The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby Page A

jeweled collar, I think some power has been stripped from his person, as well. Not many people see the king this way, so intimately. It occurs to me all over again how far I’ve come, and how there is no going back, now.
    He wants me to be his beloved wife, I remind myself. He wants me to love him. A corded belt is securely cinched around his middle. Is he worried about exposing himself to my eyes? I soften at the thought, for I feel the same way. Perhaps we could both remain covered for the night? No, no, that will not do. I turn and give him a shy smile. He sighs and returns it, warmly.
    “My sweet wife,” he says quietly, pushing aside the veil and pulling down the covers of the bed. As he slips into the bed beside me I look away, focusing on the play of light the fire makes upon the ceiling. We are in bed beside each other, and I’m too afraid to turn and look at him. His breathing is heavy, labored.
    His arm touches mine, his warm skin burns through the thin silk of my nightdress.
    “Catherine.” He leans forward, breathing my name into my neck, his face burrowed in my hair. He pulls me toward him and I’m lying on my back, my body close to his. I think back to the wedding, mere moments ago: like a beautiful pageant with lines I had memorized and didn’t even need to think about to recite. All so remarkably easy. Now this is real, without rehearsal.
    Be wary of his legs, Catherine, they cause him pain. The duchess’s instructions echo in my head, unbidden. You must distract him from his ailments with his pleasure. Don’t be a prude, Catherine. I refuse to accept prudishness from you now. These reminders serve only to heighten my panic; I feel as if the duchess is standing over the bed, judging my performance, pointing out what I’m doing wrong.
    I alternate between closing my eyes and opening them to watch the light and shadow flicker upon the embroidered canopy. My chest begins to ache; I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. Breathe, breathe. I open my eyes—I don’t want to appear as if I’m sleeping, trying to ignore him. His massive hands are warm, searching. I dig my fingers into the bedclothes; lie still, lie still and let it happen. Don’t think about it. Don’t make a sound.
    He kisses my neck for a moment and then pulls back to look at my face. He looms over me: a dark shadow in the low light.
    “You were made for me. I was sure of it from the moment I saw you, dancing in that pale blue gown.”
    “You knew, even then?” I whisper, my voice breaking.
    “Of course I knew!” He laughs. “With your beauty, your grace. You are exactly what I yearn for. I could not have made you more tempting had I imagined you myself.”
    He leans forward and kisses me upon the mouth—our first private kiss. I close my eyes and allow the kiss to happen: I am warm, yielding. I was made for him, as if I had been magically put together, an assemblage of parts, like a doll, purely for the pleasure of the king.
    As he kisses my neck I can’t help but watch, distantly fascinated, as his massive hand covers my breast. A dark ruby upon the king’s thumb glints in the light of the fire; it’s a large stone, dusty at its core like an eye filmed with age. I know the story of this ring: it was acquired from Becket’s tomb, when Henry had the saint’s remains exhumed and destroyed, to rid England’s church of idolatry. I shiver at the awesome power of this king, at the sight of his hand, with this ancient ring upon it, stroking my own soft breast. I feel exposed suddenly, vulnerable. I only hope that his powerful touch will protect me.
    Protect me? Protect me from what? From the king? I fear him. I hadn’t realized it before now. I hadn’t been so close to him, so alone with him to know that I fear him. But I do. And it’s too late, now. Too late, too late. But perhaps it was too late from the very beginning, from the day he first saw me, first chose me. He has chosen me, above all others. He has chosen