The King's Rose

by Alisa M. Libby

  “I never talk of religion with the king.” I think of the bloody arrow upon my bed; I can feel it pressed against my spine.

  “It is not only about you, but the entire Howard family. There are many eager to tumble those of us who have climbed so high.”

  I have climbed very high, indeed: suddenly I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a giant precipice, looking down. “That is true,” I tell her. “I know it is true.”

  “Then you must be with child, Catherine. That is the only way you can be safe. With a child in your womb, no one will dare threaten you. It is the only way.”

  Suddenly I feel as if I’ve tipped forward off the precipice, the cold wind rushing by my face.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You know what I’m suggesting—no doubt you’ve already thought of it yourself.”

  I flutter my eyes away from hers, an unwitting admission.

  “Take action on your own behalf,” she says succinctly, and leaves it at that. She wants me to betray my king, my husband. Are things that dire already, that she would suggest an act of treason?

  TONIGHT, THE DUCHESS visits my privy chamber as Lady Rochford prepares me for sleep. All of the other ladies have been sent to bed. The duchess places the book upon my dressing table, crushing a silk handkerchief beneath its weight.

  “It’s been ten days since the king’s illness began, and still you do nothing?” she asks sternly.

  “Do nothing? What am I to do?” But the moment I say it, I regret my words. The duchess points to tomorrow’s date on the calendar.

  “Tomorrow, a perfect opportunity for you to become pregnant.”

  “I can’t do it,” I say, breathless, rising from my chair. “Do you know what you’re suggesting? If discovered, it would be the death of me!”

  “It could be the death of you, regardless!” the duchess declares. “This all has little to do with you, Catherine, this has to do with power, with the family. I gave you the choice to act on your own behalf. I thought you would jump at the chance to bed your darling Thomas, considering the type of girl you are. But you didn’t, so I’m taking away your choice—I’m telling you to do this. The decision has been made for you.”

  “You are telling me to commit adultery, and heresy. You would tell your own flesh and blood to do such a thing?”

  “You are little more than flesh and blood. You are the vessel by which the Howards lay claim to the greatest power we can wield.”

  “If it has so little to do with me, then I wish you had chosen a different vessel, a different pawn to use in your game!”

  “Don’t you think I would have claimed it for myself if I could?” The duchess’s voice is sharp, her gray eyes shining wet in a way I’ve never seen before. “Don’t you think I wanted it to be me? Or that Norfolk, or any other of the Howard clan would want to be where you are now, at the king’s side?”

  “Then why didn’t you, if you were so crafty to get him to fall in love with me? Why didn’t you do it for yourself?”

  “We knew we couldn’t. With this king, we know the best way to get close to him is to get one of our pretty young things in his bed. So we created you, we told him all about you, told him exactly what he wanted to hear, and he fell in love with all of our words. He took you and made you his wife, the potential mother of his sons, his heirs.”

  “I didn’t ask for you to create me, if that’s what you did. I asked for none of this, and yet I’m made to suffer for it. It isn’t fair!”

  “You are right, it isn’t fair. No. It isn’t. You always go on about what is fair and what is not—you, dressed in velvet and furs, seated beneath the cloth of state with the royal jewels around your neck, dining beside the king with all of court bent in half at your feet. You get all of this, and you are nothing. You are a child.”

  Her eyes widen, as if taking me all in. I wish that she wouldn’t look at me that way, with that pain so vivid in her eyes. I don’t know whether I want to embrace her or run and hide.

  “I’ve dreamed for years of sitting there, as queen,” she says, her voice hoarse. “It was my only dream. But I was never pretty enough to do it, to catch his eye. Now I’m barren and no good to anyone.”

  I look away, knocked sideways by the anguish in her voice. She puts her hand on my shoulder and pulls, making me face her.

  “The king needed a vital young maiden. Now the king needs sons, more than he ever did before. Do your duty, Catherine, and give the king what he needs.”

  “What about the baby, if there is one?” I gasp, breathless. “What if it—it doesn’t look like—”

  “You have reddish hair, yourself. Not completely unlike the Tudor red.” She strokes my hair with delicate fingers, her voice softened. “Remember, Catherine: the Tudors stole the throne from the Plantagenets to begin with. We must be practical and work with what we have. You have bigger things to worry about right now than the shade of downy hair on the head of a babe.”

  I look up at her. She smiles, faintly, her hand resting upon my shoulder.

  “Once it’s done, it will be done, and you will be safe.”

  The duchess pulls me into her arms. I whimper for a moment, but she does not reprimand me. She has given me so much I never asked for, and yet this is all that I have ever wanted from her. I wrap my trembling arms around her, knowing the moment will not last long, and likely will not happen again.

  Now I know what must happen: I will do as I’ve been told.

  I DREAM OF visiting the lion encaged in Henry’s menagerie. It is twilight in the dream, and the lion’s eyes sparkle like stars from the darkness of the cage. Suddenly there is no cage; the bars separating us have vanished.

  Now I’ve got the best of him. Henry’s voice echoes in my ears, but the lion and I are alone. He is gaunt, his glorious mane falling from his head in tufts. But I’m held captive by the wild gleam in his eyes. His nose twitches, the sinews of his legs taut and ready to spring. He can smell me, smell the blood and bones and meat of me. He is hungry. His golden eyes spark like flames in the darkness.

  What will become of you? I ask the lion. What will become of me?

  Between our eyes there is a kinship, an understanding. I know that he wants to devour me alive. I have felt this before: everyone’s eyes upon me, my name whispered upon everyone’s lips. Everyone fit to devour me, destroy me.

  What will become of me? I ask again. The lion pounces.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping as if someone were pushing the breath from my body.

  I SIT IN THE DARKNESS of a secluded chamber, shivering beneath my dark cloak. It is midnight, and Jane should be here shortly. She will bring Thomas, and then she will leave the two of us alone. It has all been arranged.

  Earlier this afternoon I took a somber turn around the palace with my ladies, passing by hallways filled with whispering courtiers who turned and offered deference as I passed. I wanted them all to see me in my sober blue gown, my eyes worn and red. I wanted them to see the gentle swell of my belly in this too-small stomacher, just enough to confirm the rumors already so rampant among them.

  Tonight it will happen. The decision has been made for me; it was never my decision to make to begin with. There are no such things as my own motives or desires. My womb is the future of England. My actions are the voice through which the ambition of the Howard family sings. I only hope that it works.

  I sit quietly, taking even, measured breaths. I wear a silk nightgown beneath this cloak, my skin scented with rose oil. Tonight has a dual purpose in my heart, in spite of my fear. After tonight, my curiosity will be sated. I can be rid of this love-haunting, once and for all.

  The door to the chamber opens and closes briskly. I can see nothing in the darkness, but I feel Jane’s hands grasping my own. She is wheezing frightfully, as if she has run a great distance.

  “Jane, what is it? What is wrong?”

  “He spoke,” she utters between gasps. “He spoke.”

  “What happened?”


  “It’s the king, Catherine. He has spoken, he has come out of his fever. They say he will live. I must put you back to bed, again.”

  “Is anyone awake? Do they know that he is well?”

  “No, I heard of it from Thomas. Thomas was the first to hear him speak.”

  As Jane pulls me into the dark hallway toward my chamber, a bleak heaviness settles inside of me, weighing me down. It grows larger and darker with every step I take.

  XXVII

  When I next see Henry it is for a private dinner in his chambers. As soon as I enter, I rush toward him, as if to leap into his embrace. But I halt just in time—such an aggressive show of affection may have a negative effect upon him. I hold back, and bow instead. He grasps my hand and pulls me up to face him, smiling sheepishly.

  “I’m sorry not to have been well enough to visit you as of late,” he tells me, caressing the side of my face. Though he smiles, I can sense his embarrassment in the way he blinks his eyes.

  “Do not apologize, my lord.” I press my lips firmly to his ringed hand, my eyes now burning with tears. “I am only glad that you are with me, now.”

  “Come, sit,” he says, urging me into a seat before the fire. I entertain him with my usual chatter, trying to keep the conversation bright and lively.

  “It will be spring soon, Henry,” I say, breathless with excitement. “Perhaps we shall plan a masque later this month, to celebrate.”

  He smiles at this, but a bit wanly, and sips at his wine. “Whatever pleases you, my love.” He smiles, the ever-indulgent husband.

  With these words, he waves his fingers slightly. A groom hurries over and begins adjusting the cushions that support the king’s back in his chair. Henry looks away from me, his eyes lingering on the fire in the hearth. I sit dumbly in my pink dress the color of a rose petal. Fool I am! I thought that this would cheer him, the blushing color and low neckline reminding him of the passions we shared months ago. Instead I am a cruel reminder of the youth he once had, the vigor he tried to reclaim, and lost again. I worry that it pains him to look at me.

  I bid him an affectionate good-bye. I know that he will not visit my bedchamber tonight. He is not well enough. I wonder how long—how long I will wait.

  “I love you, my husband,” I whisper in his ear, my arms draped around his great shoulders as he remains seated in his chair. He strokes my hair and back lovingly, but does not sweep me into his lap as he was wont to do.

  “And I love you, my dear wife. I shall see you tomorrow for dinner.”

  I must not tarry; Henry is clearly tired and needs his rest. And there are tears burning like fire behind my eyes. I dare not think of why they are so desperate to be released.

  “I look forward to it.” I smile brightly and bow out of the room.

  But in the hallway, in my chamber, I can find no safe place in which to allow these tears their due. I hold them inside of me, a great roiling cloud of guilt and shame and fear.

  EASTER MARKS THE first banquet after Henry’s recovery, and it is a particularly joyous affair. I sit beside a smiling Henry, surveying the elegance of the courtiers on their best behavior, the renewed vigor of the minstrels and tumblers who perform for our entertainment. Henry’s cheeks are pink with health, his eyes sparkling. Though he emits raucous peals of laughter over the antics of his favorite fool, sitting close to him I can see the strain in his brow, see the way he gingerly adjusts his weight upon his chair.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, my lord?” I ask brightly, pretending not to notice the wince that flutters across his eyes.

  “No, my love, you are doing quite a bit as it is. It does me well just to see you looking so pretty in your silk and pearls.”

  I smile and turn away, but in the corner of my eye I see Henry’s hand rise slightly, his fingers twitch. He is calling a groom over to tend to him. He is calling—no, oh no, I must not look. I hide my face behind my goblet and drink, pretending not to notice Thomas standing beside the king, not to see his dark eyes glistening in the candlelit hall.

  I must live with my treachery—it burns a hole inside of me, a flame that no amount of wine can abate, though I take a few more greedy gulps before setting down the goblet. It is not only what I planned to do with Thomas, I realize now, seated upon my throne before the eyes of all the court. No, it is even more than that. It is that some part of me, in spite of my fear, had dared become resigned to the king’s death.

  “Sweet Catherine,” Henry says, his great hand warm upon my back. I turn, a brilliant smile on my face. Thomas is still standing next to him, but I stare determinedly into Henry’s eyes. “I’ve thanked your cousin for looking after you.”

  I breathe, I smile. I don’t know how to respond.

  “Leave it to you Howards to all look out for each other. My, what a family you all are!” He turns to Thomas and laughs at this, and Thomas laughs with him.

  IN SPITE OF the warmth of his gaze, the king’s infirmities overrule his passions. Will I simply be stuck here in the midst of fear and danger without a way to create an heir and fulfill my role, waiting for whatever may happen to me when this old king dies? No, no. I mustn’t think of such things. It’s an abomination to think of such things, especially after what I nearly did.

  I glance at the bed, the soft covers turned down to reveal the yielding mattress beneath. But this bed seems cold, lonely. Dreams pull at me with warm, tantalizing fingers—but no, I can’t. Dreams nearly caught me, recently, nearly pulled me in with the tide and into the deep. It is dangerous to dream.

  But what if there is more to love, and I am missing out on it? Little did I know, on the night of my first kiss with Thomas, that our love would be interrupted—that his kiss would hang, suspended, in the air over the garden, hovering over the flowers at midnight, hovering like a ghost over my bed. This type of love can be the most lingering, the most powerful, for there is no time in which to discover a single fault or flaw. It remains forever as one kiss: one solemn, perfect promise of the world.

  Perhaps this is what happened to Henry, when he first saw me. Perhaps my image hovered over the royal bed that very night; a sweet and beguiling ghost, my voice haunting his dreams.

  THE RAW COLD of winter has begun to thaw into a sparkling spring, and I’m glad of it. I’ve taken to heading straight to the stables after Mass and riding my silver mare hard over the pastures, her swift hooves soaring until I am nearly breathless. There is a lot inside of me that needs dampening, burying, and the pounding of the horse’s hooves upon the cracked earth, the cold air burning my cheeks, and the pale sky over my head seem clean, pure. I make my mind as blank as the sky. I listen to my heartbeat. I listen to my breath. I do my best to think of nothing. By the time I dismount, my legs and back are aching, but the pain itself is a welcome distraction.

  I see Henry in the afternoons, and his health has gradually improved. We take walks in the garden together, for his physicians agree that the sunshine will do much to improve his health. I watch the king, and I watch those around him. All of court looks different to me now, somehow both clearer and more confusing than it appeared when this year began. Henry is besieged by those who undoubtedly would do him ill if it would benefit them to do so. During dinner I see him conferring with Edward Seymour, and the sight of it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I scan the faces before us and imagine in each of them a unique self-interest, a unique abuse or destruction of our king in the name of God or family or the true church—whatever that church may be.

  And I know, now, that I am no different from any of them.

  PREPARATIONS FOR A progress to the northern regions have already begun, in an effort to suppress the potential rebellion before it begins. The king will journey farther north than he ever has in the course of his reign. In spite of his fear of dirt and disease, he will smile while shaking the grimy hands of his populace, their dirty lips pressed to his jeweled fingers. He will stand in the midst of the masses, sparkling and brilliant, like a god on earth, to inspire thei
r devotion and impress upon them the magnitude of his power.

  “I’ve seen them packing the finest gold plate and carved goblets,” Dorothy remarks as she unlaces my corset to ready me for bed. “I’ve heard rumors that your coronation will take place in York.”

  I pretend not to hear this, and look up to admire my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing the gold circlet Henry gifted to me recently, in honor of spring and the day of my birth. I am now sixteen years old. The circlet is studded with sapphires and diamonds, and seems to spark in the light of the fire. When the king placed it upon my head, I know we were both thinking about the day when I would wear the true crown.

  “We have all heard such rumors.”

  “There could be nothing more pleasing for the king, certainly, to crown a queen clearly pregnant with a royal heir.”

  I do not respond, absorbed by the look of the jewels upon my fingers, but the bite of this remark is not lost on me. “The people are unhappy with your husband, Catherine,” Lisbeth remarks. “A coronation may be just the distraction they all need.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, too curious to rebuke her. Lisbeth’s eyes flash up to the mirror to meet mine.

  “The Countess of Salisbury was executed this morning.”

  “No!” Katherine gasps. “She was an old woman!”

  “An old woman not even allowed the benefit of a trial, only to be dispatched by a novice executioner.”

  “She was executed without trial?” Dorothy asks.

  “The king signed a Bill of Attainder—it renders a sentence without need of a trial. And her sentence was death.”

  “Oh, Lisbeth, stop—it’s too gruesome.”

  “Then shut your ears,” Lisbeth snaps. “I think our queen has the right to hear it. It’s the talk of all of court—all of England. It took three swings of the ax to do her in.”

  “Oh! How awful, Lisbeth!” Malyn wails. “Stop, don’t tell us any more.”