me.
His kisses become more insistent and he leans forward, covering my body with his. His weight isn’t as oppressive as I feared, upon the high soft bed, but still my breath strains, my heart races. And my hair is beneath his elbow—pulling—oh, then he pulls again, even harder, trying to free us from the entanglement—
“Your Majesty!”
“Catherine!” he cries, brushing my hair gently from my neck and laughing warmly. “You may call me Henry, now.”
“King Henry?”
“No, dear, just Henry. In public you must use a formal greeting. But alone, in private . . . and we are in private . . .”
“Henry,” I say, my breath whistling by his ear.
He lifts the silk nightgown slowly, by its hem, until I slip from it completely. I lie on the bed naked before him, his hands covering me. I close my eyes. I cannot dare open them. I am so afraid. But I know, just from his touch, what he wants.
As he finally claims me, his breathing turns even more labored. In a few moments he grunts, his limbs rigid. Then he collapses with a great sigh in my ear.
It is over, already. Instead of feeling relieved, I am horrified. This was what he wanted, this was what he desired, to have me in his bed. And that was it? Will that be enough for him? I lie motionless as he pulls away from me, rolling onto his back. Is something wrong with me? Something he hadn’t expected? Could he detect, somehow, that which I am most desperate to hide? The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him. I cannot think of it; I can not think that I’ve failed already. What will become of me if I have?
He lies beside me, quiet for a long while. I think he’s fallen asleep when he rolls over and reaches for his robe. I turn and dare to look at him. His back is curved forward, his shoulders drooping.
“It has been a long day,” he pronounces. His voice is weary, cracked. Is he disappointed? Embarrassed? The mere thought of it horrifies me. What did I do wrong?
“You don’t need to leave,” I tell him. I rest my hand in the middle of his broad back. “If you don’t want to.”
“Do you wish me to stay?”
“Yes.” Yes, please, please stay. I press my cool palm against his warm flesh. I can’t be left here alone with thoughts of the king’s disappointment. I have to fix things, I have to make things right.
“Yes,” he agrees, “I shall stay.” He slides back beneath the sheets. This time I move close to him, pressing my breasts against his arm.
“I hope that you will be patient with your little wife,” I tell him, eyes cast down, embarrassed. I am embarrassed, bashful, virginal. “I suppose I do not yet know how—or what—to do. To please you.”
“My sweet wife.” He sighs.
“I want to please you, my king. My Henry.” I rest my cheek upon his shoulder. “I’m afraid it may take me a while to learn how.”
He laughs at this, patting my hand playfully. That’s right. This is my embarrassment, not his. Not his.
“Do not worry, my dear. You have done well already.”
I lift my head and kiss him on the cheek. He laughs again and presses my hand to his lips.
“My sweet, sweet wife,” he murmurs. “I love you, Catherine.”
“I love you, Henry.” My voice is quiet, but it does not tremble. I lie perfectly still, with eyes wide open in the dark. The king falls asleep, and I listen to the thick rattle of his breath. My guilt makes no sound as it settles deep within me, sinking in its claws.
The king is in love with me. But who am I? Who is this girl that the Howards created out of their words, to whom the king has given his love? I am King Henry’s sweet wife—Catherine Howard, no more. I wonder if God can see me now, see the treason in my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing these thoughts from my mind. I am a player upon a stage, even when the stage is a bed, even in an intimate moment such as this, with no costume or mask to cover my nakedness. I must play my part well, especially in an intimate
His kisses become more insistent and he leans forward, covering my body with his. His weight isn’t as oppressive as I feared, upon the high soft bed, but still my breath strains, my heart races. And my hair is beneath his elbow—pulling—oh, then he pulls again, even harder, trying to free us from the entanglement—
“Your Majesty!”
“Catherine!” he cries, brushing my hair gently from my neck and laughing warmly. “You may call me Henry, now.”
“King Henry?”
“No, dear, just Henry. In public you must use a formal greeting. But alone, in private . . . and we are in private . . .”
“Henry,” I say, my breath whistling by his ear.
He lifts the silk nightgown slowly, by its hem, until I slip from it completely. I lie on the bed naked before him, his hands covering me. I close my eyes. I cannot dare open them. I am so afraid. But I know, just from his touch, what he wants.
As he finally claims me, his breathing turns even more labored. In a few moments he grunts, his limbs rigid. Then he collapses with a great sigh in my ear.
It is over, already. Instead of feeling relieved, I am horrified. This was what he wanted, this was what he desired, to have me in his bed. And that was it? Will that be enough for him? I lie motionless as he pulls away from me, rolling onto his back. Is something wrong with me? Something he hadn’t expected? Could he detect, somehow, that which I am most desperate to hide? The thought of a girl already spoiled by another man disgusts him. I cannot think of it; I can not think that I’ve failed already. What will become of me if I have?
He lies beside me, quiet for a long while. I think he’s fallen asleep when he rolls over and reaches for his robe. I turn and dare to look at him. His back is curved forward, his shoulders drooping.
“It has been a long day,” he pronounces. His voice is weary, cracked. Is he disappointed? Embarrassed? The mere thought of it horrifies me. What did I do wrong?
“You don’t need to leave,” I tell him. I rest my hand in the middle of his broad back. “If you don’t want to.”
“Do you wish me to stay?”
“Yes.” Yes, please, please stay. I press my cool palm against his warm flesh. I can’t be left here alone with thoughts of the king’s disappointment. I have to fix things, I have to make things right.
“Yes,” he agrees, “I shall stay.” He slides back beneath the sheets. This time I move close to him, pressing my breasts against his arm.
“I hope that you will be patient with your little wife,” I tell him, eyes cast down, embarrassed. I am embarrassed, bashful, virginal. “I suppose I do not yet know how—or what—to do. To please you.”
“My sweet wife.” He sighs.
“I want to please you, my king. My Henry.” I rest my cheek upon his shoulder. “I’m afraid it may take me a while to learn how.”
He laughs at this, patting my hand playfully. That’s right. This is my embarrassment, not his. Not his.
“Do not worry, my dear. You have done well already.”
I lift my head and kiss him on the cheek. He laughs again and presses my hand to his lips.
“My sweet, sweet wife,” he murmurs. “I love you, Catherine.”
“I love you, Henry.” My voice is quiet, but it does not tremble. I lie perfectly still, with eyes wide open in the dark. The king falls asleep, and I listen to the thick rattle of his breath. My guilt makes no sound as it settles deep within me, sinking in its claws.
The king is in love with me. But who am I? Who is this girl that the Howards created out of their words, to whom the king has given his love? I am King Henry’s sweet wife—Catherine Howard, no more. I wonder if God can see me now, see the treason in my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing these thoughts from my mind. I am a player upon a stage, even when the stage is a bed, even in an intimate moment such as this, with no costume or mask to cover my nakedness. I must play my part well, especially in an intimate
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