The King's Rose (25 page)

I think of the roar that I’ve heard emanate from Henry’s throat. I think of the times he has pushed me aside. I realize that I’ve stopped breathing; my breath is stuck in my chest.

“The people have begun to tire of him. Not just here, but in London, too. The funds from those monasteries he destroyed went directly into the king’s coffers, you know, to pay for his banquets and robes and jewels. It was less about religious reform than it was about his indulging his greed.”

“Or my greed, you mean?” I feel suddenly sick, trapped in Thomas’s arms.

“No, this is about the king. He is old, Catherine,” Thomas continues, his whisper sharp in my ear, inescapable. “He will die soon. Wouldn’t it be better for him, for all of us, if he were to die before there can be any further abuse of his power?”

I cannot ask what he is suggesting, for I already know. A cloud passes over my vision, turning the moonlit shadows a sickly, underwater blue.

“There could be a way to do it, discreetly. He is already old and ill, no matter how he attempts to conceal it. All would owe their allegiance to you, his pregnant widow.”

“What good would that do us?” I hiss, frightened by his words. “What good would that do anyone?”

“You are right: Prince Edward would be crowned king, and no doubt a Seymour named lord protector. But there have long been doubts about Edward’s health.” He rests his hand gently upon my belly. “I think it quite likely that your baby will find his way to the throne.”

“And what if I don’t have a boy? What if he never places the crown upon my head? He may be a madman, but he is all that protects me.”

“I will protect you.”

“You cannot. That’s not enough.” I wrestle free from his embrace. “You’ve let this—what we’ve done here—affect your loyalty, your judgment.” When I turn to look at him, his face is stunned and pale, his eyes like pools of ink.

“How can I not let your love affect me? How can you turn away from me, now?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the shadows. He sighs, reaching out for me again. “You can’t deny that you’ve thought of this, Catherine. We’ve all thought it. He is a danger to himself and others.”

“You must promise me, Thomas, that you will not do anything. Please promise me that you will not do anything against the king. I am worried for your safety.”

“I promise I will do anything to protect you.”

I pull him close to me and kiss him, but the kiss is already tainted. I thought in Thomas’s arms I would be safe. But his words are even more reckless than our actions.

This ends now, but I don’t have the heart to tell him.

 

I’M AT A GRAND MASQUE at Hampton Court, and the whole hall is bright with decorations of red and gold, and the room is lit with torches. I hear screaming in the distance: it’s Queen Jane, screaming through her labor pains. The music gets louder to drown out the screaming. The dancing is mad and unstoppable, my legs impelled through the vigorous steps. The room is spinning. A cold hand grasps mine—I look up and see Anne Boleyn. She grips both of my hands; her skin is like ice. She laughs at me and in laughing she tilts her head back. A gaping red wound stretches across her pale neck.

I wake from this dream, sweating, my heart pounding. I’ve had this dream before. I lean over the side of the bed and heave into my chamber pot. Jane hears me and rushes to my side, pressing her cool hands to my hot forehead. The room is still spinning. I can still hear the echoes of the mad music playing in my head.

 

I FEAR BOTH
days and nights. Jane reports that Thomas has not taken kindly to my refusal to continue our meetings.

“Perhaps a letter would soothe him, or a token of your affection?”

“No,” I tell her, unwilling to elaborate and condemn Thomas in the process. “Not with Francis around. It is not safe, no matter what he says.”

Indeed, Francis creates his own problem. He is constantly stalking around me, watching my every move, every dart of my eyes. He behaves overly familiar with me in front of the other courtiers. I try to brush it off as the flattery of a young man to his queen, but he has not the poetic grace of my other paramours at court. There is something base about his display of affection, as if I am not a queen who deserves the loftiness of poetry but a common harlot well pleased with a smirk and a bawdy remark. I see disapproval in the eyes of the other members of my household, male and female alike.

“I notice that you have posted a new secretary,” the king mentioned to me only days after Francis’s arrival. “Who is the young man?”

“Francis Dereham, my lord. A former pensioner of my uncle’s.” I know better than to describe him as a friend.

Luckily for me, Henry has greater problems to deal with than the appearance of a young man receiving a favored position in his wife’s household. King James of Scotland did not arrive for the appointed meeting with his uncle. Henry is furious, but has done well to hide his wrath from the people of York. Preparations have begun to move us to Hull by the beginning of October, where Henry will inspect the fortifications: a monarch must always be prepared for battle.

Meanwhile, in my heart and during the nightly celebrations, I’ve been waging a quiet battle of my own.

“I must see you,” Thomas whispered to me last night, in the midst of a dance. I could barely hear him through the shrieking of the bagpipes.

“Too dangerous,” I murmured quietly, smiling all the while. I could feel his eyes burning upon me, but could not return his gaze.

It is all too dangerous. My hand in his as we continued the dance, my skin thrilling to his touch. My body knows nothing of its own danger; it knows only the pleasure he has taught it.

I must listen to my mind, now, before it is too late.

It is mid-October and our procession moves slowly from Hull back to Hampton Court. After months on progress, our caravan appears a bit more ragged than it did at the beginning of the summer. And I might be the most ragged of all: my blood returned just yesterday, and I am humbled by the memory of my sin. My rash acts of desperation have not provided the succor I require, yet still the fact of my sin remains. I’ve tasted what may have been love, but it has not cured me of my troubles, and in fact may have created more. Now I find myself on the other side of sin, alone. I will suffer my penitence willingly, for this is God’s lesson for me. A dream cannot be realized through lustful indiscretion. I pray for absolution; until then, I am not worthy of God’s blessing.

In spite of this, we return home in the glory of a successful progress. The northern people approved of their new queen, and Henry seems all the more enamored of me after seeing me play my role before the public. Henry is happy with me, and I must be satisfied with that. I am grateful to be leaving
all
the wild dangers of the northern countryside safely behind me.

Measured hoofbeats gain upon me, sidling up to my silver mare.

“You are not unwell, my queen?” I recognize the voice instantly, in spite of its rigid formality.

“I will be glad to be off this horse,” I say wearily. I glance surreptitiously at Thomas’s profile. He stares straight ahead. We have done well to avoid each other these last few days of the progress. I can only hope that he understood the necessity.

“I trust that you are relieved the progress has ended,” he says quietly.

“Yes, and no,” I reply. “I shall always remember it. But such things cannot last forever. Court awaits us. Life awaits us.” Reality, and all its complications, cannot be escaped. Thomas seems subdued, compared to our last meeting; perhaps reality has returned to him, as well.

“I must agree,” he says, “It is unfortunate. I rather like the countryside.”

“As do I.”

“Perhaps you will return there, someday. Perhaps—” He stops himself, midstream. “Forgive me. I do not mean to be presumptuous. Please forgive me.”

“There is no need to ask for forgiveness.”

“I only hope that you are well, that you will feel better once we arrive at court.”

“I trust that I will. Thank you.”

He tugs the reins of his horse, moving up through the throng toward the king’s retinue, where he belongs.

Please, Thomas, forgive me. Please understand: it is not my choice.
He has been at court long enough to appreciate this. It was dangerous for us to think that he could protect me. Only the king can protect me, as frightening as that prospect may seem. I must be a wife to King Henry, and to no one else. It is hard enough to live this way, splitting my heart in two. But I cannot doubt my decision now. I must leave all of this behind me. I must leave my own heart behind me.

This road is rough, and I am weary. There is so little that I understand about this life—I wonder if I am the only one who feels so lost. We are all merely wandering down a road, in single file. We are not sure where this path will lead us. We do not know when we are walking headfirst into darkness. We are not sure when, or if, the sun will shine again.

 

UPON RETURNING TO HAMPTON,
we were greeted with sad news: Henry’s sister Margaret died in early October while we were on progress, and Prince Edward has fallen ill in our absence.

Soon after our arrival, I accompanied Henry on a visit to his son. I could not help but think of Thomas’s dark words when I saw the boy, and the thoughts made my throat constrict. The four-year-old prince has a sallow complexion. He is certainly well fed, but lacks the athletic prowess and energy his father displayed even at such a young age. Perhaps the nature of a lone prince’s life is too cloistered for his own good. We walked outside with little Edward; his nursemaids draped a heavy cloak over him in spite of the fine weather.

Over the few days since our return we’ve received word that the prince’s health is much improved, and a breath of relief is sighed throughout court. Sighed by all, perhaps, save Henry.

“We are disappearing, we Tudors,” he laments, looking up at me with woeful eyes. We are having a quiet dinner in his chamber, and I am glad of the privacy. I stand from my chair and walk around the food-laden table to him. I sit upon his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. He does not resist, only rests his head upon my shoulder. Now that I’ve been given a taste of his vile moods, I’m amazed by how tender he can still be with me. And I’m glad to be able to comfort him in a way that a wife should.

“That is not true,” I tell him, lightly stroking his hair, “You still have your children. You still have Prince Edward.” “And I have you,” he whispers in my ear. “Thanks be to God that I have you.”

 

I AM GLAD TO BE BACK
at court, back to the ordinary rudiments of daily life. The weather is fine and the king is in good spirits. I have been attending Mass more frequently, offering my mute confession up to God. My heart is raw, wounded—better to pay it no mind at all. In time it will become a phantom pain, one I am accustomed to ignoring. There are many in this world who must survive without their heart.

Henry is finding joy in me just as he did when we were first married. Today, the first of November, he has planned a special thanksgiving service in the Chapel Royal. I attend Mass with him every morning since we returned from the progress. Standing beside him in the church reminds me of that magical moment of taking the sacrament at the chapel in Lincoln. We kneel before the altar to offer our thanks.

“I thank the Lord for the good life I have led and trust to lead with my queen. I thank the Lord for granting me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I now have,” Henry murmurs, his voice low and humble. He asks the bishop present to make prayer and give like thanks with him. My cheeks turn warm; the king is happy, and feels blessed to have me.

As we leave the chapel, Archbishop Cranmer shuffles forward and hands a sealed letter to Henry.

“What is this?”

“A short letter,” Cranmer says, bowing hastily, “for you to read later, Your Grace. In private.”

As Henry puts the letter in the pocket of his doublet, Cranmer’s eyes flutter briefly over mine. He turns and hastily leaves the chapel.

 

THE NEW GOWN
I’ve had made is truly special, just as I dreamed it would be: dark purple velvet with gold lace panels in the skirt and tissue of gold set into the sleeves. The neckline is embellished with a series of amethysts, matching the smaller series of stones on the trim of my purple velvet hood.

The main chamber is full of ladies already sipping from goblets of wine as they help to ready me for tonight’s banquet—a celebration of the successful northern progress which was at first postponed in light of the prince’s ill health. All the members of my household line up accordingly to prepare for our ascent to the main hall.

“Where is Francis?” Joan asks, peering through the crowds of people.

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.” I turn back to the mirror for one last inspection of my gown and hair in the glass.

“Perhaps he’s gone hawking?” Dorothy suggests.

“He should know enough to return in time for supper,” Lady Rochford snaps.

“I say good riddance,” I remark quietly. In spite of the favors and gifts I’ve bestowed upon Francis in order to ensure his good behavior, I still shiver to see him—a ghost virulent with wicked secrets—walking among the dazzling array of courtiers that is a part of my new life. I suppose it will merely take time for me to become accustomed to his presence, just as it did when the ladies of Lambeth became a part of my household.

“Beautiful, Catherine!” Henry exclaims, taking my hand in his. He laughs as I spin before him. “You were born to wear royal purple!”

Henry pulls me onto the dance floor, before all assembled. I feel that bliss of triumph as he spins me to the song of the lute and drum and wooden pipe. I hear the crowd gasp in admiration as my velvet gown spreads out around me in waves of violet, the gold lace sparkling in the candlelight. Perhaps I can be happy as Henry’s queen, perhaps I can put all the past behind me.