Read Online The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alisa M. Libby
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protected by his love and affection. With the king’s arms around me, I have nothing—not even the eyes of the court—to fear.
XI
Hampton Court spreads out before me, resplendent, beneath a pure blue sky. The glorious red-brick façade shines golden red in the sunshine.
Upon our entrance, courtiers drop to their knees in obeisance. Whispers, like the rustling of a hundred crows’ wings, follow in the wake of my every step as I’m escorted to the queen’s apartments: a presence chamber, a drawing room, and finally my bedchamber, where the tall windows reveal a view of the royal gardens, riotous with color. All of the ladies of my new household—too many to count—hover around me, kiss my hand, and pledge their oath of service. I relish the sight of Lady Ashley, bent in dutiful reverence before me. But I’m sure their whispers will rise and fall as soon as I depart. I was once a maid in the queen’s chambers, I know what it is like. What they don’t know about me their whispers will invent.
The king arrives to escort me to the royal pew in the Chapel Royal, for Mass. The chapel is flooded with multicolored sunlight from the stained-glass windows, lighting the curved vaults of the gilded ceiling. Looking down upon the upturned faces of the assembled court, I imagine I see varying degrees of shock and admiration rippling over their expressions as they gaze upon their new queen.
I’ve done it, I think, triumphantly, the choir of male voices rising as Mass begins. They can all see that I’ve done it. I’ve won the heart of the king.
A HOST OF SILVER TRUMPETS blares a fanfare as Henry and I enter the great hall; the sound shimmers in the air before us. There are hundreds of people here—the entire court is assembled for a banquet in my honor. The king leads me to the front of the hall, where we are seated side by side beneath the cloth of state: a crimson velvet canopy embroidered with a Tudor rose. All the grandeur makes me think about my coronation. How will it feel when the crown is set upon my head?
We are presented with platters of venison, beef, roast swan, salt cod. The peacock royal is roasted and its skin then reapplied, so that it appears the bird is merely squatting upon the platter, alert, his jewel-bright tail feathers spread in a fan behind him. Even the loaf of bread brought to us is elegantly wrapped in bright orange silk. And for dessert: a marchpane mold of our entwined initials— H&C —painted in gold leaf.
My eyes wander around the great hall, taking in the high stained-glass windows, the carved ceiling painted in blue, green, red, and gold.
“It is the story of Abraham,” the king tells me, motioning to the elaborate set of tapestries lining the walls. “I had it commissioned.” Scenes of the biblical tale are depicted in vivid color. In the tapestry closest to us, Abraham gazes at his infant son.
“They are breathtaking, my lord.” But it is more than that; I can see why Henry identifies with Abraham, who was also in dire need of a son and heir.
“As breathtaking as the gooseberry tarts?” The king laughs, urging another tart onto my plate and putting his arm around me.
“You know well how to keep your wife happy.” I bite carefully into the tart, chewing in rapture. What he doesn’t know is how long I went without such indulgences.
“Indeed, I do—what pleases my wife pleases me the more.”
At the wave of Henry’s jeweled hand a huge assembly of musicians and acrobats comes forward to entertain us with their antics. I clap my hands in delight over the proceedings, and Henry laughs all the more for my enjoyment. He pulls me close to him, stroking my cheek lovingly with his jeweled hand. The eyes of the court are upon us, appraising the king’s love for his new wife. The cold stones, ruby and emerald, brush against my skin, sending a rush of relief and triumph through my body. There is no one to ignore me now.
Gazing upon the crowd in the great hall, I’m
XI
Hampton Court spreads out before me, resplendent, beneath a pure blue sky. The glorious red-brick façade shines golden red in the sunshine.
Upon our entrance, courtiers drop to their knees in obeisance. Whispers, like the rustling of a hundred crows’ wings, follow in the wake of my every step as I’m escorted to the queen’s apartments: a presence chamber, a drawing room, and finally my bedchamber, where the tall windows reveal a view of the royal gardens, riotous with color. All of the ladies of my new household—too many to count—hover around me, kiss my hand, and pledge their oath of service. I relish the sight of Lady Ashley, bent in dutiful reverence before me. But I’m sure their whispers will rise and fall as soon as I depart. I was once a maid in the queen’s chambers, I know what it is like. What they don’t know about me their whispers will invent.
The king arrives to escort me to the royal pew in the Chapel Royal, for Mass. The chapel is flooded with multicolored sunlight from the stained-glass windows, lighting the curved vaults of the gilded ceiling. Looking down upon the upturned faces of the assembled court, I imagine I see varying degrees of shock and admiration rippling over their expressions as they gaze upon their new queen.
I’ve done it, I think, triumphantly, the choir of male voices rising as Mass begins. They can all see that I’ve done it. I’ve won the heart of the king.
A HOST OF SILVER TRUMPETS blares a fanfare as Henry and I enter the great hall; the sound shimmers in the air before us. There are hundreds of people here—the entire court is assembled for a banquet in my honor. The king leads me to the front of the hall, where we are seated side by side beneath the cloth of state: a crimson velvet canopy embroidered with a Tudor rose. All the grandeur makes me think about my coronation. How will it feel when the crown is set upon my head?
We are presented with platters of venison, beef, roast swan, salt cod. The peacock royal is roasted and its skin then reapplied, so that it appears the bird is merely squatting upon the platter, alert, his jewel-bright tail feathers spread in a fan behind him. Even the loaf of bread brought to us is elegantly wrapped in bright orange silk. And for dessert: a marchpane mold of our entwined initials— H&C —painted in gold leaf.
My eyes wander around the great hall, taking in the high stained-glass windows, the carved ceiling painted in blue, green, red, and gold.
“It is the story of Abraham,” the king tells me, motioning to the elaborate set of tapestries lining the walls. “I had it commissioned.” Scenes of the biblical tale are depicted in vivid color. In the tapestry closest to us, Abraham gazes at his infant son.
“They are breathtaking, my lord.” But it is more than that; I can see why Henry identifies with Abraham, who was also in dire need of a son and heir.
“As breathtaking as the gooseberry tarts?” The king laughs, urging another tart onto my plate and putting his arm around me.
“You know well how to keep your wife happy.” I bite carefully into the tart, chewing in rapture. What he doesn’t know is how long I went without such indulgences.
“Indeed, I do—what pleases my wife pleases me the more.”
At the wave of Henry’s jeweled hand a huge assembly of musicians and acrobats comes forward to entertain us with their antics. I clap my hands in delight over the proceedings, and Henry laughs all the more for my enjoyment. He pulls me close to him, stroking my cheek lovingly with his jeweled hand. The eyes of the court are upon us, appraising the king’s love for his new wife. The cold stones, ruby and emerald, brush against my skin, sending a rush of relief and triumph through my body. There is no one to ignore me now.
Gazing upon the crowd in the great hall, I’m
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