moment such as this. I must become my role, and nothing else.
X
It seems that my wedding day—a day of triumph for the Howards—was not joyous for all. I’ve just learned that yesterday was also the day of Cromwell’s execution. Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s chief adviser.
“Do not feel sorry for Cromwell, my dear.” The duchess shakes her head as she pulls a comb through my hair. “He was condemned for pushing the marriage between Henry and that Lutheran German, and rightly so. He would have made the Church of England a Lutheran church, if he had his way.”
The duchess puts down the comb and pulls a new hood of pale pink silk over my head—both hood and gown are new. She stands before me and arranges my hair carefully over my shoulder.
“Now we have more important things to talk about.”
From the way her eyes flash at me, critically, I know what she means. Suddenly I would rather talk about Cromwell. My face and neck blush scarlet.
“How did the king enjoy his new bride?”
“Very well,” I whisper. “I think, very well.”
Her eyes narrow at mine as she adjusts my hood, and I blandly return her stare.
“I was nervous,” I tell her, “and shy. He liked it.” This I can be sure of: I was awoken this morning with the persistence of Henry’s kisses. In spite of my qualms, the wedding night was undeniably a success in Henry’s mind.
“Good.” She smiles. “He is besotted with you. You must be besotted with him. You must be welcoming, flirtatious.”
“Yes, Duchess.” I sigh. There is always a never-ending list of things I must be.
“Make sure he visits your bed every night, Catherine. It is imperative. You must charm him, you must desire him. Do you understand?”
I do understand, for this is why he chose me: to feel desired and adored by a young woman, to convince him that he is not old. To his court, King Henry is a powerful monarch, stalwart and sturdy, draped in magnificent jewels. Now I’ve glimpsed the old man hiding beneath the robes of state, and I know more than is safe to know about a king, let alone to put into words. But it makes me soften toward him, in spite of my fears. A youthful bride is exactly what he needs— I am exactly what he needs. I must protect him; we must protect each other.
MY CHAMBERS ARE CROWDED: at least twenty maids are here, buzzing around me in the candlelit darkness, pinning my hair and tying my sleeves and adjusting the farthingale hoop beneath my skirt. I stand still and watch it in the mirror, like a beautiful tableau.
“Oh, Catherine!” The ladies sigh over the layers of rich black lace and cloth of gold. “How exquisite!”
Exquisite, indeed: just last fall I was relegated to the thinnest of cushions and the farthest seat from the fire. Now I’m installed in the queen’s chambers at Oatlands Palace, last decorated for Jane Seymour, who did not live to occupy them.
“How wonderful it is to have a young, beautiful English queen!” Lady Browne exclaims. When I was nothing more than a lady-in-waiting, she chastised me for poor embroidery and lackluster manners. Now she smiles proudly upon me.
“Not only an English queen—a Catholic queen. It is just what England, and the crown, needs more than ever,” Lady Rochford remarks. Even Jane’s usually sober expression has softened tonight, relaxed with wine and revelry.
“It’s time, everyone! Are we all ready?” Lady Edgecombe announces. “It’s time!”
We rush down the torchlit hall, dozens of velvet shoes tapping upon the flagstones, skirts of lace and silk rustling like waves breaking upon the shore. I’m so excited I can’t help giggling, and my laughter is echoed, rippling through the ladies around me, magnified. The light of the torches streams by us in streaks of gold.
“Get in line, everyone, find your place!” I call over the crowd; they all fall silent at the sound of my voice. I snap open my fan, too excited to stand still; the gold lace fan sparkles by the light of
X
It seems that my wedding day—a day of triumph for the Howards—was not joyous for all. I’ve just learned that yesterday was also the day of Cromwell’s execution. Thomas Cromwell, Henry’s chief adviser.
“Do not feel sorry for Cromwell, my dear.” The duchess shakes her head as she pulls a comb through my hair. “He was condemned for pushing the marriage between Henry and that Lutheran German, and rightly so. He would have made the Church of England a Lutheran church, if he had his way.”
The duchess puts down the comb and pulls a new hood of pale pink silk over my head—both hood and gown are new. She stands before me and arranges my hair carefully over my shoulder.
“Now we have more important things to talk about.”
From the way her eyes flash at me, critically, I know what she means. Suddenly I would rather talk about Cromwell. My face and neck blush scarlet.
“How did the king enjoy his new bride?”
“Very well,” I whisper. “I think, very well.”
Her eyes narrow at mine as she adjusts my hood, and I blandly return her stare.
“I was nervous,” I tell her, “and shy. He liked it.” This I can be sure of: I was awoken this morning with the persistence of Henry’s kisses. In spite of my qualms, the wedding night was undeniably a success in Henry’s mind.
“Good.” She smiles. “He is besotted with you. You must be besotted with him. You must be welcoming, flirtatious.”
“Yes, Duchess.” I sigh. There is always a never-ending list of things I must be.
“Make sure he visits your bed every night, Catherine. It is imperative. You must charm him, you must desire him. Do you understand?”
I do understand, for this is why he chose me: to feel desired and adored by a young woman, to convince him that he is not old. To his court, King Henry is a powerful monarch, stalwart and sturdy, draped in magnificent jewels. Now I’ve glimpsed the old man hiding beneath the robes of state, and I know more than is safe to know about a king, let alone to put into words. But it makes me soften toward him, in spite of my fears. A youthful bride is exactly what he needs— I am exactly what he needs. I must protect him; we must protect each other.
MY CHAMBERS ARE CROWDED: at least twenty maids are here, buzzing around me in the candlelit darkness, pinning my hair and tying my sleeves and adjusting the farthingale hoop beneath my skirt. I stand still and watch it in the mirror, like a beautiful tableau.
“Oh, Catherine!” The ladies sigh over the layers of rich black lace and cloth of gold. “How exquisite!”
Exquisite, indeed: just last fall I was relegated to the thinnest of cushions and the farthest seat from the fire. Now I’m installed in the queen’s chambers at Oatlands Palace, last decorated for Jane Seymour, who did not live to occupy them.
“How wonderful it is to have a young, beautiful English queen!” Lady Browne exclaims. When I was nothing more than a lady-in-waiting, she chastised me for poor embroidery and lackluster manners. Now she smiles proudly upon me.
“Not only an English queen—a Catholic queen. It is just what England, and the crown, needs more than ever,” Lady Rochford remarks. Even Jane’s usually sober expression has softened tonight, relaxed with wine and revelry.
“It’s time, everyone! Are we all ready?” Lady Edgecombe announces. “It’s time!”
We rush down the torchlit hall, dozens of velvet shoes tapping upon the flagstones, skirts of lace and silk rustling like waves breaking upon the shore. I’m so excited I can’t help giggling, and my laughter is echoed, rippling through the ladies around me, magnified. The light of the torches streams by us in streaks of gold.
“Get in line, everyone, find your place!” I call over the crowd; they all fall silent at the sound of my voice. I snap open my fan, too excited to stand still; the gold lace fan sparkles by the light of
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