Breathe, my queen, breathe. Breathe.” Always when I wake, one of the ladies is here, beside me. At first they were interchangeable, but now I notice slight differences: Mathilde is the oldest, her eyes lined with age. Mary is the prettiest, with soft hands and a soothing voice. Elsie is the youngest, and talks just above a whisper. She must not be any more than thirteen years old. I should tell her to be wary of King Henry, who likes a fresh young girl, but I think her plain face will keep her safe from all of the trouble I have endured.

  “They will not let me see my husband,” I tell Mary. The room is dark. I don’t know when it became nighttime—have I been swallowed by the darkness? But then how would Mary be with me, if I’ve already been consumed? I blink; Elsie is stretching forward from her chair and lighting a candle. The shadows stretch up and light her gaunt, tired face.

  “Have they told you why?” Mary asks.

  “No, they have not told me why. I need to see him, I need to explain.”

  “You have offered him your confession, Catherine.” Mathilde rests her cool hands against my hot forehead. “All we can do now is pray for mercy.”

  Mary and Elsie take my hands, and we are linked together in a circle. They are quiet, their eyes closed, praying. I have confessed, I have—but not everything. I can’t even bear the thought of confessing it all to these ladies, for fear of what they may think of me. I clench my lips tightly shut, for fear the damning truth will spring free of its own accord. Will God deem me worthy of mercy? I close my eyes, in spite of my fear. I pray, silently, for mercy, a stream of words I dare not say aloud.

  FOOTSTEPS. I OPEN MY EYES again, sit up from bed. The ladies are sleeping. I enter the main chamber to find Thomas Wriothesley—another heretical council member, according to Norfolk. But what is he now, ally or enemy? I should assume enmity in everyone, my own uncle Norfolk included.

  “Will I be permitted to see the king?” I ask, before he can say a word. “I would like to see him and speak to him in person. It is my only request.”

  Wriothesley only nods at this solemnly, and gestures to a chair in the middle of the room—the interrogation chair. But I have no interest in sitting there.

  “Am I to see the king, my husband?”

  “Not yet,” he says, studying my face. “I have more questions that must be answered.”

  What could he possibly want now? I’ve already offered my confession. I’ve already written—

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Thomas Culpeper?”

  I blink at him, as if I don’t understand the question. Did he really say that? Am I dreaming? The room is full of blue shadows; it is either dawn or twilight. This could be a dream, I could be—

  “Catherine,” he says sternly. He is calling my name, as if calling me back from a far-off place. “You must answer me. You must know the answer. What was the nature of your relationship with Thomas Culpeper?”

  “He is my cousin,” I tell him.

  “Yes, and perhaps much more than that, according to your ladies. Only your full confession will grant you any mercy from the king. You must tell all.”

  But how would mercy be possible, once I’ve told all? Does he realize what he is asking me to admit? What do they already know? I can’t tell the truth! There is no mercy for treason. The king’s will be done!

  “Culpeper has been taken in for questioning,” he continues efficiently. The words echo deafeningly in my head: Thomas has been taken in for questioning. Thomas is in the Tower. The Tower!

  “Did you have a precontract to Culpeper, before your marriage to the king?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you allow him carnal knowledge of your person before or after you consummated your marriage to the king?”

  This is my only hope, to protect him, to protect us both. He is my love, my one true love, and he will never fail me.

  “No,” I tell him.

  “This was found on Culpeper’s person and identified as a gift from you.” He brandishes the ring before my face—the token I had bestowed on Thomas, in secret. But what does that mean? That means nothing, on its own.

  “Did you love Thomas Culpeper?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I did not love him. Nothing transpired between us.”

  “Do you admit to having met with Culpeper, in private?”

  “No.”

  “Lady Rochford tells a different story, Catherine.”

  Of course, Jane told them. Then it is too late, isn’t it, to deny it in its entirety?

  “She urged me to meet with him. She arranged the meetings. But it was entirely innocent. The ring was merely a gift, a trifle.”

  The ring glitters on Wriothesley’s fat finger. It winks at me like a cruel, bloodred eye. The blackness is here—close, so close to me.

  “Did you ever tell Thomas Culpeper that you loved him?”

  “No.” But my voice is growing smaller. I am separating from myself, like the cream curdling away from the milk. I am floating up from my head, floating up above this room, above it all. I think I am safer, here. I d
on’t know when I will ever come down, and live in my body, again.

  “No,” is all I manage to repeat. “No, no, no, no.”

  Thomas is in the Tower, but he will protect me. If there is anyone sworn to protect me, it is him. I would stake my life upon this. It is quite possible that I already have.

  XXXVII

  This world is a danger ous place and I float above it, safe from its insistent grasp. I float and I am safe. The ladies try to call me back to eat, to talk to them, to lie down and sleep. But I know it is better this way. I stay away from the black hole in the floor, though it gets bigger by the day. I watch as the others sidestep it, or nearly fall in. But they won’t fall in. That hole was meant for me. It is my madness, it is my fear.

  But I am not a part of this world. I am not living in flesh, anymore, as I’ve lived my life until now. I sit upon this window seat with a fur pulled over me, but I can’t feel the warmth of the fur, or the cool of the stone wall pressed against my cheek. I can’t smell the food, or hear the fire crackle. Sometimes I start shivering, but soon enough the quakes pass through me and I move on, through the storm. Elsie’s voice calls to me, from very far away, but I don’t answer her. I don’t have a voice left to answer. When I look again, I see little Elsie, her mousy-brown head bent over her embroidery sample, and she is crying. I don’t know why she’s crying. I look at it like a painting: Girl in Tears. I turn away. I float.

  “Do you have anything else to confess, Catherine? You must confess it now.” Voices are dim, are far away. I look at my uncle, but he is only a shadow. I am only a shadow. I can’t answer him.

  I dream of Thomas. I feel as if he is near me, now, and I hope that he can feel me near him, no matter where he is. No matter what they are doing to him. It has to be all right, it has to. Hope is not yet dead, though there are those bent upon destroying it. He is my love, and he will not fail me.

  The sky beyond the window is dark, and I see my own face reflected dimly in the warped glass. Who is that girl? I wonder, staring at the contour of my cheek, the shape of my full lips. I barely recognize myself, or perhaps I never really looked at myself this hard, this carefully. I half expect the image of my face to dissolve before my eyes.