She cannot be betrothed to any foreign prince while nobody knows if she is a princess or a bastard. She cannot even be properly served while no-one knows if she is to be called Princess or Lady Elizabeth. Nobody but her governess and Lady Mary have loved this little girl and her only refuge from her fear and loneliness is in books.
My heart goes out to her. I too was once a girl too poor to attract a good marriage, a girl who turned to books for company and comfort. As soon as she comes to court I see that she is given a bedroom near to mine. I hold her hand as we go together to the chapel every morning, and we spend the day together. She responds with relief, as if she has been waiting all her life for a mother, and finally I have arrived. She reads with me, and when the preachers come from London she listens to them and even joins in the discussion of their sermons. She loves music, as we all do, she loves fine clothes and dancing. I am able to teach her and, after a few days, joke with her, pet her, reprimand her, and pray with her. In a very little while, I kiss her forehead in the morning and give her a mother’s blessing at night almost without thinking.
Lady Mary takes to this Christmas family as a young woman who has tiptoed through the world since the exile of her mother. It is as if she has been holding her breath in fear and she can breathe out at last. At last she knows where she should be: and she lives in a court where she has an honoured place. I would not dream of trying to mother her – it would be ridiculous: we are nearly the same age – but we can be like sisters together, making a home for the two younger ones, diverting and comforting the king, and keeping the country in alliance with Spain: Mary’s kinsmen. I support the religious reforms that her father has judged are right; naturally she would want the church to return to the rule of Rome; but I think that the more she hears of the philosophers who want to restore the church to its earliest purity, the more she will question the history of the papacy that has brought the church into corruption and disrepute. I believe that the Word of God must mean more to her than the empty symbols that decorated the churches and monasteries, the pointless ritual that was used to dazzle people who cannot read and think for themselves. When she thinks of this, as I am thinking about it, she will surely turn to reform as I am doing.
Though we may differ over points of doctrine she comes every day to my rooms and listens to the readings. This Christmas season I have chosen the favourite psalms of the late Bishop Fisher. It is an interesting example of the delicate path I tread: inside inquiry, outside challenge. The bishop, a sainted man, a wonderful writer, died for the Church of Rome in defiance of the king. He was confessor to Katherine of Aragon, Mary’s mother, so it is natural and daughterly that she should think well of him. Many who secretly thought as he did are now the king’s favoured advisors, so it is allowed to read the bishop’s writings once again.
My almoner, Bishop George Day, served as Fisher’s chaplain and loved his master. He reads from his collection of Latin psalms every day, and no-one can deny that these words of God have been beautifully rendered by the old bishop from the original Greek. It’s like a precious inheritance: from Greek to Latin and now, the ladies of my rooms, my churchmen, the Lady Mary and even little Elizabeth and I work on an English translation. The language is so fine that it seems wrong to me that only those who can understand Latin should be able to read what this holy man composed. Mary agrees with me, and her care for the work and the beauty of her vocabulary make every morning a time of great interest – not just to me but to all my ladies.
My stepson Edward is my sweetheart, the darling of the court. He speaks with ridiculous formality, he is stiff with etiquette, and yet he longs to be loved and petted, teased and tickled like a normal boy. Slowly, gradually, through sports, games and silly jokes, with shared study and shared amusement, he comes to be easy with me, and I treat him as I treated my two Latimer stepchildren when they were under my care – with affection and respect, never trying to replace the mother that they had lost, but loving them as she might have done. To this day, Margaret Latimer still calls me ‘Lady Mother’, and I write often to my stepson Latimer. I am confident that here too I can give these royal children a mother’s love. My best judgement, I think, is to treat Edward with familiarity – as if we are a loving, carefree family, as if he might trust me, and I might be easy with him.
Having struggled for my own place in the world – first in the house of a bad-tempered father-in-law, and then as a young wife to a cold and distant husband, before coming into a court as an insignificant widow – I have learned that the most precious thing is a place where you can be as you are, where someone can see you as your true self. Edward comes to my presence chamber where I am hearing petitions, and is greeted both as a prince and a little boy. I pull him up to my great throne to sit beside me, to listen and to talk quietly to me, to be the child that he is, and not a little manikin that everyone secretly eyes, wondering what he can do for their prospects.
‘Kate, you are everything that I hoped you would be,’ the king says, coming to my rooms late one night. I had thought that he was sleeping in his own bed and my maid-in-waiting, who had been settled for the night on the truckle bed, scuttles quickly away, bobbing a curtsey and closing the door behind her.
‘Thank you,’ I say, a little startled.
‘I shall trust you further,’ he tells me, easing his great bulk into my bed. ‘No, I can manage,’ he says, raising his hand and heaving himself up into a half-sitting position. ‘You shall have the care of the kingdom while I am away. Tom Seymour has done his job: we have an alliance with the Netherlands, we have a treaty with Spain, we are ready to go to war with France.’
His name, suddenly dropped into the conversation as I sit in my bed, naked but for my thin linen nightgown, gives me a shock that is almost physical, as if someone has violently shaken me, shouting his name aloud in the quiet room. I realise that the king is watching me closely.
‘You are alarmed?’ he asks. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve gone white!’
‘At the thought of war,’ I say unsteadily. ‘Only at the thought of danger.’
‘I will go myself,’ he announces. ‘I. Myself. Into the very heart of danger. I shall not send my armies without me. I shall lead them.’
I close my eyes briefly. Thomas will almost certainly be coming home. If he has agreed the treaty he will have to come to court to receive his orders. He will meet with his brother and together they will muster their tenants and soldiers. It is certain that I will see him. It is impossible for him to stay away or for me to avoid him. He will have to bow before me and congratulate me on my happiness. I will have to nod and look indifferent.
I shudder at the thought of it. Everything that I have achieved – with the children, with the court, with the king – has been in the certainty that I will never feel Thomas’s dark eyes on me, that I will never glance up and see him looking at me. I don’t know that I can even sleep if he is under the same roof. I can’t imagine lying quietly in my bed if he is somewhere in the palace, naked but for a sheet, waiting for my soft tap on his door. I won’t know how to dance if he is watching. What if we are in the same set and there is a moment when we go hand to hand? How shall I feel his touch and not turn to him? And when he puts his warm hand on my waist? How shall I land on my feet if he lifts me in the haute danse and I feel his breath on my cheek? When he helps me down from my horse I will have to put my hands on his shoulders; when he puts me on the ground will he take the chance to hold me close?
I have no idea how I can hide my utter need for him. I cannot imagine how it should be done. I am on show all the time; everyone watches me. I cannot trust myself; I cannot trust my hand not to shake when I hold it out for the polite brush of his warm lips. This is a court schooled in the bad habit of watching Henry’s queens. I succeed Katherine Howard: a byword for immorality. Everyone will always be watching me to see if I am a fool like her.
‘I shall lead them myself,’ Henry repeats.
‘Oh, no,’ I say weakly. ‘My lord . . .
’
‘I shall,’ he says.
‘But your health?’
‘I am strong enough. I would not send an army to France without their king at the head. I would not ask them to face death without me.’
I know very well what I am to say, but I feel too slow and stupid to form the words. All I can think is that Thomas Seymour will be coming home to England and I will see him again. I wonder if he still thinks of me, if his desire is unchanged, if he still wants me as he did. I wonder if he has put me out of his mind, if – like a man – he has cut off love and severed desire, put it away and forgotten it. Or, does he, like me, still ache? I wonder if I will be able to ask him.
‘Surely, one of your lords can go?’ I say. ‘You don’t need to be at the forefront.’
‘Oh, they will all go!’ the king says. ‘Be very sure of that! The Seymours, the Howards, the Dudleys, every single one of them. Your brother will earn his new title and ride at my side. But I shall be at the head of the army. They shall see my standard go out and they will see it enter Paris. We will reclaim our lands in France. I shall be King of France in truth.’
I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling at the thought of Thomas Seymour going to war. ‘I’m afraid for you.’
He takes my hands. ‘Why, you’re icy! Are you so fearful?’ He smiles. ‘Don’t be afraid, Kateryn. I shall come home safe. I shall ride to victory and come home triumphant. And you shall rule England in my absence. You will be regent, and should God require of me the greatest sacrifice’ – he pauses and his voice quavers a little at the thought of my loss, of England’s loss – ‘should I be taken from you and from my army and from my country, then you will rule England for me until Edward is a man.’
God forgive me, the first thing I think is that if England loses its king then I will be free to marry, and Thomas will be free, and there is no-one who could stop us. Then I think: I will be queen regent. Then I think: I will be the most powerful woman in the world.
‘Don’t even say it.’ I put my cold fingers to his little mouth. ‘I can’t think of it.’ It is true. I really must not. I cannot allow myself to think of another man, as my husband leans back on the heaped pillows, the bed ropes creaking, and beckons me to come to him, his big pink face gleaming with sweat and anticipation.
He kisses my fingertips. ‘You shall see me return in triumph,’ he promises me. ‘And I shall know that you are my faithful wife and helpmeet in every way.’
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1544
Bishop George Day comes to find me in my rooms, a roll of manuscript in his hand. ‘My clerk has completed the copying,’ he says with triumph in his voice. ‘It’s done. It’s fair.’
He gives me the pages. For a moment I simply hold them, as if they were my newborn baby and I wanted to feel his weight. I have never borne a child but I imagine I feel something of a mother’s pride. This is a new joy for me. This is the joy of scholarship. For long moments I don’t unfurl the pages; I know well enough what they are, I have waited for them.
‘The psalms,’ I whisper. ‘Bishop Fisher’s psalms.’
‘Just as you translated them,’ he confirms. ‘The Latin psalms set into English. They read very beautifully. They read as if the first psalmist spoke the finest English. As they should. They are an honour to God and an honour to you. They are an honour to John Fisher, God bless him. I congratulate you.’
Slowly, I spread the pages out and start to read them. It is like reading a chorus through time: the old, old voice of the original psalmist in Hebrew translated to Greek, the sonorous wise voice of the martyred bishop rendering the Greek into Latin, and then it is my voice which sounds through the English lines. I read one psalm:
Thou art our Defender, our refuge, and our God and in Thee we trust. Thou shalt deliver me from the snares of the hunters, and from the perils of my persecutors. Thou shalt make a shadow for me under Thy shoulders; and under Thy wings I shall be harmless. Thy truth shall be my shield and buckler; and no evil shall approach near unto me.
‘Should it be harmless?’ I ask myself.
George Day knows better than to answer. He waits.
‘Without harm is clumsy,’ I say. ‘Safe is too strong. But harmless has the merit of meaning without harm and without being able to do harm. It feels a little odd perhaps, but the oddness draws attention to the word.’ I hesitate.
‘My clerk can copy any changes you want into fair script for the printer,’ he offers.
‘Under Thy wings I shall be harmless,’ I whisper to myself. ‘It’s like poetry. It carries a sense that is greater than the words, greater than the simple meaning of the words. I think it’s right. I don’t think I should change it. And I love how it sounds – under Thy wings – you can almost feel the feathers of the great wings, can’t you?’
George smiles. He can’t. But it doesn’t matter.
‘I don’t want to change it,’ I say. ‘Not this, not anything.’
I glance up at George Day, nodding his head at the steady rhythm of the words. ‘Clear as plainsong,’ he says. ‘Clear as a bell. It is open and honest.’
Clarity means more to him than poetry, and so it should. He wants English men and women to understand the psalms that Bishop Fisher loved. I want to do something more. I want to make these verses sing as they once did in the Holy Land. I want boys in Yorkshire, girls in Cumberland to hear the music of Jerusalem.
‘I shall publish these.’ I shudder at my own daring. No other woman has ever published in English under her own name. I can hardly believe that I can find the courage: to stand up, to speak aloud, to publish to the world. ‘I really will. George – you do think that I should? You don’t advise against it?’
‘I took the liberty of showing them to Nicholas Ridley,’ he remarks, naming the great reformer and friend of Thomas Cranmer. ‘He was deeply moved. He said that this is as great a gift to the faithful Christians of England as the Bible that your husband the king gave them. He said that these will be spoken and sung in every church in England where the priest wants the people to understand the beauty of God as well as His wisdom. He said that if you will lead the court and the country to a true understanding you will be a new saint.’
‘But not a martyr!’ I say, cracking a weak joke. ‘So it can’t be known that I am the translator. My name, and the names of my ladies, especially Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth, cannot be attached to it. The king’s daughters must never be mentioned. I will make many enemies at court if people know that I believe that psalms should be read in English.’
‘I agree,’ he says. ‘The papists would be quick to criticise and you cannot risk Stephen Gardiner turning against you. So these will be known only as the bishop’s psalms. Nobody need know that it is your study and scholarship that has brought them into English. I have a very discreet printer. He knows that the manuscript comes from me, and that I serve you at court, but I have not told him the name of the author. He thinks highly of me – I must say, he thinks far too highly of me – for he imagines that I could have done this translation. I have denied it, but not so strongly that he is searching for another candidate. I think we can publish and you not own it. Except . . .’
‘Except what?’
‘I think it’s a pity,’ he says frankly. ‘These are fine translations with the ear of a musician, the heart of a true believer and the language of a serious writer. Anyone – I mean any man – would be proud to publish them under his own name. He would boast of them. It seems unfair that you have to deny that you have such a gift. The king’s grandmother collected translations and published them.’
I have a wry smile on my face. ‘Ah, George,’ I say. ‘You would lure me with vanity, but neither the king nor any man in England wants to be taught by a woman, not even a queen. And the king’s grandmother was above criticism. I will publish these as you suggest, and I shall get great happiness from knowing that the bishop’s psalms translated by me and my ladies into English may guide men and women to the king?
??s church. But it must be for the glory of the bishop and the glory of the king. I think it better for all of us if they come without my name emblazoned on the cover, like a boast. We are all safer if we don’t advertise our beliefs.’
‘The king loves you. Surely he would be proud . . .’ George starts to argue when there is a tap on the door. At once he shuffles the pages out of the way as Catherine Brandon comes in, drops me a curtsey, smiles at George and says: ‘The king is asking for you, Your Majesty.’
I get to my feet. ‘He is coming here?’
She shakes her head but does not answer. George at once understands that she does not want to explain before him. He gathers up the papers. ‘I shall take these, as we agreed,’ he says, and I nod as he leaves.
‘His leg has gone bad,’ Catherine says quietly, as soon as the door is closed behind my almoner. ‘My lord husband warned me, and then sent a messenger to say that the king would see you this morning in his private rooms.’
‘Am I to go to him without being seen?’ I ask. There are interconnecting rooms between the king’s and the queen’s sides at Whitehall. I can either process through the great hall with everyone observing that I am visiting my husband, or I can go through to his wing by our shared gallery with only a lady in attendance.
‘Discreetly,’ she nods. ‘He doesn’t want anyone to know that he has taken to his bed.’
She leads the way. Catherine has been in and out of the royal palaces since childhood. She was the daughter of Katherine of Aragon’s most favoured lady-in-waiting, María de Salinas, and is the wife of Henry’s great friend Charles Brandon. She was brought up as an expert way-finder around palaces, avoiding wrong turnings and malicious courtiers alike. It is not the first time that I feel like a provincial nobody trailing behind one of the exclusive few, born and bred to this court.