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as he approaches the water gate. I stand in the sunlight, watching the royal party glide across the glittering Thames.
    The sun is bright and hot, reflecting brilliantly off my cream gown.
    “Stop squinting, Catherine,” the duchess tells me. “Remember to smile.”
    The king steps from his barge and approaches me; I feel my breath catch in my throat. King Henry is tall and broad, the width of his massive shoulders accentuated by voluminous sleeves, decorated with fine slashes to reveal the glittering cloth of gold beneath the red satin. He wears a purple satin doublet embroidered with gold thread, and on a long gold chain around his royal neck hangs a diamond the size of a walnut; it swings against his full belly as he mounts the steps toward me.
    “My dear Catherine,” he says, and puts out his hand. I curtsy, speechless, and place my hand in his. He towers over me, monstrous—no, no, I can’t think of it like that. He simply dwarfs me, in size and power and wealth and importance. He dwarfs everyone, a legend setting his feet upon common soil. The jewels on his fingers and his collar are sparkling, drenched in light. My eyes begin to tear. To those appraising the scene, I appear overcome with emotion.
    He considers me for a moment, and squeezes my hand firmly in his gigantic grip. He does not kneel down, and of this I am relieved. He seems the type of romantic man to want to do such a thing. But who would feel comfortable watching a king beg, even if it is only pretend?
    “Catherine Howard,” he pronounces, “my red rose, Catherine, whom I know to be the dearest, loveliest creature upon this earth. Will you agree to marry me? To be my wife, my queen—to be all of England’s queen?”
    “Yes, Your Majesty. You do me the greatest honor,” I tell him. But I do not know that anyone hears my answer. They do not need to. I bow gracefully before the king and he kisses the back of my bare, jewel-free hand. I lift my eyes to his, smiling, becoming accustomed to the new center of my focus, my life.
    A flash out of the corner of my eye: a fair face with dark, glistening eyes and dark hair. Thomas is standing among the other grooms, watching. I force myself to look away.
     
    HENRY AND I and all our glorious retinue are taken by barge to Oatlands Palace in Surrey.
    “It will be a beautiful, private wedding,” the king assures me, “beyond the eyes of the full court. And we will have a gown specially made for my glittering bride.”
    He reaches out to rest his hand upon my own. I am smiling, wistful, seated on the royal barge, the green velvet cushions laden with flowers.
    “I only hope that it will please you.” The king smiles.
    “Of course it will please me,” I tell him. It sounds so convincing I nearly believe it myself. Over the king’s great shoulder I see Lambeth receding into the distance as we glide away from the water gate. As the sunlight slants, I see a series of pale faces pressed against the glass of an upper window—the window of the maidens’ chamber. At this distance their faces are blank, expressionless, like ghosts’, but I can feel their eyes on me.
    “Do not turn pale, my dear.” The king laughs. “You are leaving one home but will be provided with many others, far grander than Lambeth. Now the royal residences are your home.”
    “Of course, my lord.” I blink, turning my gaze back to Henry. But even as the barge drifts out into the vast Thames, I feel watched, from beyond, by my past.
     
    “ I ’M GLAD WE will be married soon,” King Henry tells me. The sun has set upon this day and made for a cool evening; a fire scented with cinnamon and applewood crackles in the hearth. King Henry and I are seated in the main chamber of my apartments. The ladies—my ladies—sit in the adjacent room with several grooms of the king’s chamber, whispering over their card games and embroidery.
    “I look forward to it as well, my lord.”
    I am seated beside him on an embroidered dais, very