The King's Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

isn’t anything—nothing of importance.”
    “Good,” she says smoothly, pulling the comb efficiently through my hair. “Then you will not mind if I burn it for you.”
    “It was my mother’s jewel box,” I inform her, tugging my hair out of her hand.
    “Its contents, then.” She blinks blandly. “You can keep the box itself.”
    “I did not realize it would be necessary.”
    “It is more than necessary, and you should know that well enough.”
    “Perhaps if you weren’t rooting around in my belongings—”
    “And who is to say a nosy maid at court won’t be rooting around in your belongings? What if Lady Ashley had discovered it, or any of the others? You cannot fool yourself into believing they would protect your secrets, Catherine. A queen has no secrets.”
    “Then I am to deny everything, even to myself? Deny my heart—my love?”
    “Oh, don’t bore me with your tale of love. You sound like an ungrateful child.”
    “Maybe I am a child,” I tell her. I feel tears burning behind my eyelids.
    “I won’t hear another word of it, not of the box, nor of your love. The king wants a maiden enamored with him, not a fickle-hearted girl betrothed to another.”
    I look away from the box, thinking of the duchess’s words: Burn your life. Then this is it, the final fire, the purifying flame.
    “Fine,” I tell her, wiping the tears from my eyes. “But I’ll do it myself.”
    “I only wish I could trust you to do so,” Jane states solemnly. She lifts the box from the dressing table and offers it to me. “I am happy to do the honors, if you would like,” she tells me.
    I snatch the box angrily from her hand. I see there is nothing else for it—she will stand here and wait until the deed is done. I pull a folded paper—a page of music—out from beneath the various trinkets. Before I can think long on it, I thrust it unceremoniously into the flames.
    “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she asks, moving efficiently to the hearth and stoking the flames. The paper crackles before our eyes. “Better to do it now, before you return to court. And how appropriate”—she turns to me with a wry smile—“to burn your past here, at Lambeth.”
    I turn away from her, clutching the box tightly. True enough, this must be done, but I cannot do this with her watching; my own emotions embarrass me.
    “Just look at how far you have risen, Catherine,” she says gently, stroking my hair; her voice is tinged with awe. “The past is over. This is your life now.”
    “I did not choose this life,” I mutter quietly, fearing a harsh rebuke.
    “No, but you were chosen. And that is all that matters.”
    I know that Jane is right. No one denies the affections of a king, even if it means denying your own. I must not think about the past. I will be the king’s wife, I will be queen. This will have to be my happiness, now. And this can be enough, can’t it?
    “No more tears, Catherine. Do you hear me? No more crying for you. The past is gone, there is no use crying about it, now.”
    Jane unclasps the gold chain from my throat. It slips free, and I catch the sapphire in the palm of my hand. It glints there darkly, like a wide-open eye.
     
    KING HENRY’S PROPOSAL will take place at midday today. I am attired in the cream silk gown, awaiting the signal that the barge approaches the water gate. We’re waiting in the duchess’s stuffy parlor in order to conceal me from curious onlookers: the ladies of Lambeth, sequestered in their chambers above. I can only guess what stories they have heard from the servants, what details they rehash while resting on cushions or carding wool for thread. I try my best not to think about them.
    At the signal, I’m hastily ushered outside. The royal barge arrives at the water gate, arrayed in brightly colored banners and ribbons. A series of barges follow, which carry the grooms of the king’s chamber, a few of his closest advisers, and a band of musicians who serenade the king