The King's Rose

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Alisa M. Libby

 

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Published in the United States by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-02468-3

The Thames is a messenger of fortune, rippling smoothly beneath the prow of this barge. The curtains flutter in the cool spring breeze; silver moonlight filters through their thin silk.

When I was a child and knew nothing about court life, I watched my cousin Anne Boleyn set across this very water, not long after her secret marriage to King Henry. The king’s first wife had been banished from court in order for Anne to take her place upon the throne. The gold curtains of Anne’s royal barge were flung open to reveal her, gowned in sparkling white satin and draped in jewels. King Henry awaited her on the steps of the Tower of London, where they would spend the night together before her glorious coronation as queen. Anne’s long black hair glistened like satin in the sunlight, and the panels of her jeweled gown shifted to reveal the round belly beneath—already pregnant with a prince, an heir. Or so we all thought.

Years later Queen Anne had a much different voyage to the Tower, this one void of fanfare—or reverence. But it is best not to think of Anne, and the sorcery she used to entrap the king. She creeps into my daydreams when I least desire to find her there.

“It will not be for long,” Lady Rochford reassures me. She pulls a curtain aside and smiles, enchanted by the moonlight sparkling upon the dark water. We are not going to the Tower, of course. In the distance I see the torches lit before the red brick façade of Lambeth—my former home, from my former life. I lived here before I went to court and became “that Howard girl who caught the king’s eye.” I imagine my grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Norfolk, pacing the front hall and peering out the mullioned windows to spy my approach.

“I know, Jane. The king thought it best that I stay at Lambeth, for a time,” I tell Lady Rochford, just as my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, informed me earlier today. The king is not displeased with me. It is simply for the best, I was told as the servants hastily packed my trunks. I was given no further information.
The king’s will be done,
as my father used to say with his strange mixture of bitterness and awe.

What would Father think if he saw me, now? The moonlight winks darkly upon the tear-shaped sapphire suspended from a gold chain around my neck. It’s not the type of necklace a lady-in-waiting in the queen’s household would wear, not even a lady of considerable means. And definitely not Catherine Howard, the daughter of disfavored Edmund Howard, who died penniless years ago in spite of his powerful family name. The sapphire was a gift to me, from the king. And it was only the beginning.

“I saw the queen before we departed. Her trunks were being packed, as well,” I inform Lady Rochford, though she already knows. “Where was she going?”

“Don’t worry about her, Catherine,” she answers, her voice quiet, dreamy. “Don’t waste your time worrying about her.” But I can’t help but worry about the queen—King Henry’s fourth bride, shipped to England from Cleves, Germany, at the start of this year. Anne of Cleves was intended to rejuvenate the king after his long mourning for his third wife, Jane Seymour. But this seems unlikely; the German princess was not as pretty as her portrait, and King Henry’s disappointment was clear.

I came to court last autumn to serve the new queen, and awaited her winter arrival with the rest of her ladies-in-waiting. But by early spring the gift of the sapphire made the focus of the king’s affection clear for all to see. At fifteen years old, I am on the brink of gaining great wealth and great privilege for my family. Or so I have been told. I had best act properly, I am often reminded, or else squander all of our chances. The king is forty-nine and not as well as he once was. Time is precious, fleeting.

The Thames is a messenger of fortune, be it good or ill.

I am swiftly ushered to my apartments upon arrival at Lambeth—elegantly appointed chambers near the duchess’s own, nothing like when I lived here as one of her many charges, sleeping side by side in a row of beds in the maidens’ chamber. A long wooden box lies upon the bed. The duchess’s servants crowd around me, smiling expectantly. Their eyes flicker like candles. “Where is the duchess?”

“She will be with you soon, Catherine. Look.” The servant moves forward, touching the box with eager fingers. “This arrived earlier today, along with the message that you would be joining us. Don’t you want to look?”

My fingertip traces the image carved into the center of the box—a Tudor rose. I’ve received gifts in such boxes before, but never one as large as this. With a glance at Jane, I lift the lid, the motion followed by a wave of sighs. A cream silk gown is nestled in the box before me; the ladies crowd in for a closer look.

“There is a letter,” I proclaim, plucking the parchment from the box and bending my head over the slanted script, wary of the prying eyes surrounding me.

“Oh, how exquisite. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jane declares.

“You haven’t?” I inquire, but Jane does not answer. Jane’s late husband, Lord Rochford, was George Boleyn—Anne’s brother. Jane was lady-in-waiting to Anne when she was queen. Did she really never see Queen Anne in a gown such as this?

It is the type of gown I’ve always dreamed of wearing. As a child I had only my sister Isabel’s shabby outgrown dresses to wear. Even at Lambeth I was envious of the sophisticated ladies in the maidens’ chamber, only to later be awestruck by the elegant attire of my fellow ladies at court. But this far surpasses anything they flaunted before my covetous gaze. The silk is deliciously soft to the touch, the bodice embroidered with gold thread and hundreds of delicate pearls.

“Wait until the king sees you, my dear”—Jane gushes, admiring the ample silk skirt—“from a girl to a princess in just one day.”

“Wait until all of those snobs in the queen’s household see you,” one maid exclaims, “arrayed like royalty.” The ladies giggle, sharing my revelry.

“Wait until all of court sees me.” I hold the gown to my chest and stand before the mirror, admiring the twinkling bodice in the candlelight. “Even the gift of a sapphire can’t quite compare to this.” I smile, remembering when my fellow ladies-in-waiting saw the first concrete evidence of the king’s affection: the deep blue-purple refractions of the stone glittered in their eyes.

“Imagine the look on the faces of those handsome grooms,” one of the younger girls waxes dreamily. “All of the courtiers, the lords and ladies. Imagine the look on the face of your cousin Thomas Culpeper.”

I flinch at the sound of his name. Jane’s eyes turn sharp, piercing through me—we’ve talked about this already. I swallow, compose myself, and attempt a slight smile. I blink rapidly, smoothing my palms over the full skirt. Suddenly my fingers feel numb, the softness of the silk no longer registering upon my skin.

The door to my chamber opens, and a tall figure emerges from the shadows. A single glance from the duchess silences the servants’ chatter.