Day #7: Roses and Thorns by Amber Averay
I know what they say behind my back, when they think I can’t hear. Though they fawn and grovel and plead my mercy, they think me now a doddering old fool, a once-great giant of a man whose body fails him, whose mind at times wanders into the past before conjuring foul punishments for those who displease me in the present – though they fear I don’t recall the cause of such temper.
They think I hear them not, but I do. And I store it all away, perhaps to use in future cases, perhaps to be forgotten after all. For who has need of death and misery and betrayal when the world is so perfect? So blessedly, magnificently, gloriously wonderful?
My fourth marriage – in truth, no real marriage at all – was ended amicably, as good luck would have it, for my heart has been captivated by a beautiful young creature at Court, vibrant and girlish and youthful enough to make me feel that I’ve supped from the Fountain of Youth myself. Her smiles brighten my hall, lighten my soul, give me to believe that the young man fading away to the mists of history is returning to the fore once again.
My Katheryn. My pretty angel. For so she appears, with her radiant eyes, diminutive form with its hint of charming plumpness. She dances as if her feet drift above the floor, her laughter sparkles like sunlight above the headache-inducing noise filling my chambers.
Aye, she is young, but it is her very innocence that captivates my heart, is a soothing balm to my weary soul. She is uncorrupted, sweet, pure and yet passionate. It matters not that she is cousin to the Great Whore – she who was never truly my second wife; for dearest Katheryn does not share the stains of sin and witchery that taint That Woman even now, years after she found her grave.
The men who surround me are calculating, officious, demanding – though they always seek to assure me I am in control, for who but I am the King, they work to their own advantage. Scheming, plotting, figuring their doddering master too far into old age to learn of their machinations. But I see, and I know.
That is another reason why Katheryn is so precious to me. For she fills my every sense with love, with joy, never seeking to better her position or raise those of her acquaintance. She is happy to be with me, to bask in my loving attentions, to shimmer with delight when presented with magnificent jewels or a kind word. Just being in my presence is enough to cause her to glow with pleasure, and what man – of any age – can deny that such a reaction from so nubile a creature fails to rouse his ardour?
I love young Katheryn as I have never loved before – except, God bless and keep her – my beloved Jane, mother of my dearest son, Prince Edward. Jane was demure, quiet, thoughtful, sweet. Katheryn, too, is sweet, but never could she be described as I speak of Jane! Despite her youth, despite her purity and goodness, there is in her a tantalising hint of what could be, what might occur between us. For this girl, this young lady, I would never presume to demand she please me other than she should bear my ring and become my queen. She is the light against my shadows; the peace to my turmoil; the balm to my old, roughened edges.
Katheryn Howard, my future queen, is my rose without a thorn.
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