The King's Rose (3 page)

“No need to hide the red rose amongst the tall weeds,” he said, and all of court laughed. Even the queen seated beside him laughed, though her lips were pinched in a thin line.

Those few words from the king were enough to set me apart from the other ladies.

“We all have our place in this world.” Lady Ashley had sneered at me. “A Howard girl cannot help but throw herself into the king’s bed as soon as she sees the chance.”

Her words made me flinch—were the machinations of my family so evident to all? The ultimate goal wasn’t so obvious until I saw it through the eyes of another: no doubt they intended for me to be King Henry’s next plaything, and perhaps sire another Howard bastard with royal blood. I hadn’t given any thought to the reality of coupling with the king. I was but fourteen at the time, the king forty-eight—an unfathomable age—not to mention overweight and intimidating. But I realized, perhaps too late, that my misgivings were quite beside the point. Lady Ashley was right. The frequent collision of my path with King Henry’s—in the halls, in the royal gardens—was not merely the will of God, but the will of the eager Howard clan, grasping for power once again.

I soon learned that the Howards had even grander plans for me, and so did King Henry.

 

WHEN THE PINNING
is done, Jane helps me step from the stool and steers me over to the mirror. At the sight of my reflection I feel suddenly light-headed: I am shining like a perfect pearl. The gold lace sparkles, the cream silk lush and immaculate. The bones of the bodice fit perfectly against my waist, seductively snug. The wide, square neckline displays my full breasts, the glistening gold embroidery of the décolletage pressed against my skin. The sunlight streaming in a nearby window makes the pearls glisten, my hair shine copper. I am like a dream of me.

“The sapphire.” The duchess strides over toward my dressing table. “You will wear that gown and the sapphire when you see the king.”

“The pearls were a gift from the king as well,” Jane remarks, “and they match perfectly.”

“But the sapphire was his
first
gift,” the duchess says, efficiently unclasping the pearls from my neck, “and therefore the most important.”

The stone is startlingly dark against my fair skin.

“It was a gift for my birthday, this spring,” I tell them, touching the stone with a cautious fingertip. “I told him it was my favorite time of year, the season of my birth.”

The duchess nods. “Then he gave you this sapphire, and that changed everything.”

Once this necklace was clasped around my neck, the king’s interest in me was made clear to everyone at court. The ladies invited me to join their card games, and I walked in front of the group when the queen was not present. I was greeted graciously, solicitously, by courtiers who had not deigned to learn my name mere months before. My favorite songs played in every room I entered; suddenly all music was played expressly for my enjoyment.

But there was more that changed, as far as the court, and my future, was concerned: I became the king’s chosen, with no other claim upon my heart. At least, no claim that anyone could detect. It had all happened so quickly, like a sudden, thrilling storm in late spring, tearing the petals from new roses, leaving the world irrevocably altered in its wake.

The sapphire upon my chest feels cold, like ice against my skin.

“The king will approve,” the duchess sniffs, satisfied. “You will visit me in my chamber tonight, Catherine. We have much to discuss before you next meet with His Majesty.

“Lady Rochford, Catherine will take her supper in my chambers. You are dismissed for the night.”

Jane’s eyes flash up at the duchess, but only briefly.

“Of course, Duchess,” she says, and exits the chamber without another word.

“Queen Katherine was a good queen, but the miscarriages and stillbirths that befell them—no wonder the king considered himself cursed,” the duchess remarks, her rich voice turned a bit raspy from talking. We’ve eaten our supper and are spending the evening secluded in her parlor, the windows opened to allow a cool breeze. “And I will admit I was surprised when young Henry married his brother Arthur’s widow.”

This parlor is so elegantly appointed. I’ve never been invited to sit here before. Never been invited to share a meal alone with the duchess, nor had her talk so openly with me.

The duchess has been the closest relative in my life for years now; I’m delighted to finally be pulled so close into her company. I’ve long wanted to ask about her career at court, and tonight I’ve been given my first chance to do so. She was lady-in-waiting to King Henry’s first queen, Katherine of Aragon, and had the honor of putting king and queen to bed on their wedding night, some thirty years ago.

“They had not been long married, and Arthur had been ill, hadn’t he?”

“Yes, but still long enough to have consummated the marriage, making the Spanish princess an ill-suited choice for Henry when he was crowned king.”

“But her only fault was no male heir. Does it not seem unfair?”

“There is no such thing as fair and unfair, Catherine. You had best learn that, now. It is the desire of the king with which you must concern yourself. Queen Katherine could not give him what he desired. He found another candidate he thought likely to do so, and he did whatever he needed to do to put her on the throne.”

“Anne Boleyn.” I sigh, meeting the duchess’s gaze. “You took me to London for her coronation procession and I dreamed of it for years afterward. I was captivated by her.”

She smiles at this observation. “As was King Henry, for a time.”

I had watched as the duchess carried Queen Anne’s train down the aisle of Westminster Abbey at her coronation. Later that same year, the duchess carried Anne’s first and only child, the Princess Elizabeth, down the aisle of the Chapel of the Observant Friars to the baptismal font.

“Look at all he did to be with her—banishing his wife, severing the church in England from the pope in Rome. He remade the church, with himself at the head of it, just to be able to marry her.” I feel my old envy boiling inside me at the mere thought of Anne’s power. They said she used strong enchantments to bend the king’s will to her pleasure. But fascinating, too, were the stories that her bewitchment had faded from the king’s eyes and that he had begun to see the devil in it.

“She was—special, that Anne,” the duchess muses, gazing into the fire. Her eyes are pale, steely gray, unblinking. “You cannot teach or learn ambition like that, Catherine. It is something that you are born with; it is a part of your soul. Or perhaps it takes a part of your soul. I think it depends on whom you ask.”

The duchess tips back her head and drains her glass of wine.

“They say she tricked him with witchcraft,” I remark, as nonchalantly as possible. “Did you ever see her sixth finger? They say it was a sign of the devil and she hid it with her long sleeves.”

The duchess looks at me, her eyes glassy, a bit unfocused. But her face is expressionless. “Witchcraft or no, what would it matter, either way?” She shrugs. “There was more to it than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anne was deft at charming the king, I will give her that. But she proved herself unworthy of the position once she was there. She was grasping, greedy, hot-tempered.”

I can’t help but revel in this, hearing the duchess denigrate my glamorous cousin, her own granddaughter. Twenty years into the king’s marriage to Queen Katherine, the duchess testified that Katherine had not been a virgin upon their wedding night, thus aiding the king’s petition to divorce the queen and be free to marry Anne.

“After all that King Henry had done to have her—even suffering excommunication by the pope himself—she didn’t know enough to treat him kindly, to demurely look the other way when the king sought to take another lady to his bed.”

“But why would he desire another, once he had Anne?”

“Ah, she wondered the same thing. But it’s the way of the king, Catherine. Everyone knows it.” Her eyes focus on mine, one eyebrow sharply cocked. “But Anne, in her arrogance, could not bear it. She hadn’t the grace of Queen Katherine, who knew enough to allow the king to take his pleasure, here and there.”

I sigh at this, my chest tight. Whatever dark sorcery Anne performed failed her in the end. Luckily, I managed to catch the king’s eye without the use of witchcraft.

“But you supported Anne, didn’t you?”

“When a Howard finds a path to the throne, you do not take it lightly. You show your unfailing support, whoever that Howard may be.”

Her eyes settle upon me for a moment in silence, reflecting the flickering candles. I turn away. She reaches over to a nearby silver platter and selects a sweetmeat. Placing it in her mouth, she smiles.

“Anne came so far, and then it was all over.” Saying her name aloud gives me a strange chill. The room has gone darker, the sky outside the window a deep, fathomless black. Now I wish I could stop thinking about the witch, I wish I had never asked. “The king’s will be done.”

“There are often other wills involved,” the duchess remarks over her sweetmeat. When I look at her, perplexed, she only smiles.

“You won’t find Lady Rochford in your chamber tonight,” she states, pouring more wine into her goblet and swirling it gently. “She has returned to court, for a short visit.”

“Jane returned to court, tonight? Why?”

“Tomorrow, she will testify to the nonconsummation of the king’s marriage to Anne of Cleves, to support his claim for an annulment.”

“Lady Rochford has testified against queens before.”

When Cousin Anne was put on trial for treason, it was Jane’s testimony that condemned her to death. She repeated Anne’s own words—evidence of a vile temper—stating aloud that the king was impotent, and incapable of siring an heir. With her testimony, Jane also condemned her own husband, George Boleyn—Anne’s brother. Their crimes were incest and adultery: treason against the king and an abomination to God. I shiver at the thought of the vile witch that once occupied the queen’s throne. It must have been a terrible thing for Jane to have witnessed. Despite my curiosity, I’ve never asked Jane about Anne. I avoid even mentioning her name.

“Another step toward divorce is another step toward your betrothal, Catherine. Besides, all of the queen’s chamber knows of her naïveté in regard to her marital duties. She unwittingly admitted as much to her senior maids, Lady Rochford included.”

“Her mother in Cleves taught her impeccable embroidery, but little practical knowledge about marriage,” I remark.

“Indeed.” She smiles, then narrows her eyes at me. “That is one area in which I need not worry about you.”

My neck and cheeks turn warm. The duchess laughs wryly.

“Just think of Queen Jane, Catherine,” she reminds me, her voice stern. “She is your model—it’s only a shame that she was a Seymour, and not a Howard. Still, I admired their strategy: she was precisely what the king needed, having tired of Anne’s vicious temper. Jane was sweet, pious, virginal, and thoroughly English—without the Spanish pedigree or Anne’s affectations of the French court. She was mild by nature and knew better than to challenge her husband. She had a proper wifely disposition.”

“A wifely disposition?”

“Yes, Catherine. A wife is honest, humble, and quiet. A wife is obedient to God, to her husband, and to her king. Look at how things will be easier for you—with husband and king the same person.” She smiles at this, selecting another sweetmeat and chewing laboriously.

“But what about Jane—she was the greatest success of all of them, with the birth of Prince Edward. But then she died just days later.”

“Well . . .” The Duchess shrugs, picking a bit of sweetmeat from her teeth. “You can’t help what happened to Jane.”

Perhaps it is the legacy of the witch, wreaking havoc with her successor from beyond the grave. And now I’ll be up on that throne, where she once sat. I only hope that if her spirit is angry, she will be kinder to me. We are cousins, after all.

 

DISTURBING THOUGHTS
follow me to my bedchamber. The hall is dark and quiet and I run my hand distractedly across the cold wall. It reminds me of running through these halls as a young girl, eager for a secret meeting under cover of darkness, rushing silently down cold stone hallways, breathless, my slippers in hand.

In these shadows, a memory catches me: the way the light flickers upon the stone walls, it seems to reflect another night, so many years ago. I was skulking in this very hall when I saw the duchess in the doorway of her chamber, bidding good-bye to a cloaked figure. The duchess’s face wasn’t visible, but I remember how her garnet brooch sparkled in the dimness. I stand here now, staring at her closed door, as if watching the scene again.

It was just before Anne Boleyn’s trial, I remember. I couldn’t help wondering then, as I do now, if it had something to do with Anne.
Of course it did;
the duchess has a hand in everything related to the Howards. But I did not see the face of the cloaked figure: only a profile, in shadow, a pale white hand pulling the cloak closed. A woman’s hand. In the days that followed, I waited to hear what would happen to my cousin—the cousin I had admired and envied and feared above all else. Somehow I assumed the magic she used to become queen would save her; she would be safely exiled, or join a nunnery, and we would never hear from her again. But then the French swordsman came to sever her slender neck in two, and there was no reprieve.

I wonder if Anne’s violent end surprised the duchess. But somehow I can’t imagine the duchess being surprised by anything. I hurry to my own chambers, eager to light a bright, cheerful fire to keep these shadows at bay.

When Jane returns, I dare not ask about her testimony. I prefer to focus on the gifts the king has sent—a blue velvet riding habit, jeweled slippers, and pearl trim for my hoods—than to dwell upon the fate of his current wife. My days are spent being fitted for new gowns and embellishing a new hood with gold lace. I distract myself with this, and with dreamy speculation on my impending royal wedding and coronation. It is a favorite game I play with the ladies here in my company—we could spend hours detailing the potential permutations of my hair and gown, the food to be eaten, the music to be played.