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

the curved pink mouth, the red-gold hair the same color as the wisps upon my lord’s head. Is this my husband? Perhaps. More accurately, this was Katherine of Aragon’s husband, the young king the Spanish princess married so many years ago.
    “He was the most beautiful prince a country could hope for,” the duchess had told me about the young King Henry, her voice uncomfortably wistful. “He was a strapping athlete, with the heart of a poet.” Her eyes had turned glassy, staring off over my shoulder. “Think of that when you look at him, Catherine. That is what he wants you to see.” And now I’m gazing at the eyes of the Golden Prince himself: just as handsome as the duchess had described, in that first blush of youth and power.
    We stand here quietly for a moment, all of us silently appraising the form of the Golden Prince. When I turn and continue down the dim gallery, I feel those bold blue eyes watching me pass. Now I have one more ghost following me down these halls: the ghost of the beautiful prince my aging king once was.
    THE SUMMER HEAT increases, the air torpid and thick. The king has been busy during the day and night with official matters of state, so I am told. My days are spent in the company of my ladies, wandering the palace gardens where the royal gardener’s creations—a roaring lion’s head carved from a bush of red roses—have begun to wilt in the glaring sun. We find solace from the heat in my chambers, spending hours on embroidering altar cloths and other subdued tasks. But by the evening I’m restless, ready for the celebratory banquet, my legs prickling with the need to dance.
    It isn’t until I’m seated beside the king that I notice how weary he seems. Not the same rejuvenated Henry riding at the head of the pack during our honeymoon in Surrey, this Henry is breathing heavily. And something else: his left leg has been tightly bound beneath his hose, the foot elevated upon a pile of cushions. I note this out of the corner of my eye, but do my best not to acknowledge it directly. His face seems older than it did just days ago, sagging in the heat. The face of the Golden Prince rushes back to me, unbidden. I am relieved by the antics of the fool, here to distract us from the discomfort of an oppressive summer evening.
    When the dancing begins, the king nudges me.
    “Go on, Catherine,” he urges me. “Join in the dance. Show them the way it should best be done.”
    “Not tonight.” I shake my head and take another sweetmeat. “I would rather stay here beside you, my lord.”
    “Oh, come now.” He sighs. “You know how I like to watch you. Look.” He gestures over to a corner of the hall where his grooms stand around, sipping ale and watching the ladies dance. I flutter my eyes over them only briefly, cautiously.
    “Take Culpeper over there, your cousin, see?”
    I look over at Thomas, though every part of me wants to resist. He looks very handsome standing there, smiling.
    “He never dances, your cousin. I think he doesn’t know how. Too clumsy on those long legs of his.” Henry tilts his head back and laughs.
    I prefer watching you. Thomas’s voice echoes in my ear. Then he had pressed my fingers to his full, soft lips.
    “You should show him how,” the king says.
    I open my mouth to protest, but Henry waves his hand in a swift swirl in the air over his head. Thomas sees the motion and immediately walks to the king’s side and bows; he does not look in my direction at all.
    “How may I assist, Your Grace?”
    “You may dance with my dear queen.”
    Thomas blinks at him for a moment, then recovers his smooth courtier’s smile.
    “A great honor, truly. But surely you can find another dancer who may better match the queen’s heightened skill. I’m afraid I am not a worthy partner.”
    “I know.” Henry laughs, clapping Thomas on the back. Everyone around us joins in the laughter, though I doubt they all heard the joke. “I think she could teach you a thing or two.