The King's Rose Read Online Free PDF

in love with Catherine Howard. It all seems unreal to me, more pageantry than real life.
    “This was meant to be, destiny,” the duke pronounces. “A Howard upon the throne.”
    And that Howard happens to be me. When a Howard finds a path to the throne, you do not take it lightly. You show your unfailing support, whoever that Howard may be.
    “Catherine, are your courses regular?” the duchess asks suddenly, her eyes narrow. I blink at her, slow to decipher what she is saying.
    “They are, usually.” I try, feebly, to explain the common delay of my courses, feeling a deep blush travel up my neck and cheeks, Uncle Norfolk’s beady black eyes trained on mine. The duchess purses her lips and sighs in displeasure.
    “Well, there is little we can do about it, now,” she remarks. “He has chosen you, it has already been decided. We must simply hope for the best.” She turns to Norfolk and tells him about a concoction of herbs she will prepare for me, intended to invigorate fertility. I wonder if they have forgotten I am still in the room.
    “You will rest today, Catherine,” the duchess says abruptly, rubbing my hands with her still-cold fingers. “Tomorrow the king will arrive here, and make his formal proposal for marriage.”
    “Wear the cream silk, Catherine. The king mentioned wanting to see you in it,” the duke tells me. They continue to speak about when the king will arrive, and who will arrive with him, and how everything should be prepared for the occasion. I sit dumbly beside them, feeling oddly inconsequential to their plans.
    When the duke leaves, the duchess turns to me and her expression softens.
    “He is king, Catherine, and he has chosen you.” She grasps my upper arms and holds me firmly. “You must remember all that I have told you. It is imperative that you follow all of my instructions.”
    All that the duchess has told me? How to look at the king, how to speak, how to walk, bow, smile, laugh—
    “Your life starts anew from this moment, Catherine. Do you understand me?” She is staring steadily into my eyes. “Your past is gone. Not only is it gone, but it never happened at all.” She squeezes my arms until I wince in pain. “You must burn your life, all of your life, before this moment. Burn your life and start a new one—a life for the King of England.”
    I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat. There is no use giving voice to those old dreams, now.
    “The king’s will be done,” I tell her, my voice colorless to my own ears. The duchess does not seem to notice.
    “That is right,” she says, smiling. “Remember it, Catherine. Never doubt it. It is the will of God.”
    God chose Henry Tudor to be king, the grandest and most beloved king that England has ever seen. And Henry Tudor has chosen me.
    I think the will of God had little to do with it.

VI
    After a flurry of silk and thread and ribbon, the cream gown has been properly tailored for the betrothal. Preparations have swallowed the day; it is already twilight, and I am wearied by the barrage of instructions I’ve received in preparation for tomorrow. Jane helps me from the silk gown, then drapes it carefully over my oak chest. I pull a linen nightdress over my head and plop heavily onto the bed. The silk gown lies beside me, unfolded like the petals of a rose. In my nightdress I feel smaller, diminished. I am merely the model upon which the gown was held, the gown’s mode of travel. I can only hope to play my part well and live up to the gown’s expectations of the girl I must become.
    Turning to the dressing table for my silver comb, I notice that Jane has something else in her hand—a small box of pale wood with a rusted latch. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of it. I open my mouth to protest, but she merely sets the box upon the dressing table with a decisive click.
    “There is something I found that I must speak to you about,” she says, turning to me with comb in hand.
    “It