Free The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby Page A

Jane adds. “I think it quite romantic.”
    And I think it quite necessary. What better way than these gowns, these jewels, these newly decorated apartments, to put Henry’s love for me on display? To convince all of court of the validity of their new queen?
    “Still, perhaps it would be wise not to take such advantage of his majesty’s generous affection,” Lady Edgecombe remarks, “or else the coffers will soon run dry.”
    “I find it difficult to believe that you would act with such prudence were you in my position, Lady Edgecombe.” My cheeks burn at her insolence; I am queen, why should I refuse any gift offered by my generous, loving husband?
    “I beg your pardon, my queen,” she mutters begrudgingly, and returns to her embroidery.
    “I have new samples for you, Your Grace,” Mistress Elle announces, lumbering into the room, arms laden with bolts of cloth. “Bright colors, straight from the palace gardens, just as you requested.” I follow her to the window seat to inspect the rose pink, crimson, and saffron silk. Mistress Elle holds a length of yellow silk beneath my chin.
    “It is the color of summer,” she comments.
    When I turn to look in the mirror I’m struck by a sudden memory: stories of Anne Boleyn enchanting the king by dancing in a bright yellow gown. I pale at the sight of my face. I am the best loved of all of Henry’s wives—everyone says that he indulges me far more than any of the others. Why will their memories not leave me in peace?
    “The king will find you quite lovely in this, I’m certain,” Mistress Elle adds. Do I detect a hint of a sinister smile on her face? The king found Anne Boleyn quite lovely in yellow silk, with her long, flowing black hair. I am eager to reprimand her, but cannot think what to reprimand her for.
    “It is a weak color,” I remark in disapproval. Lady Edgecombe looks up from her embroidery; usually I like everything I see, and want a gown made in every color, every fabric. “I prefer a richer shade, like the crimson.”
    “Of course, my queen.” Mistress Elle nods obediently, no glimmer of mockery visible on her face. Had it been there, or have I imagined it?

XII
    At Hampton, Henry is often sequestered with his advisers, clerks, and members of his Privy Council. I spend the daylight hours entertaining myself with plans for my wardrobe, or redecorating my chambers, or taking walks in the company of my ladies around Hampton’s lush gardens and beautiful courtyard. Today it is too hot for a walk outdoors. We wander the vast stone hallways, admiring the large, brilliant tapestries depicting gods and heroes of ancient myths. There are times I miss my solitary rides, or the private lute playing I enjoyed as a lady-in-waiting, tucked away in the royal gardens. Now I may do whatever I please, but never alone.
    My footfalls echoing along these halls, I think of the yellow silk. I’m well aware that Queen Anne adored Hampton and spent much time here. It had been Cardinal Wolsey’s palace, and the king gifted it to Anne upon the cardinal’s death. I pass beneath a twined H&A carved into the gateway of Hampton, feeling for a moment that her ghost watches me from overhead. But I try my best to banish these unpleasant thoughts, for Hampton is a beautiful place and I cannot help but love it here.
    “What is down this hallway?” I ask the others. A dim gallery stretches before us, lined with portraits. I press on into the darkness, as if heedless of lingering ghosts.
    One particular portrait gives me pause. With a flutter of my hand, a servant rushes to light some candles from the flames of a nearby fire. As a torch sputters forth in flame, a faint gasp of recognition ripples through the ladies as the portrait is revealed. It is the Golden Prince—my Henry when he was first crowned king, when he was but a few years older than I am now. He stands tall and slim and strapping, an image of youth and vitality. But I instantly recognize the bright blue eyes,