dazzling sight to behold: both clothed in golden raiment and glittering with jewels in the low light. My gaze passes over the assembled courtiers and I picture what they see. I imagine seeing myself through so many eyes, as if surrounded by fragments of different mirrors, different reflections of me.
I bow to my new husband, and we begin our dance. I have never danced with the king before, but we dance quite easily together, though he is so much larger. King Henry is a skilled dancer. He spins me vigorously, my gown spreading out in a cloud of gold around me. The faces assembled move past in a blur.
The dance is done. Tapers are being lit and I am flickering like a flame. The guests slowly depart, and the duchess hurries me to my chambers to prepare for bed.
“It all went by so quickly,” I murmur as Jane unclasps the jewels from my throat, and the duchess removes the rings from my fingers. Other ladies have joined us: Lady Bryan, little Edward’s nurse, as well as Lady Edgecombe and Lady Baynton, who served Anne of Cleves alongside me. Now they are my ladies, sworn to serve me. I am the center of the circle—the candle surrounded by fluttering moths.
The golden gown is unlaced and pulled from my body; I feel a part of my power stripped from me. A silk nightgown is pulled over my head, which slips like the softest of clouds against my skin. The embroidery at the neckline of the gown is done in gold, but the gown itself is so sheer as to be nearly completely translucent.
“Dearest, your fingers are like ice!” Jane exclaims. “That will not do . . . here, warm them in this flannel before I apply the scented cream.”
I sit in a chair before the fire and the bejeweled coronet is removed from my hair. Once unpinned, my hair is combed with a wide-toothed ivory comb. Rose-scented cream is smoothed onto my arms and hands. I sit quietly as all of these tasks are performed.
“Here, so you will stop that incessant shivering.” The duchess moves forward and drapes a velvet robe of deep claret over my shoulders. The ladies arrange my hair in a fetching manner, then smile and praise my reflection.
Will this be enough? My eyes meet the duchess’s in the mirror. Jangling with nerves, part of me wants to ask her what I must do, and another part is afraid she may tell me. I’m abashed at my own panic; it’s not as if I’ve never done this before . . . but my secret knowledge gives me no solace. I want to satisfy the king, but fear seeming too practiced, too knowledgeable.
“Do not worry,” the duchess says, squeezing my arm. “Nothing is sweeter to a man than a virgin on her wedding night.”
The other ladies laugh in approval.
Henry sees a virgin when he looks at me. Surely I can transform myself to satisfy his desires? I stare into the mirror and imagine myself a virgin, too. It takes practice and cunning to play a part other than who you are. Court is filled with such people. My nervousness and my cold, trembling hands make my act very convincing.
Tonight I will become new, again. I will become his.
IX
We each enter the bedchamber from separate entrances—a door on each side of the room leads to separate apartments for the king and myself. The ladies escort me over to the bed, which is draped in sheer curtains embroidered with metallic thread that twinkles in the firelight. They remove my robe and usher me into bed. The king enters the chamber; I can see him vaguely through the shimmering veils.
Once I am properly arranged beneath the covers, the ladies bow to the king and depart. When the door is shut behind them, I glance at him cautiously.
He is similarly robed in velvet, with an embroidered linen tunic beneath, poking out of the neckline of his robe. Mere moments ago he was magnificently robed and festooned with jewels and gold. Now he seems more manly, less godly. I have never seen him this way, looking as a man does when he turns to bed. Lacking as he is the embroidered doublet and puffed sleeves and
I bow to my new husband, and we begin our dance. I have never danced with the king before, but we dance quite easily together, though he is so much larger. King Henry is a skilled dancer. He spins me vigorously, my gown spreading out in a cloud of gold around me. The faces assembled move past in a blur.
The dance is done. Tapers are being lit and I am flickering like a flame. The guests slowly depart, and the duchess hurries me to my chambers to prepare for bed.
“It all went by so quickly,” I murmur as Jane unclasps the jewels from my throat, and the duchess removes the rings from my fingers. Other ladies have joined us: Lady Bryan, little Edward’s nurse, as well as Lady Edgecombe and Lady Baynton, who served Anne of Cleves alongside me. Now they are my ladies, sworn to serve me. I am the center of the circle—the candle surrounded by fluttering moths.
The golden gown is unlaced and pulled from my body; I feel a part of my power stripped from me. A silk nightgown is pulled over my head, which slips like the softest of clouds against my skin. The embroidery at the neckline of the gown is done in gold, but the gown itself is so sheer as to be nearly completely translucent.
“Dearest, your fingers are like ice!” Jane exclaims. “That will not do . . . here, warm them in this flannel before I apply the scented cream.”
I sit in a chair before the fire and the bejeweled coronet is removed from my hair. Once unpinned, my hair is combed with a wide-toothed ivory comb. Rose-scented cream is smoothed onto my arms and hands. I sit quietly as all of these tasks are performed.
“Here, so you will stop that incessant shivering.” The duchess moves forward and drapes a velvet robe of deep claret over my shoulders. The ladies arrange my hair in a fetching manner, then smile and praise my reflection.
Will this be enough? My eyes meet the duchess’s in the mirror. Jangling with nerves, part of me wants to ask her what I must do, and another part is afraid she may tell me. I’m abashed at my own panic; it’s not as if I’ve never done this before . . . but my secret knowledge gives me no solace. I want to satisfy the king, but fear seeming too practiced, too knowledgeable.
“Do not worry,” the duchess says, squeezing my arm. “Nothing is sweeter to a man than a virgin on her wedding night.”
The other ladies laugh in approval.
Henry sees a virgin when he looks at me. Surely I can transform myself to satisfy his desires? I stare into the mirror and imagine myself a virgin, too. It takes practice and cunning to play a part other than who you are. Court is filled with such people. My nervousness and my cold, trembling hands make my act very convincing.
Tonight I will become new, again. I will become his.
IX
We each enter the bedchamber from separate entrances—a door on each side of the room leads to separate apartments for the king and myself. The ladies escort me over to the bed, which is draped in sheer curtains embroidered with metallic thread that twinkles in the firelight. They remove my robe and usher me into bed. The king enters the chamber; I can see him vaguely through the shimmering veils.
Once I am properly arranged beneath the covers, the ladies bow to the king and depart. When the door is shut behind them, I glance at him cautiously.
He is similarly robed in velvet, with an embroidered linen tunic beneath, poking out of the neckline of his robe. Mere moments ago he was magnificently robed and festooned with jewels and gold. Now he seems more manly, less godly. I have never seen him this way, looking as a man does when he turns to bed. Lacking as he is the embroidered doublet and puffed sleeves and
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