The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  “Did you not always have new gowns?”

  “Not quite like these.” I smooth my hand reverently over the rich brocade of my skirt.

  “And you have your ladies with you all the time, is that right? And they must do as you bid them?”

  “Yes, of course.” I smile at this notion, thinking of Joan’s impending arrival. Perhaps I would be doing Elizabeth a favor by telling her the truth: as queen, you must hide all true emotion. You must consistently act in a way opposite to how you feel.

  “I loved the party you arranged—it was my favorite of this year! And your gown was so beautiful. What else do you need to know to be queen?”

  She does not ask me how one becomes queen, of course. She is well acquainted with the concept of the line of succession. No doubt she has understood her own predicament for a long time: third in line for the throne behind her half siblings Edward and Mary and, like Mary, still not restored to her title of princess.

  “You need to be the type of person others naturally respect and revere.”

  “For to be queen is to be close to being the Virgin Mary on earth, for you are the only other woman to whom men bow down, to receive all the love they don’t give to their mothers or their wives.”

  Her words fill me with a fear I dare not show on my face.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. That is why purity and goodness are such important qualities in a queen, for they are of paramount importance to men.” I feel Elizabeth’s blue eyes burning into my face as I speak—Henry’s eyes. I wonder if there is a bit of her mother in her, as well, but I dare not think long on this. The thought of her mother makes me shift uneasily in my seat.

  “A virgin queen,” Elizabeth murmurs, her wide eyes reflecting the raging fire. “That is what the Virgin Mary is to them. That is what they want in a true sovereign, if she’s a woman. Kings are different, of course.”

  “You are right.” I smile, and pat her hand playfully. “Kings are different.”

  XIX

  Joan Bulmer arrives. The same smooth brown hair, fair face, and elegant manner I once envied now strikes me with a strange eeriness; the very familiarity of it out of place in this new life of mine. But any reservations I have are well hidden. I greet her with the enthusiasm due an old friend.

  “Look at you, Catherine,” she whispers in my ear as we embrace. “You look a queen, you truly do.”

  “And you look like my Joan—my dear, sweet Joan!”

  “How long have you known our queen?” Lady Edgecombe inquires.

  “I have known her since she was a young lady, living at the dowager duchess’s establishment at Lambeth.” Joan says neatly. Lady Edgecombe nods in approval. And perhaps it is as simple as that.

  Joan is cheerful as always, and we walk arm in arm together in the gardens, discussing the masques being planned for this winter. All the while I’m aware of the other maids of the chamber who follow our steps in an orderly group. I can only hope that pulling Joan close to me, as a maid in my privy chamber, will encourage her to use some caution in talking of the past.

  The sun is setting in streaks of pink, yellow, and orange across the sky. It’s time to ready for tonight’s banquet, to welcome foreign ambassadors visiting court. My chamber is full of laughter as Joan and Lady Rochford help to dress me, to arrange my hair and place the jewels upon my fingers and clasp strand upon strand of pearls around my neck. I bestow upon Joan a small brooch in gratitude for her service to me, and her smile is broad and genuine. Perhaps old ghosts need not haunt me after all.

  But seated beside the king during supper, I feel panic rising in my chest, threatening to close my throat. The sight of Joan seated among the other ladies seems quietly threatening, obscene. In the midst of my panic I smile, I laugh when laughter is expected, I nod and turn my head gently from the right to the left to survey the members of court assembled in the great hall before me, as any good monarch will do when presiding over a meal. But with each sweep of the room, my gaze snags upon the image of Joan seated at a banquet table, talking with the other ladies.

  Joan is out of place here, belonging to a different memory: she is lounging upon a bed in the maidens’ chamber, wearing a white nightgown and sipping from a goblet of wine. We are all eating strawberries, a whole bowl of them swiped from the dining table and brought to our room at midnight by a small host of young men. Francis Dereham is here, watching me with his pale blue eyes. He lifts a strawberry to my lips and smiles as I take a bite.

  I blink, trying to clear the image from my mind. I wonder if when Joan looks at me, the same visions intrude: the maidens’ chamber, me with Francis. She can’t say anything about me, about Lambeth. Should I ask her not to? No, no, I must not even address the issue. She will only implicate herself if she says anything about me. And why would she want to risk her coveted position in the queen’s household?

  THE AUTUMN DRAWS to an end, the wind chills, the moon wanes, and my monthly blood comes again in the same onslaught as in all the months of years previous. What is wrong with me? Why am I not pregnant? There have been times when I’ve imagined that I am: in the morning, waking up groggy and remaining tired all day. Or lying awake some nights, unable to sleep. I felt sure these were signs of pregnancy, but then the blood came to show me my mistake.

  The ladies, I know, make fine gossip over the cloudiness of the urine in my chamber pot, the dullness of my eyes, and any other aspect of my disposition that may cause speculation that I am with child. I can also feel Henry watching me, waiting for news. He’s begun to measure all of my behaviors—or perhaps he always did so, and I’ve only begun to notice it—be I tired or restless or anxious or excited on any given day, he combs through them for a possibility of pregnancy. And what of our frequent lovemaking? What is missing from our nightly pleasures that they do not have the desired result? Regardless, it seems clear that a lack of pregnancy is my fault alone.

  “Joan seems a devoted lady-in-waiting to you, Catherine,” Jane remarks as she dabs color on my lips in preparation for my private dinner with the king. Her tone conveys more than she says aloud; I’m sure the duchess has told her all about my affair with Francis Dereham while at Lambeth. For a girl without a past, I have a great deal I need to hide. “I think it best that you keep her close to you, to be assured of her loyalty,” she tells me.

  “Tonight is an important night for you, Catherine.” The duchess suddenly sweeps into my privy chamber. Doorways do not stop the duchess, nothing does. She settles a ledger of sorts upon my writing desk and starts leafing through the pages.

  “Your blood finished two nights ago, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  The duchess eyes Jane for a moment before returning to her pages. Once my hair is properly arranged, I approach the desk.

  “What’s this?” I ask. The pages reveal some form of calendar with notes scribbled on some of the days, along with pictures showing the state of the waning and waxing moon.

  “I’ve been keeping track of you since your honeymoon, Catherine,” the duchess informs me, not looking up from the book. “Lady Rochford and I have been. It’s apparent that you wouldn’t think to do such a thing.”

  I look closer: tired all morning, frequent urination, heavy blood-stained sheets in morning, fell asleep after Mass, bed with king, bed alone. It’s all about me, all of it. Every night I’ve been with the king recorded on the calendar, every ache and pain in my body written down, even my mood: weary this evening, snappish.

  “I had no idea you had such a thing,” I utter. The duchess glances up at me, craftily. Why is it that I am the only one to feel awkward? She blinks her pale eyes and sets her finger upon today’s date in the book, her fingernail touching a perfect circle drawn upon the page.

  “There will be a full moon tonight, Catherine. That is a good sign. It is all a good sign: your blood, your mood, the weather. You must be with the king tonight. It is imperative.”

  “It is not really my choice.” None of
this is my choice. “It depends on Henry.” The duchess furrows her brows at this, but I dare not say more. I can only imagine if she added those notes to her book: King too tired, legs swollen and aching, temper irascible, difficulty moving, difficulty performing. It feels dangerous just to think about it.

  “When the fates align, Catherine, you must do your best to fulfill your duty.”

  “I always do my best.”

  “Then tonight you must do better.”

  “YOU SEEMED QUIET tonight, Catherine,” Henry remarks, pulling me by the hand to his bedchamber. “I think this might lighten your mood.”

  The door shut behind us, he hands me a narrow wooden box. Inside: a gold necklace strung with emeralds and pearls.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful, Henry! It will look lovely with my green velvet dress.”

  He stands behind me before the mirror, leaning forward to clasp the jeweled strand around my neck.

  “Lovely,” he pronounces. Just looking at myself in the necklace, I feel suddenly lighter. Even with all that I now have, I never tire of receiving new gifts.

  “I wish I had a gift for you!” I gasp, in gratitude. Then a flash of sorrow cuts across the king’s eyes. I watch his reflection as he blinks, looks away from my face. I turn to look at him and put my hands on his arms.

  “You know I am trying, my lord. Please do not worry. It will happen soon.”

  “I know, I know,” he murmurs, pulling me closer. “I do not doubt you. I do not doubt you.” There seems to be more behind these words than he is willing to say, but I don’t press the issue.

  “You cannot deny it, Catherine, you’ve heard the tales: I am the cursed King of England.”

  “That’s simply not true,” I tell him. “You are the most beloved king this country has ever had.”

  “It’s not just about England,” he growls. “It’s much more than that. God is unkind to me. He punishes me.”

  I can’t help but bristle at this notion. I’ve heard that Henry has a complicated relationship with God: any misfortune that befalls him, he is certain must be due to God’s direct displeasure. I’ve heard of Henry’s self-pitying rants, trying to discover what sins he committed to deserve the sadness he has been forced to endure.

  “There must be something I’ve done—some sin against God that I continue to pay for to this day. I thought I had found it, in divorcing my brother’s wife and putting aside that sin. But then I was cursed anew, marrying that witch, that grotesquery.”

  My cousin—I must erase the thought from my mind. I don’t want him to suddenly remember our relation, or else he may consider me yet another sin.

  “But these things are not your fault, my lord,” I say soothingly, putting my hands on his shoulders, telling him what he wants to hear. “None of this was your fault, I’m sure God can see it.”

  “Then why does He try me so? Can you answer me that?” He waves his hands, his anger suddenly expansive, his face flushed. My skin prickles in fear: he’s never raised his voice like this to me. “In all these years, with all these wives I’ve been granted but one son—one son, Catherine! And his mother taken from me so soon after his birth.”

  I flinch at this mention of Jane, as if slapped across the face. But Henry is too steeped in his own self-pity to notice.

  “The crown is not safe as it should be, and even my own people up in the north plan to rise against me, again. What did I do to deserve this?”

  He sits heavily upon the bed, his cloth-of-gold doublet and jeweled fingers glittering in the low light. In spite of my fear, I stand before him and take his hands in mine.

  “You think that God has cursed you?” I ask, squeezing his hands and smiling. “But my lord, can you not see how you are blessed?”

  “Do not mock my fears, woman!” he snaps. I jolt back at the sound of his voice. “You’ve been queen for mere months—you know not what a lifetime of kingship can do to a man’s soul.” He rises from the bed abruptly and stands, staring into the fire. I want nothing more than to run from this room, but I know that I can’t.

  “I do not mock you, Your Grace. I only strive to be the type of wife of whom God will approve.” Or are the sins of my past yet another curse against Henry, piled on with all the rest? “Will you not let me comfort you?”

  I move forward again, tentatively, and place my hands upon his arms, resting my head against his back. This has worked in the past, many times, pulling him out of a glum mood or worry about politics . . . all I have to do is to get him to turn around and look at me. I press myself against him, my breasts flat against his back. But he will not turn. “I live with fear, every day, Catherine. I am a target for them all—everyone eager to do away with me and climb on to my throne.”

  “No, my lord, everyone loves you. How can you say—”

  “Words of love keep no one safe!” he rages, turning and breaking from my embrace. He glares at me for a moment; I’m horrified by the anger burning in those bright eyes. “They will say one thing to my face and yet another behind my back. They could slip poison into my food, or burn my palace, or pay an assassin to visit me in my sleep. Do you understand me, Catherine, when I tell you the danger of being king?”

  “Of course,” I whisper, my voice cracked. “Of course I understand.”

  “You are a fool to think this crown keeps me safe! You are a woman—nay, a girl. A girl I have dressed as a queen. You will never understand.”

  He turns to glare into the fire, as if I’m no longer present. Indeed, I feel as if I have vanished from the room completely. Somehow, the sight of his back turned to me is more frightening than that flash of anger in his eyes.

  “You are dismissed,” he grumbles.

  “I bid you good evening, my lord.” I perform the proper obeisance, though he does not deign to turn and look at me. I exit the king’s chamber, trying to muster a fake courtier’s smile for the benefit of the guards stationed there. They are all gracious, dutiful; I have no doubt that they listened to every word. The ambition of the Howards has led me directly into danger. If the crown offers no safety to Henry, then certainly it will offer no safety to me.

  I WEAR MY GREEN VELVET gown today with the new emerald-and-pearl necklace, perfectly complementing the row of pearls embroidered in the neckline of the gown and the trim of my green hood. As much as I would like to avoid him, I’ve invited my husband for an evening meal in my presence chamber, hoping that food and entertainment will cheer him. I had hoped that the sight of me thus arrayed in his recent gift would cheer Henry, but I can tell that his mood is still grim. There is much that this king harbors in his great, old soul. While his body grew misshapen from illness and lack of exercise, his soul was ravaged by lies and mistrust.

  All day, the halls of the palace have been rife with whispers about the rebellions in the northern regions. Watching the fool’s antics, I can see the stress of these rebellions settling in the king’s spine, his shoulders drooping and his back hunched forward like an old man’s. But suddenly his spine straightens in his chair, his shoulders roll back. His blue eyes alight with interest.

  I follow the path of Henry’s gaze to see a pretty Seymour girl before us, recently added as a maid to my household. She is petite, with honey-colored hair, wearing a gown of brown velvet trimmed with gold, the square neckline accentuating her ample bosom. She looks a bit like me, or perhaps how I once looked: that wary gaze, that tentative smile I wore when I first approached the king.

  I open my mouth to say something to divert his attention, to bring his focus back to me. But my horror keeps me mute. She’s just the king’s type, of course, that’s why the Seymours placed her in my household—just as the Howards placed me in the service of Anne of Cleves.

  “Mistress Mary,” he says, in his charming, sweet tone. The sound of it roils in my gut. The girl before us curtsies gracefully, bowing her head and lowering her eyes. No doubt she has been well schooled by Jane Seymour’s brothers, Edward and Thomas. Perhaps they are expecting that I will be pregnant s
oon and want a lady ready to distract the king while I suffer the confinement of the birthing chamber. Henry seems surprisingly innocent of all of this—perhaps he is a pawn in this game, just as much as I was. Just as much as this Seymour girl, standing before us.

  “I trust you find your new position to your liking?” the king asks.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty. The queen is a kind mistress, as you are a kind and generous master.” Her eyes flash up at his only briefly, before her final obeisance. I smile and nod at the girl, and she steps aside. This is the smile I imagine Katherine of Aragon pasted upon her face when met with the king’s lingering gaze over Mistress Anne Boleyn; or Anne of Cleves’s smile when her new husband first took a fancy to me. I take a sip of wine, my throat suddenly dry.

  For the rest of the night I laugh aloud, I applaud, I sparkle. I am fun and youthful and merry, hoping that the king will admire my slim waist, my firm full breasts straining from the bodice of my gown. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see his eyes upon me, but just as quickly they flash back to the lass in brown velvet dancing before us. Is it possible that Henry has become bored with his bride? They still say that he is more affectionate, more indulgent with me than with all the others, but clearly his adoration of me does not stop another lady from catching his eye.

  I must become everything to him—it is my only hope. I must become pregnant to save Henry, and save myself.

  XX

  The duchess sits before a roaring fire in my chamber, tapping a deck of cards efficiently against the polished table. She motions for me to sit across from her.

  “You must fix it, Catherine,” she remarks succinctly, as if we were talking about a torn hem. “You have created this mess and now you must fix it.”