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

bounces off the target instead of finding its home.
    “You are a fine tutor, Thomas.” I smile. “Pray, show me how it should be done.”
    I hand him the polished bow, my fingertips dangerously close to his. He pulls an arrow from the quiver at his belt and steps forward. I stand near him as he eyes the target and lifts the bow, his shoulder rolling beneath his fitted velvet doublet. Pulled taut, the bow strains against his chest. Then the release: a strong shot, and when I hear the arrowhead puncture the canvas target, I laugh aloud, leading the applause.
    “Well done, Thomas! Well done.”
    “Thank you, my queen.” His voice is quiet, intimate. He catches my eyes with his. I blink toward the sun, washing my face clean of any expression, before anyone sees the look in his eyes mirrored in my own.

XIII
    My ladies and I are veritably surrounded by lords in the gardens, in the hall: reading me poetry, lauding my beauty, professing their undying love. Of all of them, Thomas is the most quiet, the least boastful, offering self-deprecating asides instead of lofty poetry.
    “I cannot compete with the poets here at court, I’m afraid.” This he tells me in the garden, beneath a pear tree, the branches drooping heavily with fruit.
    “And why would you need to compete with them?”
    “To impress Your Majesty, of course,” he says. “What else would convince you of my complete devotion than a verse, in rhyming couplets?”
    “Ah, yes. It was a delightful poem.” I wave flirtatiously at another lord, the author of said poem. “I must agree. I do not know how you will convince me of your loyalty if you can not write in rhyme.”
    “Indeed, there is only one path left for me.” He sighs, resolute.
    “What is that?”
    “I will play the jester.” His face is serious, brows knitted. “Bright red hose and tinkling bells on my hat. Would that please you?”
    I laugh aloud at this notion; the ladies echo with a chorus of giggles.
    “Ah, my very own fool,” I cry. “My little sweet fool.”
    I avert my eyes, suddenly, from his face.
    “No, that is not necessary, Master Culpeper,” I say, gliding past him. “I am afraid you would make a very dreary court jester.” The ladies laugh at this, for a long time.
    Tonight I will send a gift of a ruby ring to Thomas, in secret. Monarchs often reward subjects for their loyalty; it is all a bit of courtly romance, nothing out of the ordinary. But I have made sure to instruct him not to wear it in public. Better to be discreet.
    In private, I press my lips to the ruby before dropping it into its velvet pouch.
     
    “YOU HAD BEST BEWARE , Catherine,” Jane whispers as she readies me for bed. “Must I remind you that you are no longer a lady-in-waiting in the queen’s chambers, carrying on a flirtation with your chosen suitor?”
    It was more than a mere flirtation, I want to tell her, but I don’t dare it.
    “I treat him as I do all the others, Jane, you know how it is. Would it not be conspicuous if I treated him differently?”
    “You do treat him differently, though you don’t know that you do. I see the way you look at him, and likewise how he looks at you.”
    Then perhaps mine is not the only heart to suffer? Perhaps Thomas also hides the truth behind his practiced smile?
    “The king laughs when I flirt with his grooms,” I say, feigning sudden interest in polishing my sapphire ring. “He thinks it all a lark.”
    “But he is not the only one watching you, Catherine. Everyone is watching you. Everyone sees what they want to see.”
    “What does that matter, now that Henry has married me?”
    “It always matters!” She grasps me by the arms and shakes me vigorously. “There are those who oppose you, Catherine. They oppose the Howards and are eager to see something amiss in your behavior. You must be certain not to show them anything they could use against you.” “Who? Will you at least tell me that?”
    “The Seymours, for one. They’ve long been Howard