The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  She is talking about the Seymour girl, who sits in the main chamber at this very moment, her golden head bent over the embroidery on her lap.

  “I am trying, Duchess. It is difficult. I know not what to do.”

  “Difficult to keep his attention?” she murmurs disapprovingly. “You’ve not been married long, Catherine. I thought you would have known better how to handle him.”

  Her words sting me; I look down at my cards.

  “Are you listening to me? I would never have supported you if I thought you would not be able to handle him.”

  “I am trying my best.”

  My voice cracks with emotion; the duchess lifts her hand in warning. We sit quietly for a moment, waiting for the chatter in the adjacent room to grow louder before we continue.

  “All is not lost for you, I think. But you must remember how it was, in the beginning. You must remember the power of seduction.” Her eyes flash at mine, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her thin lips. “It is what got you here, after all. You must not be lazy, simply because he is not spending his every hour seducing you. Perhaps it is time that you seduce him.”

  “They say that if I don’t produce an heir soon, he may choose another bride.”

  “Indeed, they also say he may take back that Flanders Mare.”

  “Please tell me if you know anything.”

  “I know only what you know, my dear—only what those fools in the banquet hall babble about when they have taken too much ale. What I have heard is not the question here. It is up to you to control the situation.”

  “Control the king?”

  “In the bedchamber, at least. Think, Catherine. The masquerade of a virgin is over. Now you must give him more, you must desire him. You must please him so that he desires no one but you—at least until you are with child.”

  My eyes wander over to Mary Seymour, her golden hair bathed in the light of the fire.

  “If you can’t keep him away from that Seymour girl, we’ll have to find someone else who can.”

  “Someone else?” I look at the duchess, but she is suddenly absorbed in rearranging her cards. I want to reach over the table and shake them from her grasp. “What do you mean?”

  “If the king is in need of a mistress, there is always your cousin Mistress Norris.”

  “You wouldn’t—” Before I can finish, the duchess flashes her pale gray eyes at mine; they are unrelentingly cold, like ice. It seems clear that yes, indeed, she would.

  “If you can’t keep him from planting his seed in another Seymour, there had best be another Howard girl in his bed to distract him.”

  “But then, what will become of me?”

  “I don’t know, Catherine,” she observes coolly, placing her cards upon the table in a fan. “What will become of you?”

  TONIGHT I WEAR my pale blue silk gown with a simple blue hood, the same I wore when I first caught the king’s eye. I eschew the royal jewels for the tear-shaped sapphire—the king’s first gift to me. Gazing at myself in the mirror, I realize just how limited are the ways in which I know how to please him. I must use what power I have perfectly: I bow deeply, humbly before him in his parlor.

  When I stand, the king is smiling at me. I’m both relieved and confused. The last time we were alone, I was witness to his rage. He has not visited my chamber since. Will he say something about our argument? Or has he already forgotten it? Seeing my lute in my hand, he waves me over to my usual chair. Uncertain, I sit beside him and begin to sing:

  “Pastime with good company

  I love and shall until I die

  Grudge to lust, but none deny

  So God be pleased, thus live will I

  For my pastance,

  Hunt, sing, and dance,

  My heart is set, All goodly sport

  For my comfort:

  Who shall me let?”

  “Delightful, Catherine! You know I love hearing my compositions sung in such a sweet voice.” His eyes sparkle in that way I’ve seen before. I had worried he was still angry at me. Now I wonder if I even take up that much space in his mind. He is a king, and has more important things to think about.

  He touches my hand warmly. I put the lute aside as he tugs me forward, pulling me onto his lap, where he kisses my face, my neck.

  “I have missed you,” he breathes.

  “And I have missed you.”

  “I have been—busy.” He looks up at me, his face close to mine. His gaze is warm, familiar. His pink mouth is softened by his smile. But still, I can remember the look of vivid rage I saw but days ago—I worry that I may not be able to forget it.

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “Sweet bird,” he whispers in my ear, “how I’ve missed my sweet bird.”

  But I know my work is not complete. Tonight is different because I know it must be so. The duchess was right; the masquerade of a virgin is over. It is no longer enough for me to lie there and passively submit myself to him. I must offer the king something different: a young woman desirous of him, and him alone.

  Luckily, he responds to my boldness with a vigor I hadn’t thought possible. When his passions are spent, he grips me tightly in his arms—almost too tightly, pushing the air out of my lungs—gasping and rasping in my ear: “You are mine forever, Catherine. You are mine only, mine forever . . .”

  I recite the same words of my love and lust in his ear. You are mine, Henry, you are mine, forever . . .

  But I am not such a fool to believe that this works both ways.

  THE KING’S PASSION for me renewed, I have spent every night of the last fortnight in his bedchamber, often staying till morning. The duchess is pleased with me for evidently upholding my half of the bargain. Meanwhile, Henry is eager to do anything for me, as if I will become pregnant as a reward for his many gifts.

  “What is your heart’s desire?” he asks, once his passion has been sated. “Jewels? Fabulous gowns?”

  A coronation, I think, more grand than that for Queen Anne. But I know better than to overplay my hand.

  “You’ve given me beautiful jewels and gowns.” I sigh, contented.

  “Yet you do not seem to lose interest in more,” he jokes.

  “I’ve never experienced a true royal Christmas,” I tell him, innocently enough.

  “Ah, I see. It is revelry that delights my young queen. Very well. Where will this royal Christmas take place?”

  “At Hampton Court,” I tell him.

  A shadow passes briefly over his eyes. Perhaps Hampton still harbors the ghost of Cousin Anne for him, for I can sense her in the halls when I am there. Still, I love Hampton and my dream of a sumptuous royal Christmas there is simply too tempting to keep secret. And perhaps this, the first Christmas of our marriage, will finally defy the ghost of Anne in Henry’s memory.

  “Of course, my dear,” he says, squeezing me close to him. “Hampton it is!”

  Let the walls of Hampton echo with such celebrations that our revelry frightens all ghosts from the shadows! Let the vision of me, dancing in a gown of red and gold, burn through all of the memories of his past wives, and lay all of those old ghosts to rest.

  XXI

  Over a hundred guests have arrived to participate in the Christmas festivities at Hampton Court. In honor of their arrival, and to mark the beginning of the celebrations, a magnificent hunting expedition sets out. The snowy woods are filled with heavy hoofbeats. Appareled in velvet and furs, I ride my silver-gray mare toward the front of the pack, behind the king. The woods are pale blue and gray with snow; the trees’ icy limbs glisten, silvery in the bright winter sun. It is a marvelous day, and I feel myself growing short of breath, even a bit light-headed as we head faster and faster through the trees, over the open meadow in pursuit of our prey. Horses snort, dogs bark. When the dogs rush forward, I carefully pull myself from the cavalcade, positioned atop a hillock of snow.

  I’m in just the right place to see the king emerge from the stand of trees with his prize: an enormo
us buck slung over the back of his groom’s horse. I smile at Henry; his cheeks are pink with excitement, like a young boy’s. I applaud his success, amazed at the violence of the spectacle: men in glittering doublets and heavy furs mounted upon giant horses pounding over the underbrush and hauling the carcasses of animals out among the snowy trees. It is a true display of power in its most primal, bestial sense.

  TONIGHT IS THE first formal banquet, followed by midnight Mass in the Chapel Royal to signify the beginning of the twelve days of Christmas. I wear a red velvet gown that I know Henry loves, my cheeks still pink from the cold wind.

  “Catherine, you are youth incarnate,” Henry pronounces upon my arrival. He takes my jeweled hand in his and presses it warmly to his lips. I can feel everyone—all of the court, all of our guests—with their eyes upon us, appraising the scene. Surely they can all see how well the king looks, for he has lost a great deal of weight in these past few months. Surely they see the lively twinkle in his eyes, the vivid color in his cheeks, and must remark to one another that the king’s new bride is doing well for him. I am doing well for him—a good wife, a good queen.

  Lady Anne of Cleves approaches the head table. I have not seen her since my days as a lady-in-waiting in her chamber, and for a moment I am speechless. But when she looks up at me, not a flicker of ill feeling taints her expression. She immediately drops to the floor at my feet in an elaborate bow.

  “I show my respect to you, my queen,” she says in halting English, “as I would to no other woman in England.”

  Unable to find the proper response, I grasp her hand in mine.

  “We are both so pleased that you are here,” I tell her. Henry rises as well to give her his good wishes. Indeed, Lady Anne looks far more joyous than she ever did when she was queen. I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor. Henry can only laugh at the sight of the two of us—his previous and his current wife—dancing together to the sprightly music.

  I dance late into the night, enjoying all the while an abundance of food and wine and continuous music. Garnished brawn is served—spiced boar meat with fruit and jelly sprinkled with flour, like a fine dusting of snow. There are games for the children, and they delight in the confections on display: cakes shaped like Henry’s royal residences, complete with turrets and cannons. There are sugar figurines of King Arthur, Charlemagne, Alexander the Great, and others, painted in red, blue, and green, the armor made of silver or gold leaf. Henry sits back upon his chair beneath the cloth of state, enjoying all the dances, the tableaux, the entertainments presented before him. Children race through the hall dressed in white satin, glittering white wings of gauze tied to their backs. These tiny angels dance before the king: the court is heaven, and Henry is God. Henry tilts his head back and laughs.

  “Will you not dance with me, my lord?” I ask, nearly breathless from dancing.

  “You are doing quite well on your own, my dear. I will join you a bit later.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but stop myself with a smile just in time. The king has stayed seated all night. It is unlike him to abstain from dancing during such an elaborate celebration. I think to peer at his leg for any signs of a bandage, but I dare not reveal my suspicions.

  It is the end of the banquet when the king stands, and I detect a vague wince pass over his face as he does so. Still, he knows well his royal duty, and a great part of it is performance. He holds out his hand to mine for a dance. Though he manages all of the steps admirably, the dullness in his eyes betrays his distress to me.

  “I shall take my leave of you now, sweet wife,” he says, bending low to kiss my hand. The king’s hand is trembling, and there is a mist of perspiration on his upper lip. The sight of him thus frightens me—what happened to the vibrant, energetic king I saw earlier today at the hunt? What could have happened between then and now?

  “I shall join you, my lord,” I announce with a flourish of my velvet gown, bidding all of the company present a good night.

  Henry walks quickly down the hallway with me in tow; I have to hurry on my short legs so as not to be dragged along. But this is clearly not the gait of a passionate man looking forward to bedding his bride, as he may want it to appear.

  “Henry,” I whisper, in hopes of slowing him. We are in the hallway near his bedchamber. “Henry, are you quite well?”

  “I am fine, my wife, do not worry.” He bows again over my hand. I have the feeling suddenly that he wants to be rid of me. “I’m afraid we must part ways. I have business to attend to, even at so late an hour.”

  “Are you sure you do not want me to stay? We could walk together to the Chapel Royal.”

  “Indeed, you had best let your ladies tend to you before the service. I will be attending a Mass in private, but will see you for further festivities tomorrow. Until then.”

  I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him gently upon the cheek.

  “Until then, my love.” But what kind of love am I, if I can’t even console him in his pain, if he does not even want me to try? Henry disappears into his chamber and closes the door in my face.

  I turn swiftly from the door, my cheeks burning. Here I am standing like a fool before the king’s door—his useless little wife. I do the only thing I can think to do. I hurry back to the hall, scanning the crowd, searching for the face I’ve been so long avoiding.

  “Thomas,” I say, hurrying up to him. He bows deeply at my approach.

  “I was just heading to the king’s chambers,” he tells me, his head still lowered. “He departed rather abruptly. I’m afraid I lost him in the crowd.”

  “Yes, please go quickly.”

  He looks up at me, his dark eyes wide with alarm.

  “He mentioned he has many things to tend to tonight, and may be in need of your assistance.”

  “Of course, my queen.”

  As he passes by me, the sleeve of his doublet accidentally brushes against the velvet sleeve of my gown. It is a brief caress, a fleeting warmth—and then he is gone.

  HENRY KEPT UP a tiring façade of good health at dinner today, but it is clear that he is unwell. Though I took his hand in mine and inquired quietly as to how he was feeling, he answered with the same false cheer he bestows upon everyone. He does not see how foolish it makes me feel to be kept in the dark about his ailments, which must be apparent to the majority of his guests. He is treating me as little more than some simpering handmaiden of court, to be shown the same silly charade as all the rest—not as his chosen wife and queen.

  While the king is resting in his bedchamber, I am busy with the final fitting of my gown for the masked ball, to be held on Twelfth Night. I am to be Cleopatra, robed in shimmering gold. The ladies slip the slim gold sheath over my head, then flutter around me affixing a gold crown and gold bracelets.

  “Let me see! Let me see!” I crow excitedly. But when they step back to allow me a full view of myself in the mirror, the image is not what I had envisioned. The cloth of gold is stiff, and binds my bosom awkwardly. The skirt hangs straight against my legs and does not sway gently as I walk. Perhaps if I were a foot taller, and thinner, with paler skin and darker hair, then the gown would look beautiful, statuesque. The image conjured in my mind is of Anne Boleyn, smiling, her black eyes sparkling in the firelight.

  In spite of the coddling flattery of the ladies, my disappointment only deepens.

  “No!” I yell, waving my hand to silence the lot of them. “It is not right. I will need a new dress, a new costume altogether.” I pull the crown, in the shape of a golden asp, from my head. It tangles in my thick curls. I growl in anger; Joan rushes forward to carefully pick my locks free from its grip.

  “What about the goddess Aphrodite, with her golden apple?” Lady Rochford suggests.

  “No. Someone dresses as Aphrodite every year.”

  “What about an animal, like a butterfly? A set of beautiful gauze wings could be made for you.”

  I turn at the sound of this voice—it is Mary Seymour’s. I eye her carefully, the firel
ight playing in warm light and shadow upon her face. I recall suddenly that Jane Seymour, when queen, had forbidden her ladies from wearing French fashions, for the French hood simply looked too becoming on one of her maids. I can understand that, now: it wasn’t simply envy, it was self-preservation.

  I can’t be some stupid winged insect, I want to yell, to pull her hair like a child. I need to be the most beautiful. I need for him to look at me, and not at you.

  THE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS continue with a variety of daily events—tilting, hunting, hawking. I attend these, cheerful as always, as if matching Henry’s false merriment with my own. Perhaps he thinks I am too spoiled a girl to play nursemaid to him, perhaps it is an injury to his pride for his youthful wife to discover his infirmity. But what about my pride? If I cannot act the part of lover to him, I would like to at least attempt to act the part of wife.

  Today, too weary to join the hunt, Henry attends the bearbaiting demonstration. A great ring has been constructed near the palace gardens, with seating arranged all around. We pile into the seats, covered with furs in the chill weather, and watch as an enormous brown bear lumbers to the center of the ring.

  “He is a grand one, is he not? And raging already,” Henry remarks, applauding as the bear is chained to a post, his neck cuffed in a thick metal collar.

  When the dogs are released into the ring, the roar of the crowd drowns out the roars of the bear. People crowded into the front rows stand, cheering. The dogs rush toward the beast, their teeth bared, barking sharply in the cold air. The bear rears up on its hind legs to display its enormity before us: he is powerful, but powerless. Frightening but also threatened. I cheer, my eyes darting with the movements of the dogs, who leap forward to bite at the bear’s neck and belly. The bear sweeps one dog aside with a massive paw—it lies motionless in the dirt, its skull crushed by the blow.

  “Ah, he got him! He got him! With only one blow, did you see that? With only one blow!” Henry opens his mouth and laughs. The bear opens his mouth and roars. I feel a shiver wash over me, and stick my hands back into my fur muffler for warmth. Two dogs leap forward and tear the bear’s throat and the brown fur turns slick and black with blood. The beast falters, falls. It is all fascinating, but I cannot help but wince as I watch it happen. Henry is watching intently. I peer at him, carefully: his eyes are wide, unblinking, as he watches the bear go down.