The King's Rose (9 page)

“How may I assist, Your Grace?”

“You may dance with my dear queen.”

Thomas blinks at him for a moment, then recovers his smooth courtier’s smile.

“A great honor, truly. But surely you can find another dancer who may better match the queen’s heightened skill. I’m afraid I am not a worthy partner.”

“I know.” Henry laughs, clapping Thomas on the back. Everyone around us joins in the laughter, though I doubt they all heard the joke. “I think she could teach you a thing or two. You’ll not charm any ladies standing around sipping ale, Culpeper.”

There is nothing else to do. I stand and smile graciously at Thomas, and offer him my hand. As we take our places, I look past Thomas and smile at the king. The song begins— a strong volta—and Thomas and I execute the flirtatious kicks and turns across from each other.

Thomas isn’t a natural dancer, but I can see that he’s trying very hard. His courtier’s smile is gone, and his face is a picture of resolve. But I try not to look at his face, I try not to feel aware of his eyes upon me. Then the moment comes when he must lift me—I feel his large warm hands enveloping my tiny waist, lifting me off the ground, twirling. The drums beat; I suck a gasp of air through my teeth. He places me on the ground and I can feel that my cheeks are pink. I struggle to put on the courtier’s mask again, the measured facial expression, hoping that my flush will subside.

When the dance is done, I offer Thomas my hand, and he dips into a deep bow.

“Thank you, Your Grace, for the honor of this dance.”

“You may thank my lord for the honor, for he bestowed it on you,” I tell him, smiling at the king all the while. My smile makes my cheeks hurt; my eyes are stinging, starting to water.

“He’s a tall one, that Culpeper.” The king laughs as I return to my chair. “He lifted you a clear three feet from the floor. You looked as if you were flying, my sweet bird.”

“It rather felt as if I was,” I admit. “Rather dizzying.”

I pick up my goblet of wine and drink.

 

“WILL THE KING
be joining us today, my queen?” Lady Ashley inquires, walking beside me to the archery lists.

“The king is detained with matters of state,” I inform her, just as the king informed me. “The life of a king is not simply an excuse for revelry.”

Beneath my cool demeanor, I am stung: the round of banquets and masques celebrating our marriage has ended, and we’ve had to return to life as usual at court. I strive to please my husband, but it proves difficult when his mood is so profoundly affected by things beyond my control. Matters of state aside, the king’s swollen legs plague him; even during a private supper in his chambers, his manner is strained, and he hasn’t the stamina to lavish attention upon me as he once did. Henry is a powerful man, but not the god many think him to be.

“Then we must enjoy revelry with our queen, in the king’s absence.” A young lord bows gallantly, proffering to me an elegant bow and arrow carved of nut-brown wood and gleaming in the sunlight.

“I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve tried for a target,” I demur.

“Ah, you’ve certainly hit your target—for you have pierced my very heart.”

The ladies giggle at his dramatics; just as he had hoped, no doubt. They are all my pretend suitors, these handsome young courtiers, bestowing pretty words of devotion to their beloved queen. I enjoy spending time with the younger, less dour members of court.

“I will help you, my queen.” Thomas steps forward, smiling slightly. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

“Thank you, Thomas.” I offer him my hand, just as I would any other flattering young lord. “What skill I have on the dance floor I lack with bow and arrow.”

“I seem to recall you’re a fair shot.”

He walks me to a spot across from a clean target and instructs me how to hold the bow properly, the slim arrow resting lightly upon my fist.

“That is right—perfect, my queen, perfect.” He holds his hands out toward me in support, but he is clearly hesitant to touch me. I am no longer a lady-in-waiting, after all.

“Pull the arrow back a bit more, my queen,” he says. His fingertips barely brush the underside of my arm; the ghost of a touch. I pull back, feeling the muscles in my arm and shoulder pulled as taut as the strained bow.

“Now—release.”

The bow springs, the arrow glides forward in a graceful arc; but it bounces off the target instead of finding its home.

“You are a fine tutor, Thomas.” I smile. “Pray, show me how it should be done.”

I hand him the polished bow, my fingertips dangerously close to his. He pulls an arrow from the quiver at his belt and steps forward. I stand near him as he eyes the target and lifts the bow, his shoulder rolling beneath his fitted velvet doublet. Pulled taut, the bow strains against his chest. Then the release: a strong shot, and when I hear the arrowhead puncture the canvas target, I laugh aloud, leading the applause.

“Well done, Thomas! Well done.”

“Thank you, my queen.” His voice is quiet, intimate. He catches my eyes with his. I blink toward the sun, washing my face clean of any expression, before anyone sees the look in his eyes mirrored in my own.

My ladies and I are veritably surrounded by lords in the gardens, in the hall: reading me poetry, lauding my beauty, professing their undying love. Of all of them, Thomas is the most quiet, the least boastful, offering self-deprecating asides instead of lofty poetry.

“I cannot compete with the poets here at court, I’m afraid.” This he tells me in the garden, beneath a pear tree, the branches drooping heavily with fruit.

“And why would you need to compete with them?”

“To impress Your Majesty, of course,” he says. “What else would convince you of my complete devotion than a verse, in rhyming couplets?”

“Ah, yes. It was a delightful poem.” I wave flirtatiously at another lord, the author of said poem. “I must agree. I do not know how you will convince me of your loyalty if you can not write in rhyme.”

“Indeed, there is only one path left for me.” He sighs, resolute.

“What is that?”

“I will play the jester.” His face is serious, brows knitted. “Bright red hose and tinkling bells on my hat. Would that please you?”

I laugh aloud at this notion; the ladies echo with a chorus of giggles.

“Ah, my very own fool,” I cry. “My little sweet fool.”

I avert my eyes, suddenly, from his face.

“No, that is not necessary, Master Culpeper,” I say, gliding past him. “I am afraid you would make a very dreary court jester.” The ladies laugh at this, for a long time.

Tonight I will send a gift of a ruby ring to Thomas, in secret. Monarchs often reward subjects for their loyalty; it is all a bit of courtly romance, nothing out of the ordinary. But I have made sure to instruct him not to wear it in public. Better to be discreet.

In private, I press my lips to the ruby before dropping it into its velvet pouch.

 

“YOU HAD BEST BEWARE
, Catherine,” Jane whispers as she readies me for bed. “Must I remind you that you are no longer a lady-in-waiting in the queen’s chambers, carrying on a flirtation with your chosen suitor?”

It was more than a mere flirtation,
I want to tell her, but I don’t dare it.

“I treat him as I do all the others, Jane, you know how it is. Would it not be conspicuous if I treated him differently?”

“You do treat him differently, though you don’t know that you do. I see the way you look at him, and likewise how he looks at you.”

Then perhaps mine is not the only heart to suffer? Perhaps Thomas also hides the truth behind his practiced smile?

“The king laughs when I flirt with his grooms,” I say, feigning sudden interest in polishing my sapphire ring. “He thinks it all a lark.”

“But he is not the only one watching you, Catherine. Everyone is watching you. Everyone sees what they want to see.”

“What does that matter, now that Henry has married me?”

“It always matters!” She grasps me by the arms and shakes me vigorously. “There are those who oppose you, Catherine. They oppose the Howards and are eager to see something amiss in your behavior. You must be certain not to show them anything they could use against you.” “Who? Will you at least tell me that?”

“The Seymours, for one. They’ve long been Howard rivals. And anyone who supported the king’s match with that Lutheran from Cleves will likely not want a Catholic queen on the throne. The duchess, and Norfolk, will be wary of your enemies. We are here to help you, but you must do your part.”

“I don’t see that I particularly need your help.” I’m tired of being constantly told what to do. Now that we are married, the demands of my family have only increased.

“Is that what you think?” She arranges my jewels upon the velvet cushion of my jewelry box, carefully swirling my necklace into a coiled nest.

“Are you saying that you could have done it, that you could have charmed him?” I challenge her. “And if you think you could have, then you are a fool not to have tried.”

“You are the fool if you think you got here on your own. The Howards dressed you, created you, prepared you for your role, and then put you in the king’s way at every opportunity. The last thing we want is to see you squander your position now. No, you did not get here on your own, and you will not stay here on your own terms.”

“But I am the one to have to give things up, aren’t I? All the rest of you reap the benefits of my position, but I am the one who has to swallow my heart?”

“Don’t even dare talk about it, Catherine.” Her whisper is harsh, biting. “Look at you—you have everything. Everything! How could you possibly want for more?”

“All I ever wanted was taken from me,” I say bitterly. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you are a
child,
” she snaps. She looks at me with narrowed eyes. I feel tears burning in mine, and I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. She sighs, and settles upon my bed. She rests her hand on mine.

“You are young,” she says, gentler this time, “and having everything makes the one thing you can’t have seem more important and desirable than all the rest. I do understand. More than you know.”

Jane’s eyes shift away from mine; she blinks. I wonder if she’s thinking of her husband, George Boleyn, whom she helped to condemn with her own words. Perhaps there was more that she wanted from him, but did not receive. Perhaps he was too enamored with his sister to pay his wife any mind. And now he never will.

“But now you must understand, Catherine. You are queen, and you must behave as a queen, for all our sakes.”

“I should behave myself for you,” I say tartly, “in thanks for putting me where I am today? I did not choose this.”

“I did it, the Duke of Norfolk, the duchess. Even Thomas helped put you in the way of the king. We all did this—we all made you queen.”

I blink at her, my vision blurred.

“Thomas helped?”

“Yes, he did.” Jane’s gaze is level with mine, unfaltering. “Thomas was eager to do whatever he could to help you win the king’s affection. He is your cousin, after all. As you rise, we all rise with you.”

“Thomas wanted the king to marry me?” But of course he did. That is how it is in this family; power and ambition trumps all—even love. I am not as blind to this fact as Jane may think. I close my eyes but there I see the letters—Thomas’s letters, the pages curling red and black in the flames. It still pains me that I had to be rid of them, and now I feel like a fool. Perhaps those words I so cherished meant little to him. Perhaps I meant little to him. But no—no—I saw that look in his eyes. I saw . . . but what does it matter, how can it matter, now?

“I will beware.” I sigh, feeling defeated. Innocent flirtation was the only way I could live my old dreams, but I suppose that makes it less than innocent. I gaze at the jewels spread out upon the dressing table before me and rest my fingertips against a ruby necklace, too small for me to wear.

“What brought Anne down?” I ask, barely audible. I want to hear about the witch from Jane. She was there, she saw it all.

“Oh, Anne.” Jane sighs, as if just remembering her. She smiles at me wryly in the mirror. “Anne was her own worst enemy.”

 

AS I WALK THE HALLS
of Hampton Court without the king at my side, Henry’s past blooms derisively in my view. A glimpse of a carved pomegranate, a wrought-iron
H&J
abandoned in a pane of glass—more artifacts of my husband’s previous wives. Ghosts watch me as I lie in bed beside the king at night, whispering words of love into his ear. I worry I may say the wrong words and unwittingly remind him of another lover.

I must find comfort in the king’s love and protection. I am his queen; all of England prays for me in every church in the kingdom.
God protect our dear Queen Catherine.
I repeat this prayer, silently, when the eyes of the ghosts burn their brightest.

But I fear that some spirits will not heed any blessings from God. Of all the ghosts who crowd upon me in the queen’s apartments at Hampton, I fear the ghost of my own cousin the most.

“I heard stories of the king’s passion for Queen Anne.”

“The first Queen Anne.”

“Yes, of course the first Anne! The second he could not bear to share a bed with!”

My ears perk up at this giggled conversation. The ladies are seated on cushions before the vacant fireplace, facing away from where Jane and I sit at a carved oak table. I lower my eyes to the cards in my hand and listen.

“He could not get enough of Anne Boleyn.”

“The witch? Perhaps that was part of the enchantment.”

“Enchantment or no, the king visited her bedchamber every night, without fail. Sometimes he visited during the day, and led her to his own chamber. Even when they fought—and she fought him quite cruelly—still his desire was not abated.”