The King's Rose (4 page)

“Mistress Catherine.” A servant’s voice permeates our chatter. “The duchess requests your presence in the parlor.”

For further education, no doubt.
The novelty of the duchess’s company has diminished somewhat, after hours spent in her parlor receiving exhaustive instruction on my future role as queen: the administration of my household and estates, listening to petitions to present to the king, and all the finer points of court etiquette which she feels certain I am still lacking.

It’s a strange irony in comparison to the life I once lived in these very halls. Making my way down this quiet hallway, I imagine colliding with Joan or Dorothy, flushed and pink from a vigorous ride, or a walk along the sunny garden paths. There was little structure to my days then, aside from morning Mass and meals taken together in the great hall. The evenings were spent on embroidery, or practicing the lute or new dances. It was an ordinary life for a girl of my birth, but very different from the propriety I had to learn at court, and even more so the life ahead of me as queen. But I can’t imagine being queen is as mundane as the duchess would make it out to be.

I open the door to the duchess’s chamber and I’m taken aback by the bright smile she flashes at me upon my arrival. She has features not accustomed to such smiling; it seems to break her face in two.

“Good morning, Catherine,” she exclaims, and moves forward, enfolding me in a stiff embrace. I look up to see the Duke of Norfolk standing before the sunlit window, a black obelisk against a screen of gold. I bow solemnly before both of them. It is so unlike me, but I can feel that I am being carefully inspected. Their eyes feel heavy upon me.

“Am I to see the king today?” I ask.

“You will see him tomorrow, for today the divorce is complete.” The duchess’s voice is low, tremulous. “The queen has been offered the title of the king’s beloved sister—a title which she accepts gladly, with all of the benefits it entails.”

“And she will stay here, in England?” I inquire with pretend composure.

“She’s been given a number of her own residences, and is now a woman of means in this country. I doubt that she will even consider returning home.” The duke steps forward, studying me with his stern gaze. A tall man with thin lips and a hooked nose, he has gained the favorable post of lord treasurer at court. He’s also fought for the king, bringing down an uprising of rebels in the northern region, on the king’s command. In this he was, from what I have heard, merciless. A man to be feared by his enemies.

“There is more, Catherine, and I’ve come here to tell you.”

The duchess takes my hands in hers. Her hands are cold and shaking slightly.

“Your betrothal is ready to be made official,” she tells me.

I can only blink in response.

“You will be betrothed to the King of England, Catherine,” the duke pronounces. “No other betrothal is valid, or was ever valid. Indeed, no other betrothal even existed.”

I catch a sharp look in the duke’s eye, and quickly look away.

“It is important that you know what is expected of you, as queen,” Norfolk continues, “and as his wife—for that is your job, first and foremost.”

“Indeed. His wife,” I echo, to let them know I understand. I am fifteen years old, and the king nearly fifty. But this is not out of the ordinary—a girl of fifteen is ripe for a husband, and older men of means often take young brides. This is one reason I was sent to court, to parade myself before the eligible bachelors and attain a profitable betrothal.

And I have. I will be Queen of England.

“It need not be difficult for you,” the duke states, stepping closer. “Simply do and say little. Be cheerful; do not vex him with requests or complaints—aside from those we require from you. Your only job is to make the king happy and to become pregnant as soon as possible. You will be the perfect serene, docile maiden.”

I notice a certain emphasis on the word
maiden,
but perhaps it is my imagination. Reflected in the glassy shine of my uncle’s eyes, an image of Queen Jane: the most triumphant of all of Henry’s queens, before her untimely death.

“You will also listen to us,” Norfolk intones, “and do as you are bidden.”

“Have I not done everything you’ve said, so far?” I’ve heard this warning many times before. I learned from the duchess that Norfolk did not like Anne Boleyn for her head-strong ways. But I will be better than Anne, he will see. They will all see.

“You have done well. He wanted you from the moment he saw you,” the duke tells me. How much more has the duke been told? I think back to that day: I dance before the king, my silk gown swirling around me in a blue cloud. I watch it pass before me like a strange play, a tableau of the king falling in love with Catherine Howard. It all seems unreal to me, more pageantry than real life.

“This was meant to be, destiny,” the duke pronounces. “A Howard upon the throne.”

And that Howard happens to be me.
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.

“Catherine, are your courses regular?” the duchess asks suddenly, her eyes narrow. I blink at her, slow to decipher what she is saying.

“They are, usually.” I try, feebly, to explain the common delay of my courses, feeling a deep blush travel up my neck and cheeks, Uncle Norfolk’s beady black eyes trained on mine. The duchess purses her lips and sighs in displeasure.

“Well, there is little we can do about it, now,” she remarks. “He has chosen you, it has already been decided. We must simply hope for the best.” She turns to Norfolk and tells him about a concoction of herbs she will prepare for me, intended to invigorate fertility. I wonder if they have forgotten I am still in the room.

“You will rest today, Catherine,” the duchess says abruptly, rubbing my hands with her still-cold fingers. “Tomorrow the king will arrive here, and make his formal proposal for marriage.”

“Wear the cream silk, Catherine. The king mentioned wanting to see you in it,” the duke tells me. They continue to speak about when the king will arrive, and who will arrive with him, and how everything should be prepared for the occasion. I sit dumbly beside them, feeling oddly inconsequential to their plans.

When the duke leaves, the duchess turns to me and her expression softens.

“He is king, Catherine, and he has chosen you.” She grasps my upper arms and holds me firmly. “You must remember all that I have told you. It is imperative that you follow all of my instructions.”

All that the duchess has told me? How to look at the king, how to speak, how to walk, bow, smile, laugh—

“Your life starts anew from this moment, Catherine. Do you understand me?” She is staring steadily into my eyes. “Your past is gone. Not only is it gone, but it never happened at all.” She squeezes my arms until I wince in pain. “You must burn your life, all of your life, before this moment. Burn your life and start a new one—a life for the King of England.”

I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat. There is no use giving voice to those old dreams, now.

“The king’s will be done,” I tell her, my voice colorless to my own ears. The duchess does not seem to notice.

“That is right,” she says, smiling. “Remember it, Catherine. Never doubt it. It is the will of God.”

God chose Henry Tudor to be king, the grandest and most beloved king that England has ever seen. And Henry Tudor has chosen me.

I think the will of God had little to do with it.

After a flurry of silk and thread and ribbon, the cream gown has been properly tailored for the betrothal. Preparations have swallowed the day; it is already twilight, and I am wearied by the barrage of instructions I’ve received in preparation for tomorrow. Jane helps me from the silk gown, then drapes it carefully over my oak chest. I pull a linen nightdress over my head and plop heavily onto the bed. The silk gown lies beside me, unfolded like the petals of a rose. In my nightdress I feel smaller, diminished. I am merely the model upon which the gown was held, the gown’s mode of travel. I can only hope to play my part well and live up to the gown’s expectations of the girl I must become.

Turning to the dressing table for my silver comb, I notice that Jane has something else in her hand—a small box of pale wood with a rusted latch. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of it. I open my mouth to protest, but she merely sets the box upon the dressing table with a decisive click.

“There is something I found that I must speak to you about,” she says, turning to me with comb in hand.

“It isn’t anything—nothing of importance.”

“Good,” she says smoothly, pulling the comb efficiently through my hair. “Then you will not mind if I burn it for you.”

“It was my mother’s jewel box,” I inform her, tugging my hair out of her hand.

“Its contents, then.” She blinks blandly. “You can keep the box itself.”

“I did not realize it would be necessary.”

“It is more than necessary, and you should know that well enough.”

“Perhaps if you weren’t rooting around in my belongings—”

“And who is to say a nosy maid at court won’t be rooting around in your belongings? What if Lady Ashley had discovered it, or any of the others? You cannot fool yourself into believing they would protect your secrets, Catherine. A queen has no secrets.”

“Then I am to deny everything, even to myself? Deny my heart—my love?”

“Oh, don’t bore me with your tale of love. You sound like an ungrateful child.”

“Maybe I am a child,” I tell her. I feel tears burning behind my eyelids.

“I won’t hear another word of it, not of the box, nor of your love. The king wants a maiden enamored with him, not a fickle-hearted girl betrothed to another.”

I look away from the box, thinking of the duchess’s words:
Burn your life.
Then this is it, the final fire, the purifying flame.

“Fine,” I tell her, wiping the tears from my eyes. “But I’ll do it myself.”

“I only wish I could trust you to do so,” Jane states solemnly. She lifts the box from the dressing table and offers it to me. “I am happy to do the honors, if you would like,” she tells me.

I snatch the box angrily from her hand. I see there is nothing else for it—she will stand here and wait until the deed is done. I pull a folded paper—a page of music—out from beneath the various trinkets. Before I can think long on it, I thrust it unceremoniously into the flames.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she asks, moving efficiently to the hearth and stoking the flames. The paper crackles before our eyes. “Better to do it now, before you return to court. And how appropriate”—she turns to me with a wry smile—“to burn your past here, at Lambeth.”

I turn away from her, clutching the box tightly. True enough, this must be done, but I cannot do this with her watching; my own emotions embarrass me.

“Just look at how far you have risen, Catherine,” she says gently, stroking my hair; her voice is tinged with awe. “The past is over. This is your life now.”

“I did not choose this life,” I mutter quietly, fearing a harsh rebuke.

“No, but you were chosen. And that is all that matters.”

I know that Jane is right. No one denies the affections of a king, even if it means denying your own. I must not think about the past. I will be the king’s wife, I will be queen. This will have to be my happiness, now. And this can be enough, can’t it?

“No more tears, Catherine. Do you hear me? No more crying for you. The past is gone, there is no use crying about it, now.”

Jane unclasps the gold chain from my throat. It slips free, and I catch the sapphire in the palm of my hand. It glints there darkly, like a wide-open eye.

 

KING HENRY’S PROPOSAL
will take place at midday today. I am attired in the cream silk gown, awaiting the signal that the barge approaches the water gate. We’re waiting in the duchess’s stuffy parlor in order to conceal me from curious onlookers: the ladies of Lambeth, sequestered in their chambers above. I can only guess what stories they have heard from the servants, what details they rehash while resting on cushions or carding wool for thread. I try my best not to think about them.

At the signal, I’m hastily ushered outside. The royal barge arrives at the water gate, arrayed in brightly colored banners and ribbons. A series of barges follow, which carry the grooms of the king’s chamber, a few of his closest advisers, and a band of musicians who serenade the king as he approaches the water gate. I stand in the sunlight, watching the royal party glide across the glittering Thames.

The sun is bright and hot, reflecting brilliantly off my cream gown.

“Stop squinting, Catherine,” the duchess tells me. “Remember to smile.”

The king steps from his barge and approaches me; I feel my breath catch in my throat. King Henry is tall and broad, the width of his massive shoulders accentuated by voluminous sleeves, decorated with fine slashes to reveal the glittering cloth of gold beneath the red satin. He wears a purple satin doublet embroidered with gold thread, and on a long gold chain around his royal neck hangs a diamond the size of a walnut; it swings against his full belly as he mounts the steps toward me.

“My dear Catherine,” he says, and puts out his hand. I curtsy, speechless, and place my hand in his. He towers over me, monstrous—no, no, I can’t think of it like that. He simply dwarfs me, in size and power and wealth and importance. He dwarfs everyone, a legend setting his feet upon common soil. The jewels on his fingers and his collar are sparkling, drenched in light. My eyes begin to tear. To those appraising the scene, I appear overcome with emotion.

He considers me for a moment, and squeezes my hand firmly in his gigantic grip. He does not kneel down, and of this I am relieved. He seems the type of romantic man to want to do such a thing. But who would feel comfortable watching a king beg, even if it is only pretend?