Roses Have Thorns

He, Henry, King of England, touched the rose; yellow, blooming, bright. A rose without a thorn he had called Katherine, his queen. Now, his fingers reaching for the stem, he asked: Had he betrayed himself in thought, believing beauty came without a price? He pressed the prickle, thinking, a rose without a thorn is a rose made in heaven, yet we, here on earth, kings though we be, have thorns to make us bleed. He saw the blood form and wiped his finger on the rose. As he pulled the petals one by one, he watched them drop and drift, fragmented and bloodstained, like pieces of his heart.

He turned from the garden, away from the row of roses and the unrelenting sun that fed them, finished with flowers. Looking toward the Great Gatehouse and beyond to his private rooms at Hampton Palace, he wanted Archbishop Cranmer, who had caused him his present grief, having given Henry the letter, inconspicuously, in apparent anonymity, while he sat in the chapel royal at the All Souls' mass, his eyes closed in prayer for the express purpose, ironic as it now seemed, to give thanks for his wondrous marriage so late in life, making him believe he possessed both youth and virility.

How could the clergyman write such a letter, damning his queen, accusing her of unchaste behavior before their marriage? What insolence to rob from him the image he held of her: the jewel of his age, his ... no, he could not say it. When he dropped those petals, he shed all illusion. Roses have thorns! Even his young wife. Though had he been unreasonable believing her the human exception? Only fifteen years old when he took up with her, she appeared as pure as the first light of day. Look at the point of her breasts, he would have said. Did they not prove her maidenhead? What did Cranmer, a clergyman, know, he who believed the reading of the Bible in English an ejaculation of faith?

The archbishop had motives, certainly, for all men had them hidden beneath the not-so-subtle arrangements of their faces, be it smirk or smile, and their well-intended words, spoken and written. Men emulated foxes, and if Henry didn't hunt them, they would, with cunning, outwit him. That could never happen to one who fashioned himself king of the predators; a creed he had followed in governing his people, even those he had trusted, such as Cranmer. Where, now, was that trust? Where, in fact, was the archbishop, when Henry had called for him after reading the letter?

Henry had earlier met with Dr. Butts, telling his trusted advisor he had a troubled mind, though not specifying its relation to his marriage since the allegations from Cranmer were not as yet substantiated. Dr. Butts told Henry the troubles he endured resulted from the great weight he bore. Henry wanted to know if the doctor meant the great weight he bore as king. The doctor looked askance, as many do when they are caught between truth and lies, that delicate balance in the determination of one's fate. Yes, the great weight he bore as king, of course. What other weight did he think he meant? What other weight? Do not give me pretense, doctor. You know what weight we're talking about. This weight! This mass I carry in excess of over four hundred pounds! And do not look askance, for that only confirms your pretense. The doctor apologized for confusing the words great weight with great responsibilities. Oh, really, is that what I'm carrying in my gut, four hundred pounds of responsibilities? I have not lived fifty years in a state of ignorance, failing to understand the difference between responsibilities and weight, and you, dear doctor, clearly used the words great weight. You cannot take those words back, no matter how much you look askance.

He asked Dr. Butts to find Cranmer. He would know where to look, for they were fellow heretics. Oh, sure, they preferred the word reformists, though Henry wasn't fooled. They were Cambridge men from long ago, in bed with Luther; revolutionaries, wanting to rewrite Church matters, such as the Bible and the practice of worship. Why couldn't they have left matters alone? If only Henry hadn't divorced Katherine, his first queen, the divorce from Rome would have never happened, and he would be able to hear mass and take the Host in peace, without someone whispering in his ear: We don't do that anymore; we don't believe bread becomes the flesh of God; it's just bread; if you want to receive God, just put out your hands and look up; you need no mass, no Host, no crucifix or images. What hogwash! As were the allegations about the queen! Did not their time together on progress prove that? They rode and hunted during the day and feasted on meats at night, with fine ales, wines and custards, while, afterwards, the queen danced with her ladies, much to the amusement of the king, who loved watching her laugh with little care for decorum. How many times did she rush to him with a hug, pressing her nose to his hairy cheek, calling him my big Harry? He liked that name. Never once did he consider it an insult. He considered only what he possessed; a fifteen-year-old queen, a pearl set among the rocks of England; his reason to pray and give thanks for his fifth marriage, his best, for none other had made him believe he started life anew, wherein he could forget what needed to be forgotten; his failing eyesight, his headaches, his ulcerous leg wound that rendered him unable to walk, ride and joust as he once did.

Why did Cranmer place the letter in the chapel, of all places? The chapel where his beloved Jane's heart rested beneath the altar, where his coat of arms appeared on the ceiling he had designed years earlier for ... an earlier queen, whose name he refused to say. How was it possible that in the few minutes between his closing his eyes and again opening them the letter had appeared? He wondered: Who would act so insidiously as to sneak up on him, while in a posture of prayer, with eyes closed? He would never have believed Cranmer the culprit until he read the letter and saw the archbishop's signature at the bottom of the page.

Cranmer couldn't have been surprised when he entered Henry's chamber and saw the king holding the letter in his hand, his face flushed and sweating.

'Why?' Henry shouted.

'Why?' whispered Cranmer.

'Is there something wrong with your hearing, Cranmer?'

'I hear fine, Your Majesty.'

'Then answer my question.'

'You asked only, why?'

'Did you expect me to say, good evening, Cranmer, how are you?'

'I would not be displeased to hear that.'

'Well, you're not going to hear from me good evening or how do you do after having written this letter to me. I should have your head for this. Do you understand that, or do you wish to say, why, Your Majesty?'

'I wish to apologize.'

'I don't want your apology. I want your explanation!'

Henry slammed the letter on Cranmer's chest. The clergyman fell into a chair, the letter in his hands. Henry stood over him, suppressing an urge to squeeze his head, for fear he might rip it open like a ripened melon. He walked away, doing his best, as Dr. Butts had so many times advised him, to control his temper. Remember, the doctor would say, how much worse your headaches and the wound on your leg after your fits of rage. Take a breath, consider thoughtfully and choose your words from your brain, not your heart. If it were anyone but Cranmer, Henry would have forgotten the doctor's words and beat the...