The King's Rose
Page 2
“Of course,” I tell her, lowering my head. I am accustomed to taking direction, but this masquerade seems frighteningly intimate, manipulative—obscene.
“That’s right,” the duchess says, admiring my pose. “Just like that: very bashful, nervous, and a little bit afraid.”
It is not entirely an act.
III
I first met the king, my future husband, at a private entertainment at the residence of Bishop Gardiner, early this spring. Since my arrival at court the previous autumn I had seen the king only from a great distance, during the pomp and splendor of his royal wedding to Princess Anne of Cleves at the dawn of the year.
I had lived in the duchess’s residences since the age of ten, taken in from my father’s overcrowded household upon my mother’s death. The duchess and my uncle the Duke of Norfolk arranged my position at court while the new queen’s household was being prepared. I was sent to court with new gowns and no lack of instruction from the duchess on how to behave in the king’s presence, though at the time I thought it barely necessary—I was but a junior lady-in-waiting, veritably lost in a sea of sleek hoods and satin gowns. We all anxiously awaited the arrival of the new Queen of England: that serene face gazing from the portrait that had captivated our king.
But soon after their nuptials, the king’s displeasure with his German bride was evident. While the marriage to the unattractive “Flanders Mare” seemed a disaster to King Henry—and to his adviser, Cromwell, who had urged the match—it also presented a golden opportunity. Nothing cheers this particular king more than the sight of a pretty young female, and every family at court was eager to distract him from his dismay with their own daughters and nieces, and thereby win attention and royal favor. The duchess took an even keener interest in my looks, my singing voice, and my dancing skills. I was given a new gown to wear to Bishop Gardiner’s royal entertainment—silk as blue as a robin’s egg, with a hood trimmed in pearls.
“This is your chance to charm him, Catherine,” the duchess informed me. “This is your chance to shine brighter than all the other ladies. You represent all of us Howards tonight.” I was not alone, of course: my cousin Mary Norris was also present and gaily attired for the very same purpose. Still, I took the duchess’s desires to heart. I had never been trusted with such a charge before. I wanted nothing more than to make her proud.
The king sat in a place of honor at the head of the hall, and I took my place before him, among the other ladies assembled. In spite of my nervousness, the call of the wooden reed sang through me, the tabor drum beating the rhythm of my own heart. I danced, glorying in the music, in every step and twirl. Those late-night parties in the maidens’ chamber at Lambeth did me some good after all, though no doubt the duchess would slap me for thinking it. Twirling in my blue gown, I could feel the king’s eyes upon me, though I could never have imagined exactly what this would mean.
“Mistress Catherine,” he said, beckoning me to approach him as the music faded to silence. I stepped forward, past jutting shoulders and bright hoods, and bent in a graceful reverence at the king’s feet.
I had seen King Henry before, mounted upon his great black hunter or seated beneath the cloth of state during the wedding feast. Even from that distance he was all that a king should be: tall, imposing, elaborately dressed in gold and jewels and velvet and furs. But standing alone some few feet away from him, his eyes upon me, he was altogether massive and glittering; overwhelmingly majestic.
“Stand, child,” he said, with a wave of his jeweled hand. “Let me look at you.”
I stood, my head humbly lowered, my heart pounding like a rapid tabor. I looked up and met his eyes, warily: startlingly blue eyes, set deeply in his full face. His nose straight and pointed, his neatly trimmed beard the same reddish gold of his hair. He has a round chin, obscuring a strong jawline, but his mouth is pink and youthful.
I had seen that look in a man’s eyes before, but never in the eyes of a king. He was quiet for a long moment, looking at my face as if searching it, or memorizing it for some mysterious purpose. His blue eyes glittered brightly as the jewels upon his hand. I felt my knees shake below me and feared they would give way. And then he smiled at me: slightly, cautiously. It was the first time I had seen him smile since my arrival at court.
“Mistress Catherine, you are springtime in the flesh.” King Henry laughed, a raucous, glorious laugh, and all the court assembled laughed along with him. I smiled as sweetly and demurely as I could manage.
I can assure you it is an intoxicating feeling for one so long ignored, to be singled out in a room full of people and looked at so closely by a king.
THE CREAM SILK GOWN slips over my skin with a whisper; the full skirt rippling like the smooth surface of the Thames.
“Oh, how lovely,” Lady Rochford breathes, carefully slipping the sleeves over my arms.
In the days since my arrival here, I’ve stayed to my apartments, per the duchess’s instructions. Today was a beautiful day and I longed for a walk in the gardens, but the duchess’s fears—and my own—gave me pause. I fear being seen by the other ladies of Lambeth, who knew me before my departure for court: Joan, Lisbeth, Dorothy, Katherine, Malyn. They were my friends when I was a different girl—a foolish girl. To see them would be a reminder of who I was. And how would I explain to them who I am, now?
You are a virgin. You will be his departed Queen Jane, reincarnate.
“You will return to court as Queen Catherine,” Lady Rochford states, pushing a pair of jeweled slippers before me. “Lady Ashley and Lady Christina will be beside themselves fawning over you.”
“Lady Ashley and Lady Christina may fawn all they like.” I slip my feet into the slippers, then step onto a low stool, grasping Jane’s arm for support. “I’ll not forget how they treated me when I first arrived at court, like I was not fit to be seated in their shadows.”
“And now they will bask in yours,” the duchess’s seamstress mumbles over a mouthful of pins, kneeling before me and pinning up the hem of my gown.
In the corner of the chamber I spy the duchess, scrutinizing the trim on a blue hood. All of my gowns have been taken out and spread upon the bed and chairs of my apartment for the duchess’s inspection. She stalks efficiently about the room, listing off instructions to her seamstresses and maids. To become the king’s bride, I must dress accordingly. All wardrobe is strategy, the gown itself a character in my performance.
The pink silk—like a freshly bloomed rose—I wore to another entertainment for the king, my lute in hand, per the duchess’s instruction. The king requested me to sing for him before all assembled and pronounced me a “sweet bird” of song. I wore the red satin on the night when he stopped the music in the midst of our dance to request that I stand at the front of the group of ladies.
“No need to hide the red rose amongst the tall weeds,” he said, and all of court laughed. Even the queen seated beside him laughed, though her lips were pinched in a thin line.
Those few words from the king were enough to set me apart from the other ladies.
“We all have our place in this world.” Lady Ashley had sneered at me. “A Howard girl cannot help but throw herself into the king’s bed as soon as she sees the chance.”
Her words made me flinch—were the machinations of my family so evident to all? The ultimate goal wasn’t so obvious until I saw it through the eyes of another: no doubt they intended for me to be King Henry’s next plaything, and perhaps sire another Howard bastard with royal blood. I hadn’t given any thought to the reality of coupling with the king. I was but fourteen at the time, the king forty-eight—an unfathomable age—not to mention overweight and intimidating. But I realized, perhaps too late, that my misgivings were quite beside the point. Lady Ashley was right. The frequent collision of my path with King Henry’s—in the halls, in the royal gardens—was not merely the will of God, but the will of the eager Howard clan, grasping for power once again.
I soon learned that the Howards had e
ven grander plans for me, and so did King Henry.
WHEN THE PINNING is done, Jane helps me step from the stool and steers me over to the mirror. At the sight of my reflection I feel suddenly light-headed: I am shining like a perfect pearl. The gold lace sparkles, the cream silk lush and immaculate. The bones of the bodice fit perfectly against my waist, seductively snug. The wide, square neckline displays my full breasts, the glistening gold embroidery of the décolletage pressed against my skin. The sunlight streaming in a nearby window makes the pearls glisten, my hair shine copper. I am like a dream of me.
“The sapphire.” The duchess strides over toward my dressing table. “You will wear that gown and the sapphire when you see the king.”
“The pearls were a gift from the king as well,” Jane remarks, “and they match perfectly.”
“But the sapphire was his first gift,” the duchess says, efficiently unclasping the pearls from my neck, “and therefore the most important.”
The stone is startlingly dark against my fair skin.
“It was a gift for my birthday, this spring,” I tell them, touching the stone with a cautious fingertip. “I told him it was my favorite time of year, the season of my birth.”
The duchess nods. “Then he gave you this sapphire, and that changed everything.”
Once this necklace was clasped around my neck, the king’s interest in me was made clear to everyone at court. The ladies invited me to join their card games, and I walked in front of the group when the queen was not present. I was greeted graciously, solicitously, by courtiers who had not deigned to learn my name mere months before. My favorite songs played in every room I entered; suddenly all music was played expressly for my enjoyment.
But there was more that changed, as far as the court, and my future, was concerned: I became the king’s chosen, with no other claim upon my heart. At least, no claim that anyone could detect. It had all happened so quickly, like a sudden, thrilling storm in late spring, tearing the petals from new roses, leaving the world irrevocably altered in its wake.
The sapphire upon my chest feels cold, like ice against my skin.
“The king will approve,” the duchess sniffs, satisfied. “You will visit me in my chamber tonight, Catherine. We have much to discuss before you next meet with His Majesty.
“Lady Rochford, Catherine will take her supper in my chambers. You are dismissed for the night.”
Jane’s eyes flash up at the duchess, but only briefly.
“Of course, Duchess,” she says, and exits the chamber without another word.
IV
“Queen Katherine was a good queen, but the miscarriages and stillbirths that befell them—no wonder the king considered himself cursed,” the duchess remarks, her rich voice turned a bit raspy from talking. We’ve eaten our supper and are spending the evening secluded in her parlor, the windows opened to allow a cool breeze. “And I will admit I was surprised when young Henry married his brother Arthur’s widow.”
This parlor is so elegantly appointed. I’ve never been invited to sit here before. Never been invited to share a meal alone with the duchess, nor had her talk so openly with me.
The duchess has been the closest relative in my life for years now; I’m delighted to finally be pulled so close into her company. I’ve long wanted to ask about her career at court, and tonight I’ve been given my first chance to do so. She was lady-in-waiting to King Henry’s first queen, Katherine of Aragon, and had the honor of putting king and queen to bed on their wedding night, some thirty years ago.
“They had not been long married, and Arthur had been ill, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, but still long enough to have consummated the marriage, making the Spanish princess an ill-suited choice for Henry when he was crowned king.”
“But her only fault was no male heir. Does it not seem unfair?”
“There is no such thing as fair and unfair, Catherine. You had best learn that, now. It is the desire of the king with which you must concern yourself. Queen Katherine could not give him what he desired. He found another candidate he thought likely to do so, and he did whatever he needed to do to put her on the throne.”
“Anne Boleyn.” I sigh, meeting the duchess’s gaze. “You took me to London for her coronation procession and I dreamed of it for years afterward. I was captivated by her.”
She smiles at this observation. “As was King Henry, for a time.”
I had watched as the duchess carried Queen Anne’s train down the aisle of Westminster Abbey at her coronation. Later that same year, the duchess carried Anne’s first and only child, the Princess Elizabeth, down the aisle of the Chapel of the Observant Friars to the baptismal font.
“Look at all he did to be with her—banishing his wife, severing the church in England from the pope in Rome. He remade the church, with himself at the head of it, just to be able to marry her.” I feel my old envy boiling inside me at the mere thought of Anne’s power. They said she used strong enchantments to bend the king’s will to her pleasure. But fascinating, too, were the stories that her bewitchment had faded from the king’s eyes and that he had begun to see the devil in it.
“She was—special, that Anne,” the duchess muses, gazing into the fire. Her eyes are pale, steely gray, unblinking. “You cannot teach or learn ambition like that, Catherine. It is something that you are born with; it is a part of your soul. Or perhaps it takes a part of your soul. I think it depends on whom you ask.”
The duchess tips back her head and drains her glass of wine.
“They say she tricked him with witchcraft,” I remark, as nonchalantly as possible. “Did you ever see her sixth finger? They say it was a sign of the devil and she hid it with her long sleeves.”
The duchess looks at me, her eyes glassy, a bit unfocused. But her face is expressionless. “Witchcraft or no, what would it matter, either way?” She shrugs. “There was more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anne was deft at charming the king, I will give her that. But she proved herself unworthy of the position once she was there. She was grasping, greedy, hot-tempered.”
I can’t help but revel in this, hearing the duchess denigrate my glamorous cousin, her own granddaughter. Twenty years into the king’s marriage to Queen Katherine, the duchess testified that Katherine had not been a virgin upon their wedding night, thus aiding the king’s petition to divorce the queen and be free to marry Anne.
“After all that King Henry had done to have her—even suffering excommunication by the pope himself—she didn’t know enough to treat him kindly, to demurely look the other way when the king sought to take another lady to his bed.”
“But why would he desire another, once he had Anne?”
“Ah, she wondered the same thing. But it’s the way of the king, Catherine. Everyone knows it.” Her eyes focus on mine, one eyebrow sharply cocked. “But Anne, in her arrogance, could not bear it. She hadn’t the grace of Queen Katherine, who knew enough to allow the king to take his pleasure, here and there.”
I sigh at this, my chest tight. Whatever dark sorcery Anne performed failed her in the end. Luckily, I managed to catch the king’s eye without the use of witchcraft.
“But you supported Anne, didn’t you?”
“When a Howard finds a path to the throne, you do not take it lightly. You show your unfailing support, whoever that Howard may be.”
Her eyes settle upon me for a moment in silence, reflecting the flickering candles. I turn away. She reaches over to a nearby silver platter and selects a sweetmeat. Placing it in her mouth, she smiles.
“Anne came so far, and then it was all over.” Saying her name aloud gives me a strange chill. The room has gone darker, the sky outside the window a deep, fathomless black. Now I wish I could stop thinking about the witch, I wish I had never asked. “The king’s will be done.”
“There are often other wills involved,” the duchess remarks over her sweetmeat. When I look at her, perplexed, she only smiles.
“Jane returned to court, tonight? Why?”
“Tomorrow, she will testify to the nonconsummation of the king’s marriage to Anne of Cleves, to support his claim for an annulment.”
“Lady Rochford has testified against queens before.”
When Cousin Anne was put on trial for treason, it was Jane’s testimony that condemned her to death. She repeated Anne’s own words—evidence of a vile temper—stating aloud that the king was impotent, and incapable of siring an heir. With her testimony, Jane also condemned her own husband, George Boleyn—Anne’s brother. Their crimes were incest and adultery: treason against the king and an abomination to God. I shiver at the thought of the vile witch that once occupied the queen’s throne. It must have been a terrible thing for Jane to have witnessed. Despite my curiosity, I’ve never asked Jane about Anne. I avoid even mentioning her name.
“Another step toward divorce is another step toward your betrothal, Catherine. Besides, all of the queen’s chamber knows of her naïveté in regard to her marital duties. She unwittingly admitted as much to her senior maids, Lady Rochford included.”
“Her mother in Cleves taught her impeccable embroidery, but little practical knowledge about marriage,” I remark.
“Indeed.” She smiles, then narrows her eyes at me. “That is one area in which I need not worry about you.”
My neck and cheeks turn warm. The duchess laughs wryly.
“Just think of Queen Jane, Catherine,” she reminds me, her voice stern. “She is your model—it’s only a shame that she was a Seymour, and not a Howard. Still, I admired their strategy: she was precisely what the king needed, having tired of Anne’s vicious temper. Jane was sweet, pious, virginal, and thoroughly English—without the Spanish pedigree or Anne’s affectations of the French court. She was mild by nature and knew better than to challenge her husband. She had a proper wifely disposition.”