The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  There is a flicker of movement in the window. I see a stark face reflected beside my own, staring at me. White face, black eyes, black hair. I turn my head, and she’s still here.

  It is Anne Boleyn.

  “I was a girl, just like you,” she tells me, “can you imagine such a thing?”

  She sits up on the window seat, across from me. She rolls her shoulders back and stretches her long, slender torso. She is sharp and elegant and womanly and proud, just as I saw her that day, on her coronation. But as she stretches I can see the red streak across her white neck—I look away, but she only laughs.

  “No, I wasn’t just like you. We are quite different. I was crowned queen and I produced an heir. But here you are, so soon, so soon. Here you are, waiting and waiting and waiting.”

  I feel dizzy looking at her; I can’t breathe. She makes my vision blur: her skin so pale, her hair so dark, the wound upon her neck dripping red.

  “What will you do now, Catherine?” She cocks one slim eyebrow as she asks me this. “How far will you go to save yourself?”

  Henry loves me, Henry will save me. Thomas will protect me. Love will save me in the end. Anne laughs suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. Nothing is safe from her. She stares at me, her eyes gleaming, feral.

  “Love will not save you, Catherine. Especially not love from Henry, for he loves nothing so much as himself. You should know that by now.” She turns her head to the side again, craning her elegant neck, brandishing the wound before me. “You are not so special, so singular, to have been granted the king’s love.”

  “But he chose me, he married me.” I whisper.

  “He chose you for lust, not love. He glorifies his lust into love—he would glorify the spot where he shits if he could.” She bristles, eyes gleaming. “His tiny man-member wagged, and he followed wherever it led him, destroying all that stood in his path. His family, his country, his church—his lust was paramount to all. Do you think he will hesitate to destroy you?”

  I am his wife, I think, but dare not say aloud.

  “This is the predicament of a woman’s power.” She tilts her chin down, lifting her eyes to mine—her eyes glisten like onyx. “We are blamed for a man’s lust. You can see this now, can’t you?”

  I nod my head slightly. She smiles, her mouth a gleaming red crescent.

  “We inspire lust in men; it is our power. But does it really make us powerful, or vulnerable? We are desired, and then we are debased. First we are goddesses, then mere mortal women, then harlots. It was this way with me, and now with you, too.” She narrows her eyes at me, inspecting me carefully. “I am sure you had no idea of the danger of the power you possessed.”

  He loved me. He thanked God for me. I grit my teeth angrily. He does not want to be rid of me, the way he wanted to be rid of you.

  “That can hardly matter now, Catherine.” Anne responds to my thoughts. As she stares at me, I can see a realization dawn in her eyes; she smiles with malicious amusement. “You still think he will save you, don’t you? How can you possibly think such a thing?”

  “What do I do?” I ask her. My voice is a shameful croak.

  “There is nothing left for you, Catherine.” Her eyes are black, depthless. I can feel myself falling into them, like the hole of madness pulsing in the middle of the floor. “You’ve learned nothing from me. I cannot help you, now.”

  “THIS IS YOUR final chance to confess, Catherine,” Norfolk tells me. He is leaning over me. He looks very, very tall. I shift my head away from the window. My hair is matted in a tangle against my cheek.

  “I have nothing to confess,” I tell him; my voice is quiet, hoarse. They will not fool me into betraying my love.

  “Then it is too late for you.”

  I flash my eyes at his. Too late for me? Too late for what? In response to my brittle gaze, Cranmer pulls a roll of parchment from his pocket.

  “ ‘I intended to do ill with the queen, and the queen likewise intended to do ill with me,’ ” he reads.

  “Who would say—”

  “Your beloved Thomas Culpeper,” Cranmer informs me, “your ‘little sweet fool.’ ”

  My breath catches in my throat, my heart tumbles over itself.

  “Jane, she arranged it,” I mutter, inconsequentially. “It was her idea.”

  “She disagrees with that, as well. She assures us that the meetings were entirely your idea, and that she tried to dissuade you from such danger, but that you would not listen to her.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but Cranmer cuts my words short.

  “Before you try blaming your lover, Catherine, I think it best that you know he has already placed the blame on you.” Cranmer lowers himself to my level. His face is very close to mine; I can feel his warm, stale breath as he speaks. He turns back to his paper and reads: “ ‘The queen demanded to meet with me, every night. The queen was languishing and dying of love for me.’ ”

  “But nothing happened—we met together, but nothing happened.”

  “But the intent was there, do you admit it?”

  “I—I don’t—”

  “Your ladies have corroborated this story with their testimony.” Norfolk moves on smoothly. “They all saw the way you looked at Culpeper, they saw that clearly you were in love with him. You made little effort to hide it.”

  “And look where it has led you.” Cranmer leans closer to my face. “Were you in love with him, Catherine? Now is your final chance to confess.” But I can already see the truth of it: nothing I say will make any difference, now.

  “I thought I was,” I tell them, “I thought he loved me. But I was wrong.”

  “I am afraid that what you may feel now matters little.” Norfolk sighs, he pulls a ragged piece of paper from his doublet pocket and holds it before my face. Master Culpeper . . . I never longed for anything so much as to see you . . . Yours as long as life endures, Catherine.

  “Let’s be clear on this point, little niece.” Norfolk’s voice is harsh and sneering. “When you signed this letter, you signed your own death warrant into law. There is no mercy for you, now.”

  The screaming begins. It’s a horrible, animal sound pouring out of me, and I can’t stop it. Nothing can stop it. Norfolk and Cranmer stand back, disgust and horror in their eyes. I am on this earth again, I feel stuck to this earth, unable to rend myself from it. My skin burns at the contact with reality. I look down and realize I’m raking my ragged fingernails over my arms, tearing my flesh.

  Cranmer and Norfolk recede into the shadows. The ladies rush in to comfort me. But there is no mercy, no comfort for me, now.

  “Confess to God,” Mathilde urges me. “Forget about Cranmer. Forget about any of them. Confess your sins to God, and be forgiven.”

  “There is no forgiveness for me.”

  The black hole in the floor pulses, spreads. I watch it, and all I can do is scream.

  “There is always forgiveness, Catherine,” Mathilde tells me. “But only if you are willing—”

  “What about Thomas?” I ask them. “What will happen to him? I will lose him now, I will surely lose him—” I begin screaming again, tears streaming down my face. Mathilde looks at me with pursed lips, then slaps me suddenly across the face. I’m so shocked that I stop crying. The room is silent.

  “Catherine, I’m sorry—but don’t you see what he’s done to you? He could have saved you, but he didn’t. He could have sacrificed himself for your sake, but he didn’t. His words have condemned you both.”

  “Then he did not love me?” My voice is high and whining, like a child’s. I cannot look into her eyes for shame. She reaches out and lifts my chin so that I must face her; her eyes are not stern, they are soft, wet.

  “It doesn’t mean that he did not love you, or that he does not love you, now,” she says softly. “He was tortured, Catherine. He was afraid. Perhaps he thought you had betrayed him. I wish it had not been so. But I promised to tell you the truth.”

  “I didn’t betray him. He betray
ed me.”

  “I know. This is not a poem, or a song, or a dream about romance—this is life and death. Perhaps he loved you very much, and then pain and fear swallowed him whole. But I want you to stop thinking about him for a moment, and think instead of yourself.”

  She takes my hand in hers. The others are seated on the floor beside us. They shuffle closer; Mary takes my other hand, and Elsie’s completes the link.

  “Pray for forgiveness for yourself, and for all of them. We all must pray.”

  “God will think me weak and a fool.”

  “God will think that you are His child,” she says soothingly, “and that you were led down the wrong path. Tell Him that. Pray.”

  I close my eyes and do as she says. Thomas betrayed me, but my love for him still burns inside my heart. I can only hope that Henry feels the same way about me. The remembrance of our love and happiness could still save me, Henry could still save me. I close my eyes and pray for this: for Henry’s love and mercy.

  THE FIRE IS WARM, I can feel its heat radiating out to me. I’m wrapped up in a blanket on this window seat, my head propped up by a satin cushion. I don’t spend much time in this room anymore, floating in and out. Floating around. This life is where nightmares live—I avoid it as much as I can.

  I look out the window. The glass is foggy and misshapen, but I can see that the sun has set outside. It is twilight, the sky a rich blue. I hear footsteps, hoofbeats, the call of a hawk. I look down to the path below my window: Thomas Culpeper is standing there. I press my palm flat against the dim glass.

  He smiles at me. His eyes are black against his pale face—I have not forgotten how dark his eyes are, nor the way they crinkle in the corners. I have not forgotten, Thomas. I have not forgotten you. He lifts his hand and waves at me, smiling, then turns to leave. I pound my hand against the glass to get his attention.

  My pounding ceases suddenly when Mary grabs my wrist. I struggle for a moment, scowling, but say nothing.

  “Who are you waving to, my lady?”

  “Thomas,” I tell her. “He’s come to see me.”

  I turn to look back out to the dim street but she pulls me away, shaking me slightly.

  “He is dead, Catherine,” she whispers. “It is over, he is dead.”

  “No, I just saw him.” I push her arms away and turn again to the window. But Thomas is gone. Her words made him leave—her dark, evil words. Why would she say such things? Why?

  “Perhaps he came to say good-bye,” she says, resting her hand upon my shoulder, but I shrug her off.

  “Why? Am I going somewhere?” I ask.

  “No.” Mary tucks me back into my place on the window seat. I lean my head back and think of Thomas: his long-fingered hands, his sinewy arms and bare chest, his spine like a row of sharp stones beneath my fingertips.

  WHEN I LOOK again at the dark window, I see her beside me. I knew she would be back.

  “Your lovers are dead, Catherine,” Anne tells me. Her long slender fingers are stark white against her black gown. “And they’ve left you here, waiting, waiting. It is a sad story.”

  “You don’t seem sad,” I croak.

  “No. Because everyone will remember me. But how will history remember you, Catherine, have you thought of that?”

  I turn back to the window, hoping to see Thomas on the street below. But the sky is too dark. All I can see is my own face reflected there, and Anne Boleyn’s reflected beside it. Her eyes are endlessly black, cavernous, like the sky. I could get lost in them.

  “You didn’t even manage to add your own blood to the line of succession,” Anne reminds me, the words rolling seductively off her tongue. “That was my triumph—my daughter still lives, waiting for the day when she may take the crown in my stead.”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

  “You do not really think that, do you?” Anne’s laughter is sharp, like broken glass. “You cannot possibly be satisfied with mediocrity. Can you?”

  But I was never ambitious the way Anne was, harboring ambition that stretches beyond the grave. I would have liked to have had a baby, to watch him grow. But while the crown may secure riches, it does not secure happiness. Henry is living proof of that.

  “There is only one way that you will be remembered, if at all.” She moves closer, whispering in my ear. “As the second, and less remarkable, of Henry’s executed queens.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be remembered,” I tell her, though she laughs at the mere idea of it. “Maybe I wish I never was queen.”

  “And you aren’t anymore.” Anne shivers in delight. “Those girls already told you. You are no longer queen. You are merely Catherine Howard.”

  Merely Catherine Howard. I close my eyes, willing Anne to leave me. It is true: a proclamation was released by the Privy Council that I had forfeited my honor, and in so doing would no longer be named queen, but merely Catherine Howard. Now, to be Catherine Howard is no inconsequential thing, nor is it a promising thing. It is to be in the very heart of danger, hovering over the mouth of hell.

  XXXVIII

  “Your family will most likely be released, soon. Perhaps in the new year,” Mary tells me by way of consolation. We are seated together before the fire. The days have grown colder, bitter. I did not want to move, but the ladies pulled me bodily from my window seat and settled me here, upon a cushioned chair close to the flames. I had wanted to sit by the window, in the hopes of seeing Thomas again, but I dare not tell them this. I know they will not understand.

  “Who?” I ask, as though just waking up from a long nap. “Where are they?”

  “The Tower,” Elsie tells me, but chokes on the word as soon as she says it.

  “Nearly all of the Howards at court have been incarcerated,” Mary continues. “The Tower is so crowded that even the royal chambers have been opened for use.”

  “And how are they charged?”

  “With misrepresentation to the king.”

  Yes, yes, they told me about this. They are all guilty for having represented me as a virgin: the duchess, my siblings, various cousins, aunts and uncles—everyone who found places of honor at court upon my marriage to the king. Now they all seek to assure the Privy Council that they knew nothing of my wild misdeeds, either before or during my marriage. My eyes flash from one to another of the ladies. I wonder what they know of my “evil demeanor.”

  “What about Norfolk?” I ask.

  “He wrote a beseeching letter to the king, stating his innocence in the matter.”

  I laugh at this, and I can see that the sound of it startles them.

  “And the king has granted him mercy?”

  Mary darts her eyes from mine, but Mathilde nods, warily.

  “And what of the duchess?”

  “The duchess was caught destroying the contents of Dereham’s coffer, thinking it might contain evidence,” Mathilde informs me, squinting at the head of a needle and a bit of thread. “She was also imprisoned, but I heard that she told them where eight hundred pounds could be found, hidden in various places at Lambeth. I think that will help her case.”

  At the thought of the duchess’s hiding places, a harsh laugh bursts from my lips. Elsie jumps at the sound of it and stares at me with wide eyes. But I can’t stop laughing—a gasping, hysterical laughter. The ladies are pale and frightened, but I don’t know how to stop.

  “Oh, come now, laugh with me, won’t you? We must find something to laugh about.”

  The ladies try to laugh, but they are unsuccessful. I drown them all out with the sound of my howls. Anne Boleyn stands across the room, watching me; her image ripples as tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know if the others can see her, standing there. She smiles, knowingly. Her smile is for me alone.

  “YOU MUST WAIT for Parliament to reconvene before you learn your fate,” Norfolk informs me. “They will meet after Advent, in the new year.”

  The sight of Norfolk in my chamber startles me as I awake. It has been so long since I have had any news at
all. I blink in the bright light and stand before him.

  “I must confess to the king. Will I see him soon? Before the trial?”

  “The king has left this matter to his advisers. You will wait for their action.”

  “I see I have no choice. I have always done whatever I was bid—whatever you told me to do.” My eyes flash at his briefly. “And this is where it led me.”

  “Your own sin has led you here, Catherine. You should know that by now.”

  “Then you have truly abandoned me, your own flesh and blood?”

  “I do what is best for the Howards—would you rather the whole lot of us fell along with you? I’ve worked too hard for too long for that to happen. You’re not the first niece of mine this court has seen fit to sacrifice. There are always other opportunities.”

  “You will do what is best for yourself. That is all you do.”

  “You may think what you wish of me, Catherine. But for your sake you should heed the sin and treason in your own heart.”

  “And what about your sin? You pushed me into this! You who knew my faults, and now you abandon me. I must make my peace with Henry.”

  “You must make your peace with God, Catherine. The king is done with this matter.”

  “The king is done with me?” I stare at him, and his expression does not waver. “What does that mean?”

  “When Parliament reconvenes, your Bill of Attainder will be drafted.”

  A Bill of Attainder. Just like the bill they wrote up for old Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury. An uncontested death warrant.

  “There will be no trial, Catherine.”

  “No trial? No chance to defend myself before Parliament, before the king? This is how you will do away with me?”

  “You were already given your chance to confess. Your confession has been judged by Parliament, as has the evidence against you.”