The King's Rose by Alisa M. Libby

You’ll not charm any ladies standing around sipping ale, Culpeper.”
    There is nothing else to do. I stand and smile graciously at Thomas, and offer him my hand. As we take our places, I look past Thomas and smile at the king. The song begins— a strong volta—and Thomas and I execute the flirtatious kicks and turns across from each other.
    Thomas isn’t a natural dancer, but I can see that he’s trying very hard. His courtier’s smile is gone, and his face is a picture of resolve. But I try not to look at his face, I try not to feel aware of his eyes upon me. Then the moment comes when he must lift me—I feel his large warm hands enveloping my tiny waist, lifting me off the ground, twirling. The drums beat; I suck a gasp of air through my teeth. He places me on the ground and I can feel that my cheeks are pink. I struggle to put on the courtier’s mask again, the measured facial expression, hoping that my flush will subside.
    When the dance is done, I offer Thomas my hand, and he dips into a deep bow.
    “Thank you, Your Grace, for the honor of this dance.”
    “You may thank my lord for the honor, for he bestowed it on you,” I tell him, smiling at the king all the while. My smile makes my cheeks hurt; my eyes are stinging, starting to water.
    “He’s a tall one, that Culpeper.” The king laughs as I return to my chair. “He lifted you a clear three feet from the floor. You looked as if you were flying, my sweet bird.”
    “It rather felt as if I was,” I admit. “Rather dizzying.”
    I pick up my goblet of wine and drink.
     
    “WILL THE KING be joining us today, my queen?” Lady Ashley inquires, walking beside me to the archery lists.
    “The king is detained with matters of state,” I inform her, just as the king informed me. “The life of a king is not simply an excuse for revelry.”
    Beneath my cool demeanor, I am stung: the round of banquets and masques celebrating our marriage has ended, and we’ve had to return to life as usual at court. I strive to please my husband, but it proves difficult when his mood is so profoundly affected by things beyond my control. Matters of state aside, the king’s swollen legs plague him; even during a private supper in his chambers, his manner is strained, and he hasn’t the stamina to lavish attention upon me as he once did. Henry is a powerful man, but not the god many think him to be.
    “Then we must enjoy revelry with our queen, in the king’s absence.” A young lord bows gallantly, proffering to me an elegant bow and arrow carved of nut-brown wood and gleaming in the sunlight.
    “I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve tried for a target,” I demur.
    “Ah, you’ve certainly hit your target—for you have pierced my very heart.”
    The ladies giggle at his dramatics; just as he had hoped, no doubt. They are all my pretend suitors, these handsome young courtiers, bestowing pretty words of devotion to their beloved queen. I enjoy spending time with the younger, less dour members of court.
    “I will help you, my queen.” Thomas steps forward, smiling slightly. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
    “Thank you, Thomas.” I offer him my hand, just as I would any other flattering young lord. “What skill I have on the dance floor I lack with bow and arrow.”
    “I seem to recall you’re a fair shot.”
    He walks me to a spot across from a clean target and instructs me how to hold the bow properly, the slim arrow resting lightly upon my fist.
    “That is right—perfect, my queen, perfect.” He holds his hands out toward me in support, but he is clearly hesitant to touch me. I am no longer a lady-in-waiting, after all.
    “Pull the arrow back a bit more, my queen,” he says. His fingertips barely brush the underside of my arm; the ghost of a touch. I pull back, feeling the muscles in my arm and shoulder pulled as taut as the strained bow.
    “Now—release.”
    The bow springs, the arrow glides forward in a graceful arc; but it