The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby Read Free Book Online

the chapel at midnight, another professing his undying affections. Manox’s words, and later his kiss, sent me spiraling into the blissful dreams of a child playing at love. But it was a kiss, only—I never indulged his begging for more. He was merely a servant, after all. When he dared boast that he might have my hand in marriage, he was reprimanded by the duchess’s chamber woman, Mary Lassells, who reminded him of his place in this world—it was not in the bed of a Howard daughter. She was right, and I was thankful for the affair to be over.
    This note bears a sharp, jagged scrawl—Francis Dereham’s hand—the sight of which makes me cringe. Here are some tokens he bestowed upon me, in our time together: a dried flower, a handkerchief embroidered with a friar’s knot. At twelve years old I moved with the duchess to Lambeth, and was eager to be as sophisticated as the other ladies who shared the maidens’ chamber. Joan, Lisbeth, Dorothy, Katherine, and Malyn held revelries there at midnight, sneaking in their suitors and feasting upon strawberries and wine. Here is a bit of leftover ribbon, once used to embellish my white linen nightgown; I rub it between my fingers.
    Francis, a fair young man with pale blue eyes, attended these secret parties. He drew me into the circle of candlelight and lavished attention on me. He called me his love, his wife—no one had ever been so tender with me before. He promised to marry me, to protect and care for me, but I worried that the duchess would not approve. Francis assured me that the choice was ours: we were already married, he said. Saying the words made it true. Words are powerful in that way—and actions even more so.
    The thought of it all gives me a chill; I generally avoid any thought of Francis. It was not an uncommon thing—the other ladies had companions in their own beds. But that does not make it a wise thing, as I’ve now learned. He was not a fit suitor for me, being poor both in money and stature. A Howard daughter is destined to have a good marriage arranged by her family, and she had best maintain her purity to attract the most worthy suitors. I was too busy basking in Francis’s affection to consider what I was risking. It all seemed a delightful game: calling each other husband and wife and acting out our roles on my straw-stuffed mattress. Perhaps Francis sought to gain a better place in the world by staking a claim to me, but it was not my decision to make. He departed on a business venture overseas, and soon after that I was secured a place at court and our relationship—as far as I was concerned—was over. I have not seen or spoken to him since he left. The past is over and done, and I’m glad to be rid of it.
    I thrust the ribbon into the flames. One by one the letters and tokens are tossed into the hearth; the fire snatches them up hungrily. I feel a sense of relief as I watch the pages curl and blacken. I am becoming a real woman, watching the dreams of my childhood turn to cinders and ash.
    But there is one stack of letters left, each one folded into a small, careful square. This was how Thomas and I communicated, soon after my arrival at court: while walking by me in the hall, or exiting the chapel after Mass, he would swiftly pass a note from his palm into my own. These were the days before a sapphire necklace was ever clasped around my neck, when my heart was still my own.
    I pull the ribbon fondly, trying to laugh at myself. How young, how innocent I was . . . though it was all mere months ago, and the thought of my loss is still raw. Thomas is a groom in the king’s privy chamber, with an illustrious career ahead of him. Upon my arrival, he was already well known at court as a favorite of the king. No doubt our families would have approved . . . But it doesn’t matter anymore, it can’t matter. Since then my entire world has changed: few things can send such tremors through a person’s life as being loved by a king. Scanning over the