Free The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby

distracted by a pair of dark eyes, watching me. Thomas stands in the corner, his eyes lit by the flickering candles. When he catches my gaze, he does not look away.
    The night flowers are blooming, you should see them, he said, the first time we spoke. I had often noticed him standing in the corner, watching me; he was never one to join in the dance. He was different from the other lords—reserved, even a bit solemn. But there was something so earnest in the way he spoke, the way he looked at me, as if he were laying his feelings bare upon his face. The garden is most beautiful at night. I remember the low timbre of his voice, the warmth of his lean, long-fingered hand.
    His dark eyes smolder; my flesh turns warm. I look back to the fools and minstrels before us, eager for distraction. I smile, gently: the measured, noble expression of a queen.
     
    I H AV E MORE than seventy attendants of various ranks and positions ready to do my bidding, though I can never be quite certain what all of their roles involve: the lord chamberlain, the master of the horse, chaplains, waiters, ushers, maids. The maids are responsible for the considerable task of dressing me each morning: arranging the farthingale hoop around my waist and tying my sleeves in place. There is even a cupbearer, whose task is to keep full my goblet of wine. From the outside looking in, one would think I had nothing with which to concern myself.
    Nearest to me I always keep Lady Rochford, who is adept at court etiquette and the proper behavior of a queen. Our heads are often bowed close together, her mouth demurely hidden behind a lace fan. She constantly counsels me on how to address the various members of court, how to act at public occasions, even how to speak to my royal husband. I’ve come to dread the anxious fluttering of her fan, knowing that it signals some obscure impropriety.
    Only in my own chambers, in the company of my ladies, can I find some peace. I spin into the room in my new gown: bold blue silk with long, drooping sleeves.
    “How beautiful, my queen!” Lady Ashley, Lady Christina rush forward, quick to lavish praise on me. The duchess walks forward to inspect me, her steely eyes running efficiently from my copper hair to my velvet-shod feet.
    “It’s rather French, isn’t it?” she comments, perhaps a bit warily.
    “Say what you will.” I turn to the mirror to inspect myself. “The French fashions are by far the most becoming, and I’m sure the king is appreciative.”
    “We can all see that is true,” the duchess remarks with a prim smile.
    “Look,” I urge, thrusting my sleeves before her, “this bears the new trim.”
    The duchess takes my arm in hers, and her face instantly brightens. My motto has been embroidered in gold thread around the sleeves of the gown: Non aultre volonté que la sienne. No other will but his.
    “Well done,” she says. “I am sure the king approves.” Her eyes communicate more than she dares say aloud, that it is reminiscent of Jane Seymour’s motto, “bound to obey and serve.” I have followed the duchess’s advice to use Jane as a model. That is, in all ways except for my wardrobe: the sleek French hood is simply far more elegant than the traditional boxy English headdress the late queen preferred.
    For my royal emblem I have chosen a red rose, encircled by a gold crown. It is a symbol of my royalty, and an allusion to my impending coronation. All of court has heard the king call me his “rose without a thorn.” This symbol is being painted onto stained-glass windows, entwined with our initials. Designs have been rendered for a set of elaborate jewels: rubies to represent the petals of the rose, and a gold wire twisted into a crown set with diamonds.
    “In all my years I’ve never seen our king act quite this way,” Lady Edgecombe remarks, her eyes lowered to the embroidery in her lap. “Not with his other queens.”
    “He certainly loves nothing more than to indulge his young bride,”