Number Five Goes For A Ride

Katheryn Howard cracked her knuckles and gripped the handlebars. Behind her, Henry fussed, pulling at his wig and adjusting his crown and snipping at the courtiers. A young Baron with a wet mouth gaped at Katheryn and Henry scribbled on the back of his footman’s hand: execute foul traitor.

Katheryn mounted her left foot upon the pedal. She leaned forward. She jangled the bell. The Court held its breath. Katheryn pushed down on the pedal and the bicycle wobbled forward; a wave of guards reached to steady her but fell back as she rolled down the path, her mudguards rusted and her unbecoming helmet discarded in the garage, but she was moving, whirring, her feet blurring in gilded circles and her skirts flapping in the breeze, almost (but not quite) like those of a commoner. She cried:

“Wheeeeeee!”

Henry hopped from foot to foot, casting anxious glances upwards at Anne of Cleves, her wimple askew as she leaned out her tower window and screeched, “Harridan!” Catherine of Aragon lurked by the orchard, her Mary running frantically down towards the commotion, trilling like the bicycles bell at the top of her shrill voice. Henry grimaced and turned back to Katheryn, flying downhill now, her hands raised above her head and clapping. The Court inhaled, and Henry moaned—another one—and the guardsmen sprinted after her, their swords thrown to one side and their armor clanking as they lost ground and the bicycle veered into the road and Katheryn, a little too late, shrieked and grabbed for control.

An ice-cream truck racing to the Royal Gates braked with a scream, and Henry howled from atop the hill; Kathryn spilled into the street, skirts wrapped in her pedals and her gilded slippers flying and turning through the air like a better class of bird. Anne of Cleves tittered nervously and retreated into her cell. Catherine of Aragon grasped for her child; Mary, reaching Katheryn’s side, snatched at her jeweled hands and pumped them up and down. Katheryn’s head leaked a funny color.

In the hospital, doctors sidled past the waiting room without meeting anyone’s eye. The cleaning staff huddled by the door and waved their dusters at Henry, who removed his crown and tried to sit on it. He edged away from the diseased lower classes and tried not to sneeze. A boy beside him had spidery stitches crawling across his cheek, and his eye was black and swollen. The boy’s mother pressed upon Henry a dirty banknote bearing his image and begged him to autograph it. Henry thought about the clean wounds of a decent beheading and felt sanitized.

A nurse summoned him:

“Eh, sire? Come on then, love.”

They marched through wards and corridors and the bedridden waved at their King, who scuttled along holding his breath. Katheryn lay serenely in a narrow metal bed, white sheets tightened around her in an obscene fashion; Henry bade the orderly preserve his young bride’s dignity and the sheets were loosened and disheveled. The nurse patted him on the shoulder.

“She’ll pull through, chuck, we’ll sort her out.”

Henry flinched and ducked away. He regarded Katheryn’s pale form, her cheek smeared with dirt and her hair shorn on one side. Pipes extended her veins across the room, and her royal blood was carried away and replaced. He watched the future dilute. Machines beeped and lights flickered. A thick cable trailed from the bed to a monitor and a green light stared at Henry, lustrous like an emerald, and cold. Katheryn didn’t move. Her cheekbone was dented, and—he pried open her lips—her teeth were fewer in number than he liked. Henry wiped his gloves on her hospital gown. In the corridor he heard faint voices, a name calling Jane and a thump as something tumbled heavily to the ground. The beep-beep of the machines made his eyes hurt. Katheryn’s bare feet stuck out at the end of the bed, uncovered and horny. Her legs were stubbly. Henry sighed and looked at his watch. The nurse was gone; the room was empty; Katheryn didn’t open her eyes and Henry was tired. He reached out and yanked at the cable. The emerald blinked out. Everything was very quiet for a moment. Katheryn, her ribcage still, her weak blood pooling in the saggy loop of the plastic tubing, reminded him of a statue of a former bride, or an older queen, or a portrait he had once seen. Henry watched her for a while, and soon, he felt much better.