A dazzling array of musicians, acrobats, tumblers, and dancers perform for us, dashing in and around the crowd, clasping the hands of young ladies and pulling them into the dance. Finally, the Abbot of Misrule appears, his entrance greeted with a cacophony of cheers and applause. He has been chosen to host the night’s festivities: a member of court wearing a jester’s bright colors, with jingling bells on his hat and pointed shoes, a brightly colored harlequin mask stretched across his face.
“Come, all creatures striped and feathered and furred and winged! Come, all gods and goddesses, all heroes and warriors! All must join the dance!”
The drumbeats are loud, the music raucous. I have just enough time to carefully lift my long train and drape it over my elbow before I’m thrust into a vigorous dance. I spin and spin—so fast that it’s dizzying. I try to catch the king’s eye, to see if he is watching me. The dance moves quickly, and I move from one partner to the next, swirling in a sea of masked faces.
People I know from court are generally easy to identify (isn’t that Uncle Norfolk, appareled like a knight?) regardless of their costume. But there are so many guests here whom I’ve only just met—so many mysterious eyes peering out from behind feathered and sparkling masks.
“Helen of Troy,” a young man remarks, taking my hands in his. He is wearing a glittering mask of red-and-black satin, his cape also red and black. The mask has a beaklike nose, the top edges pointed like devilish horns. I look into his eyes and see that they are pale blue, and staring at me boldly.
Those eyes are familiar.
“Don’t you recognize me, Catherine? I think you would know me anywhere.” His hand grasps my waist a bit too tightly. I turn my face away and smile to conceal my alarm.
“Mask or no mask,” I say, smiling but firm, “you should refer to me as queen.”
He laughs at this and spins me around, the great train of my silk gown fluttering like a cloud around me.
“Ah, but you are my Catherine. Don’t you remember, my little minnow?” he teases. “You know my name.”
“You are the devil,” I play along, though my voice is cold. “And if you name the devil, he ceases to exist.”
At this, he laughs loudly, giving me a vigorous spin. “Not this devil.”
He clutches me now, too tight, too close. His face is mere inches from my own, those blue eyes uncannily pale and bright.
“Perhaps you don’t remember me? You have a tendency to forget matters of the heart.” His voice is a low growl, teeth clenched. “Here is a reminder: you promised I would never know your heart to swerve.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken. You have confused me with someone else,” I whisper, but he can hear my desperation. “You do not belong here.”
“That is no way to welcome an old lover.” He smiles cruelly. “I will return, Catherine.” He mouths the words carefully. “I will give you time to change your mind.”
As soon as the music ceases I break from his grasp and pull away from the dance floor. I wave at a servitor for a goblet of wine, which I sip quickly to calm my nerves. Henry makes his way over to me.
“My dearest Helen, you are even more beautiful than the legends claim.”
He bows formally over my hand. He is acting the part of King Henry, not my Henry.
“I beg that you may save a dance for me, later tonight.”
“Of course,” I say, bowing delicately. But I know that he will not dance with me, I know that he is incapable of dancing. Henry steps back, observing the celebration. He is standing carefully, taking the weight off his bandaged, ulcerated leg. His formality makes me feel even more alone, when I feel I need his protection more than ever. I don’t know how to talk to him. I don’t know what to say.
I look to the dance floor and see the devil’s mask sweep by me again: a leering smile, the blue eyes focused directly on me. Where is Joan Bulmer? Has she seen this devil? Does she recognize his eyes from those midnight parties at Lambeth? I can’t take the thought any further—I must be imagining things. The devil is dancing with Mary Seymour, appareled in gold like a queen herself. Both of them laughing, dancing, laughing. I stand still in the midst of the crowd, my gown glowing like fresh white snow. Those pale eyes follow my every move—there is nowhere I can go, nowhere I can hide.
“Revelers!” the Abbot of Misrule calls over the crowd. “It is warm within, but cold without. And what is a celebration of Christ’s birth without the rush of winter upon our flesh? To the gardens we go!”
We all follow him in a throng, the children first, a great rush of glittering masks and jeweled doublets and thick velvet robes. The air is bitingly cold but refreshing against my skin. Jane rushes up to clasp a gold cape around my shoulders, and I press forward in the midst of the crowd, plunging into the garden maze, a swirl of cloth of gold and white silk trailing after me.
I rush to the center of a particular circular hedge, craving just a moment of escape. No one will seek refuge here: they are sure to be too caught up in the goings-on of the celebration.
Too late, I realize that I am not alone. A black-caped figure stands before me. I gasp loudly, and he turns: a brown-and-gold hawk face looks back at me. I instantly recognize the dark eyes that sparkle in the midst of the mask. I let out a deep sigh and step forward, reaching my hand out to him.
“I’m so glad it’s you.” Only after the words are out do I realize how they sound. He reaches out his hand and grasps mine, tightly.
“And I feel the same,” he whispers, his voice shivering with cold, “more than I dare say.”
He bows his masked head and presses his lips, moist and warm, against my hand.
My heart is treasonous. My heart is a danger to me.
Henry’s laughter booming in the distance shocks me from my reverie. I turn and rush away, without a word. I can hear the Abbot of Misrule calling in the darkness, calling all the revelers back indoors. By the time I reach the hall, I’m shivering, the gold cloak pulled tight around my shoulders. The hall is warm, fires burning in every hearth. I stand as close as I dare to the flames, sipping from a goblet of wine.
We begin our unmasking, one by one, first Henry and then me. We politely gasp as everyone reveals themselves, though it’s often easy to predict who is hiding under their costumes. When Thomas unmasks I dare not turn my gaze away, I dare not move or breathe. I stand and smile, like a joyful and appreciative queen. Henry has his kingly look plastered upon his face as well; he looked healthier and more robust when wearing the tiger mask. I watch warily—I want to scan the crowd, but I dare not appear agitated. I wait for the red-and-black devil to appear, and unmask himself.
The unmasking is done, and no devil came forward to reveal his true identity. I don’t know whether to feel relieved, or even more haunted.
XXIII
I watch through a pane of puckered glass as caravans of guests depart; snow slants across the window, blurring the scene in a veil of white. As I bade my good-byes I felt lighter, in spite of my trepidation of what the future might entail. I had hoped that the Christmas celebrations would be a way to display Henry’s love and devotion and desire for me, but when he fell ill I felt overlooked, wholly unnecessary. If physical love is all that I have to offer him and he is too distracted or ill to appreciate it, then what will become of me?
I don’t forget the duchess’s words about finding another to take my place. I don’t forget the pale blue eyes I saw at the Twelfth Night masque. Though I may be overlooked by Henry, I am not so insignificant to others. I will always be in danger, and I must endeavor to protect myself at all costs.
Danger follows me, even into dreams: since Twelfth Night, my sleep has been restless. I yearn to close my eyes and find peace, but instead I see the maidens’ chamber at Lambeth: the candles burn low, the wine has been drunk, the late-night treats devoured. Francis takes my hand—his pale blue eyes shine in the dimness—and leads me to my bed, in the corner of the room. The ladies giggle and pinch me in jest as we pass them.
These dreams startle me awake; I stare at the ceiling, trembling in fear.
AS IS CUSTOMARY,
Henry and I will exchange gifts on New Year’s Day. I’ve had a very handsome gold goblet engraved with our initials, as well as a quilted cap with a feathered plume to cover his thinning hair.
“Did you enjoy your royal Christmas, my queen?” he asks. We are lounging before the fire in his chamber. He has already put the quilted cap upon his head, but has yet to bestow any gifts upon me. I nestle close to him in hopes of not looking too eager. There are but few ways I can gauge how happy the king is with me; gifts are one of them.
“I did, indeed. But I am glad our guests have departed.” I indulge in a yawn. “It is rather more restful to be here with you, finally alone.”
Henry smiles at this, content. Now that we are alone, Henry seems more my Henry again, though he is clearly weary from all the recent exertions and his bad leg is still bandaged beneath his hose. I consider inquiring about his health but think better of it, though a bit sadly. If he wants to keep me at arm’s length, there is nothing I can do to force my way into his confidence.
“I have a gift for you.” He reaches over to a nearby table and produces an impossibly small wooden box, and places it in the palm of my hand. It must be a ring. Perhaps a ruby? An emerald? I open the lid and peer inside.
A gold coin is nestled upon a tiny bed of velvet. One side is carved with Tudor roses, the vines twisted into lover’s knots around the initials
H&C.
On the other side—my emblem of the rose crowned, with an inscription carved around the edge:
Henricus VIII: Rutilans Rosa Sine Spina.
The Rose Without a Thorn.
“I’ve had it struck in celebration of our happy marriage, and in tribute to my beloved wife.”
“It is beautiful, Henry!” None of his other wives had a coin minted in honor of their marriage, so far as I have heard. There is no mistaking this triumph! “It is so beautiful.”
AFTER THE DIZZYING
celebrations I’m rather relieved that the court is settling back into its old routine. I’ve even picked up embroidery as a quiet way to while away the hours after dinner, and I often invite a musician to come and sing to me as I sit by the fire with muslin and needle in hand. Late in the afternoon the needle often slips from my grip, and I merely curl up before the warm fire for a nap.
“How has she been feeling?” I hear a voice whisper; I feign sleep and listen to my ladies.
“She’s been tired as of late, more tired than usual. It seems a hopeful sign.”
Even with my eyes closed I can see the prim smiles passed from one face to another. I dare not stir, knowing that they are all watching me.
It does seem a hopeful sign, but not hopeful enough. Lady Rochford wisely keeps her remarks to herself, knowing what she knows. Henry has taken to my bedchamber only twice in the new year; his leg is on the mend, but he is still weary.
“What if he has found another woman to take to his bed?” I whisper. It is late at night, and she folds the bedcovers carefully over me.
“Do you think that he is capable, even if he had a mind to do so?”
I don’t answer this, pressing my lips together anxiously.
“What if there is something wrong with me?”
“You are a young girl yet, there is still time. The royal physician reported nothing amiss.”
“At least not to me,” I say darkly. Henry ordered the physician to examine my womanly parts—indeed, the most embarrassing experience I have ever undergone. Clearly my husband worries that there may be something wrong with me, for it is understood that the fault cannot lie with him. Matters of state, war, and religion are the domain of a king. All of the responsibility of pregnancy lies solely with the woman.
At least, no one would dare suggest otherwise to the king.
A YOUNG PAGE
enters my chamber with a bow. “I have a letter for you, Your Majesty.” It is late, and Jane is preparing me for a private supper with the king. Tonight I will look seductive and virginal in my cream silk gown, my hair flowing loosely over my shoulders. As Jane carefully arranges my curls, I break the seal of the letter—no doubt a petition from yet another distant relation.
But as soon as I scan the first lines, I know this is an altogether different sort of letter:
We beseech you, Your Majesty, that we may be humbly included in your presence, able to celebrate the good fortune of so dear a friend . . . Sincere wishes from your most humble servants, Katherine and Malyn Tylney, Dorothy Baskerville, Elizabeth Holland.
The ladies of Lambeth, all of them eager for appointments in my chamber. My vision blurs for a moment; I can see Joan just in my line of vision, placing my jewels in their proper boxes.
A flash of memory rips through me: that devil I saw at the Twelfth Night masque. Those pale blue eyes staring at me from behind the mask of red and black. That voice that sounded so familiar—Francis Dereham’s voice. Surely it must have been a nightmare, that was all, the kind you have when you’re awake and have danced too hard and drunk too much wine. But this letter in my hand—this is real, is solid. I fold the piece of parchment and hide it in my nest of drawers when I’m sure Joan’s back is turned.
I have no choice, of course, just as I had no choice with Joan. I will take them all in, all of them. I will pull them close to me. I will honor them, in the hope that they will return that honor by keeping my secrets silent, safe.
HENRY HAS BEEN
more attentive and affectionate over the past month, but now he must leave Hampton for a meeting with the Privy Council, in London. It is the first time we will actually be apart since we were married. When I bid him good-bye there is a real urgency in my embrace. I know well when I am closest to sanctuary: when the king’s big arms are wrapped around me. I need that safety now, more than ever.