The King's Rose (2 page)

“I must speak with Catherine alone,” the duchess says smoothly. The servants move away from me, receding into shadows and filing silently out of the room. Jane squeezes my arm swiftly before departing.

The duchess walks into the ring of light created by the cheerful fire and the lit candles on my dressing table. Even in this golden light she appears hard, silvery, her sterling hair swept back from her white face. She levels her steel-gray gaze at me and smiles.

“The gown is beautiful, Catherine,” she says, lifting it from my arms and spreading it out carefully upon the bed; she caresses it lovingly. “We will have it fitted while you are here.”

“Is the king to visit me here?” I ask, feigning composure. For all the times I’ve met him in the palace gardens, played my lute for him, or danced before him in the great hall, I’ve never been alone with King Henry.

“Do you know why he sent you here?”

“The Duke of Norfolk assured me I had not displeased the king,” I state, instantly defensive. “I’ve charmed him. I’ve done all that you told me to do.”

“Calm yourself, Catherine.” She moves to a corner of the room and lifts a glass decanter of wine from a small table, filling two goblets. I feel uneasy watching the duchess pour wine for me. Her face is serene, but there is a certain energy sparking around her; I can see it in spite of how carefully she moves. “Your uncle Norfolk is correct, you have not displeased the king. Quite the contrary. Please.” She hands me a full goblet and gestures to a chair before the mirror. She sits across from me upon the bed, her rich black satin gown a stark contrast to the cream silk lying beside her. “It was the king’s order that you were sent here.”

“Norfolk told me. But why did the king remove me from court?”

“He thought it prudent that you be sent away before the queen is relocated. She will be sent to Richmond, to escape the threat of the plague and take in the country air.” The duchess sips primly from her own goblet, then sets it upon the table.

“There is a threat of plague? In London?”

“Of course not, fool.” But she smiles, amused instead of frustrated. “Don’t you think the king would be the first to take to the country if there were? No, no, he will stay at court and brave the false threat of contagion. It will not be long now before their marriage is deemed null and void on the basis of a preexisting betrothal contract for Anne of Cleves with the Marquis of Lorraine, and nonconsummation of her marriage to King Henry.”

“He will divorce the queen,” I murmur, rolling the meaning of these words over in my mind. “Already?”

“Oh, you cannot play the fool with me, Catherine. You did not truly think that our king would stay married to that Flanders Mare?”

“Will I return to court when the divorce is final?”

“In a matter of speaking.” The duchess’s eyes fairly glow in the dimness. “After the wedding.”

“The wedding?”

She stares at me for a moment. Extending her arm, she places her cold hand upon mine.

“The time has come, Catherine. King Henry intends to make you his bride.”

She smiles at me. I blink back at her.

“King Henry intends?”

“To make you his bride,” she repeats. Her eyes are focused upon mine. “I expect you will be wed before the summer is done.”

My heart rises in my throat, as though I have just swallowed a living thing. I knew this was their goal, eventually, but the sudden reality of it shudders through me. Cousin Anne waited years for King Henry’s separation from his first wife . . . oh, but I can’t think about Anne, now.

“So soon?” My voice cracks slightly. I clear my throat. “I did not know . . . it is all . . . I didn’t know it would happen so soon. That he would be rid of the queen—” I clear my throat again, trembling hands clasped tightly around the goblet. “Anne of Cleves is a princess. I am not even—”

“He has chosen a common girl before—don’t forget your cousin Anne, and Jane Seymour. Neither one with royal blood. But you are not common, Catherine. You are a Howard, and our family is among the most powerful at court.”

My mind swims; the golden light in the room seems liquid, blurred.

“The king has made his choice, Catherine, and he chooses you. Norfolk said King Henry has described you as a jewel of womanhood. He loves your freshness, your innocence.”

There is something literal about the way she says that word:
innocence.

“The king knows that he has little time to waste,” the duchess adds, and looks at me darkly. “Do you know what is required of you, as the king’s wife?”

“A child,” I state, “a son.” I drain my wine in great gulps and set the goblet upon the dressing table.

“An heir, Catherine—your son will be a legitimate heir to the throne.” She squeezes my hand so tightly that I wince. “But that is
after
the wedding. Right now you are to be the king’s virgin.”

I look up at these words; the duchess’s eyes sparkle eerily, like twin sapphires.

“He does not want a seductress, or a temptress, or a flirt. He wants to marry a virgin—like his eternally beloved, departed queen Jane Seymour. You must be like Jane for him.”

You know that isn’t true,
I think, meeting the duchess’s gaze. Before I can say a word, she raises a hand to stop me.

“There are things now that are dangerous to even think, let alone say aloud,” she says, her voice quiet but piercing. “Any admission could be misconstrued as a precontract, and could spoil all we’ve done. It never happened, Catherine, any of it. Your past is gone. You are a virgin, now.”

Hearing these words spoken to me within Lambeth’s walls is almost too much to bear. My past echoes here, the very stones of this building crowded with memories of the girl I used to be.

“That’s what you’ve told him?”

“Yes. The king is told what he wants to hear.”

“The king was told that Anne of Cleves was a beauty—just see where that lie will lead her, not to mention Cromwell.”

“The king is already taken with you, Catherine. And the king wants a virgin. The Duke of Norfolk and I have made you exactly what the king wants you to be. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I murmur, my eyes lowered.

“Besides, he would not have wanted you, otherwise.” Her voice is low and cold, slithering around me like a snake. “The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him.” A slight smile plays at the sharp corners of her mouth. “But we have fixed all of that. You will be queen, Catherine, because of your family. Remember that, for you could not have done this on your own.”

“I will remember.” I knew this was their plan, of course. But now the crown itself is at hand: too large, too grand a thing for me to comprehend. If I have a son, he will be second in line for the throne of England, behind Prince Edward, son of the dead Queen Jane. I will be crowned queen, and my son could one day reign as king.

“We have created you, Catherine.” The duchess’s voice trembles with excitement. “The king desires an innocent young maid who will love him.” She smiles, her steel eyes wide and impossibly bright. “So that is what you must be.”

“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.

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 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.