The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  “What will you do, Catherine? What will you say?” she asks, sidling up to me. “I gave a fine speech before the swordsman did his job. No one present will forget my grace, my poise, in the last moments of my life.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. You were an actress up to the very end.” I turn and meet Anne’s gaze, not daring to turn away from the sharp wildness blazing from her eyes. “Maybe I am done with acting, with playing a role. Maybe now I can be myself again, the girl I used to be.”

  “What good is that?” she asks me, her maniacal laughter bubbling up in her throat, threatening to break free. “What good will that do? No one will remember it, Catherine. No one will be impressed with that.”

  “You made a very impressive speech, it’s true. But it didn’t change anything for you, did it? You were still executed. You’re still dead.”

  Anne opens her mouth for a bitter retort, but her voice doesn’t register in my ears. The image of her dissipates like so much smoke before my eyes. It’s not really Anne, after all, just my image of her—her perfection, her triumph, her condemnation. She has haunted me from the moment I first laid eyes upon her, a glittering image gliding upon the Thames. Now she is gone; I’ve no need for her judgment anymore.

  I look across to the chapel, alone. Saint Peter did not fear death, and God sent an angel to release him from his chains. I don’t expect an angel to save me, but the least I can do is to prepare myself. I draw a great breath, slowly; my chest expands. I must have peace, now. It is all there is left to me—but that does not mean it is nothing. It is a far greater thing than I ever realized.

  Turning away from the window, I gaze around the room. Mary and Mathilde are asleep before the fire. Elsie is asleep upon the bed, curled in exactly the position I found her when I awoke beside her, her arm slung over me. I sit at the small desk in this room and scrawl upon a piece of parchment a list of notes: what gowns and trinkets left to me will be granted to these three ladies, upon my death.

  It is very well to flatter and cater to a woman who is royalty, it is quite another to stand beside the condemned. For this small thing, I am so grateful. My heart grows in my chest at the thought of it, until I fear it might burst. There is danger there—I press my cold hands to my still-dry eyes. Once I fall apart, there will be no putting me back together again.

  I wonder how history will remember me. Will the details be obscured, exaggerated by time, or will all be washed away, forgotten as the years pass? My portrait was never painted, and only one small coin bears my royal symbol, to remind everyone that I was once queen. That I existed at all.

  I only wish I had more time, but I know this wish is not unique to me. I would have liked to have been a mother. Infants appreciate the world around them in ways that are easily forgotten—its brightness and its newness is their birthright. I think of the things that I loved as a child: the tall grass where I would curl up and sleep, the rough cracked bark of the trees I would climb, the trailing branches of the willow tree, the sun on my neck, the wind in my hair.

  All of my life I felt as if I belonged to someone else: my father’s pretty daughter, my grandmother’s charge, Anne Boleyn’s cousin, betrothed to Francis, beloved of Thomas, then wife to King Henry. I think back now to when I was truly myself, and I can see it in my mind: I’m a child, lying in the grass and singing, the face of a kitten moving close and sniffing the tip of my nose. I had nothing then, or I thought I had nothing, but really I had everything: I had myself. That was truly me, on my own and complete. It makes me smile, just to think of it.

  CRANMER ARRIVES TO inform me that my execution has been scheduled for tomorrow morning.

  “You must prepare your soul for death,” he says.

  “How does one do such a thing?” But he has no guidance to give me. He stands before me, his palms open in a sign of offering. I ponder this, at a loss for words. I stare out the window, thinking.

  I hear it, suddenly: a roar, from somewhere else in the Tower. It’s coming from the menagerie—that beautiful, majestic lion that the king had encaged until he became a sad, withered creature. He roars again, and I can feel it as if the sound is moving through my own body, a powerful feeling that makes my breath shudder in my chest. Perhaps the old beast is not so broken, after all. Perhaps there are still some things left to us, even in imprisonment: our courage, our dignity.

  I turn to Cranmer and blink, slowly.

  “Bring the block to my room,” I tell him.

  I SIT BEFORE THE MIRROR and glance at myself, warily. The room is dark, only a few candles are lit. My hair is matted and my eyes shadowed, my skin is pale; the other half of my face is submerged in darkness. I barely recognize myself.

  We all harbor the potential for evil within us. The royal court that I dreamed of for so long nurtures this evil. All of the dashing, handsome courtiers and beautiful ladies are consumed by darkness, consumed by themselves, harboring treason and betrayal in their hearts—betrayal even of those they love, for the sake of power. And I am one of them. I am no better than any of the most greedy, the most vile.

  But at least I did not betray my love, my true love. No, he did that for me. Thomas betrayed me. But that can’t matter anymore—it is too painful to matter. It is over and done.

  The life I have left to me now, brief though it is, is mine alone. I need counsel from no one on my decisions. What will I do now, on my own, with my life and with my death? I will stand and face it all, for that is all there is left for me to do. I have my dignity, something I’ve thought little of before this moment.

  I request a basin of cold water with which to wash my face. I have not washed properly in weeks, not wanting the bracing cold of water to wake me, to wash the sleep from my eyes, but I know it’s time. My gaze is cold and clear. I do not cry, knowing that to do so would be to split myself in two in fear and sorrow. The one thing I can do is remain whole. A strange calm washes over me. I am entering a new stage of my life: like Lambeth, like court, like the king’s bed. And like all the others, this next step requires me to leave the past behind. I am still an actress, given a script I have no choice but to play out tomorrow upon the great, grim stage of the Tower Green. Death is a foreign role, and therefore frightening to me. That is why it is frightening to us all.

  I settle my neck upon the block simply to know how it is done, to know that I can do it without crumbling. With practice, I can do it like a queen. This is how it is done, easily, and then it will be over. All of this fear will be over. I don’t know where I am going after this—to heaven or hell—but no one can know that for certain. All I can do now is pray, and hope that it will do me some good. I settle my neck upon the block, again, again. All I can do is practice until I know that I will be able to do it right.

  XL

  February 13 is a cold day, the earth crisp and white with snow. I wear a white gown, a simple silver circlet for the day of my death. It is pure, virginal. My hair is tied up, away from my neck.

  The sun is bright and dazzling reflected off the white snow. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun. It makes my eyes hurt to look at it as I step out onto the Tower Green.

  Lady Rochford walks behind me; I can hear her sniveling, but I block the sound from my ears. Ravens caw like squalling children, circling overhead. My ladies cluster around me like a shield from the press of the assembled crowd. As I make my way to the scaffold I keep my eyes averted from the block, the hooded executioner, the people squinting at me in the sun. My body feels both heavy and light all at once; my feet are heavy, shuffling along the path.

  We pause before the scaffold. The ladies’ faces are smeared with tears. I had thought to thank them here, but I cannot force the words from my throat. I touch their faces with my cold fingertips. The wind catches the hems of our dresses and lifts them like clouds, swirling and billowing around us. They look like three angels, standing around me. And they are here to watch my ascent.

  My feet are so heavy I can hardly lift them. The ladies hook their arms ben
eath mine and help me up the stairs of the scaffold. There is straw spread on the ground before us, around the block; it has a dull, ordinary gleam in the pale light. The murmuring of the crowd increases: the faces spread out in an ocean before me, undulating waves. When I turn to face them, I see that their faces are sad, dismayed, not angry. I feel the tears well in my eyes. Be brave. I have decided to be brave. My breath forms a cloud before my face in the cold air—I can see life puffing out of me. I had never thought to look at it, before.

  I place a coin in the hand of the executioner, just as I rehearsed last night. I grant him my forgiveness for what he is about to do. His gloved hand feels rough against my hand of ice.

  “She’s just a child,” I hear someone cry. “So young, too young.”

  “God save you, child,” another voice from the crowd cries. “God save you.”

  I can sense their horror, gazing up at me upon the scaffold, my white gown billowing in the wind.

  “Pray for me,” I ask them. My voice is weak, I don’t know if they can hear me. “Please, pray for me.”

  I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the brightness of the sun, but someone moves forward and covers my eyes with a cloth, ties it behind my head. My legs fold neatly under me. I don’t need to cry. I am braver than I thought was.

  “God, my soul is Yours. Please forgive me.” Please.

  As I lean forward to press my neck to the block, I hear the beating of drums.

  AND AFTER A MOMENT OF PAIN there is falling, but I hold my faith close to me, I let myself fall. After a moment of falling it’s all over, and I feel I’m being lifted. The brightness is gone. When I open my eyes there is light, but it does not make my eyes squint, it does not cause me pain.

  When I open my eyes, I know where I am. It is not London, nor court, nor the Tower. The grass is green, the sun is warm, and I hear singing: a young voice, light and sweet. The voice is pouring out of my own throat—it is pouring out of me.

  I know I am finally home.

  DESCRIPTION OF THE CONTRARIOUS PASSIONS IN A LOVER

  I find no peace, and all my war is done;

  I fear and hope, I burn, and freeze like ice;

  I fly aloft, yet can I not arise;

  And nought I have, and all the world I seize on,

  That locks nor loseth, holdeth me in prison,

  And holds me not, yet can I scape no wise:

  Nor lets me live, nor die, at my devise,

  And yet of death it giveth me occasion.

  Without eye I see; without tongue I plain:

  I wish to perish, yet I ask for health;

  I love another, and thus I hate myself;

  I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain.

  Lo, thus displeaseth me both death and life,

  And my delight is causer of this strife.

  —Sir Thomas Wyatt

  AUTHOR’S NOTE It has been recorded that the king’s advisers, seeking to spare the king from the humiliating details of Catherine’s betrayal, took it upon themselves to arrange her condemnation in his absence. The Privy Council went so far as to sign her death warrant, with the king’s approval. Whether they did this to spare the king’s feelings, or out of their own concern that the king might falter in condemning Catherine Howard to death, is unknown. It is true that at the time the accusations were revealed, Henry was happy with his wife and did not want to be rid of her. His initial reaction to the allegations against her was one of doubt and suspicion, for he believed in his wife’s honesty and purity—this is interesting to note, considering the king’s proclivity toward paranoia and distrust of those around him.

  In regard to Catherine’s crimes against the king, the confessions in this novel are all based on historical accounts. Thomas Culpeper confessed to the “intent to do ill” with the queen, but he did not confess to having had a sexual relationship with her before or during her marriage to the king. According to the laws of treason at the time, the intent to commit treason alone was enough to condemn them both to death. The idea that they did have an adulterous affair for the sake of pregnancy is merely conjecture, for the sake of fiction.

  As for Catherine’s part in this treason, a letter was discovered among Thomas Culpeper’s belongings, addressed to Master Culpeper and signed yours as long as life endures, Katheryn, on which the letter in this account is loosely based. Assuming it is genuine, this letter was certainly enough evidence of Catherine’s affection for Thomas Culpeper, and surely helped secure her condemnation.

  Years later, when King Henry’s daughter Mary Tudor ascended to the throne, she revoked from the records all laws that had been signed by the king’s advisers in his stead. This included the Bill of Attainder for Catherine Howard’s execution.

  Little good it did Catherine then, more than ten years after her death.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thank you to Thomas Libby, for being both a supportive husband and an enthusiastic research assistant. Thank you to my mother, Bernice; my grandma Sunny; my sisters, Marcie, Valerie, and Susan; and the best in-laws anyone could wish for, Florence and Eugene Libby.

  Thank you to my agent, Esmond Harmsworth, for his patience and dedication, and to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, for taking on this project with complete enthusiasm and invaluable insight.

  An extraordinary thank-you to Hazel and Roy Brock for being the most wonderful hostesses in all of England: welcoming us to their home, schlepping us around in their tiny red car, enjoying a surprise snow day, filling us with wonderful food, and gracing us with their delightful company.

  I have a few thank-yous whose names, unfortunately, have been lost—scrawled on the backs of admission tickets and lost receipts. Still, I would like to thank the Yeoman Warder at the Tower of London who permitted us on to the altar in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula to see the rarely visited grave of Catherine Howard. Also, millions of thanks to the thoughtful and generous tour guide who let two Americans join his already-overbooked evening tour of “Haunted Hampton Court.”

  And I would like to thank Catherine Howard. I did not see your ghost haunting that legendary gallery at Hampton Court. I had hoped you might convey to me some message from beyond the grave, some truth about your life you would want expressed within the pages of this book, or at least a blessing for me to tell your story in what manner I saw fit. But I think it’s for the best that I didn’t meet your ghostly presence. I did leave a stone upon the marble crest marking your burial site in the chapel, to signify that you did receive a visitor, for a change, on the 465th anniversary of your execution.

  Catherine, may you rest in peace.