The Taming of the Queen

  I think of Nan asking me to speak for them. ‘My lord husband . . .’

  He has drained his cup of ale in three great gulps, and he gestures for more. I serve him again.

  ‘More,’ he says.

  ‘They left some pastries for us in the cupboard too, if you might want one,’ I offer doubtfully.

  ‘I think one might steady my stomach.’

  I pass him the plate and watch as, absent-mindedly, he folds one after another over and over and posts them into his little mouth and they disappear. He licks his finger and dabs at the crumbs on the plate and passes it back to me. He smiles. He is soothed by the food and the attention. It is as if sugar can sweeten him.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘I was hungry after our pleasures.’

  His mood is almost miraculously improved by ale and pastries. I think that he must carry a monstrous hunger with him all the time. He suffers with a hunger so great that he eats beyond nausea, a hunger so great that he mistakes it for nausea. I manage a smile.

  ‘Can’t you pardon those poor men?’ I ask very quietly.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘What o’clock is it?’

  I look around. I don’t know: there is no clock in the room. I cross to the window and pull back the hangings, open the windowpane inwards, crack open the shutter and swing it outward to see the sky.

  ‘Don’t let the night air in,’ he says crossly. ‘God knows what pestilence might be on it. Close the window! Close it tight!’

  I slam the window closed on the fresh cool air, and peer through the thick glass. There is not a glimmer of light in the east though I blink my eyes to rid them of candlelight and wish it into being. ‘It must be early still,’ I say, longing for the sunrise. ‘I can’t see any dawn.’

  He looks at me like an expectant child wanting to be entertained. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he says. ‘And that ale is resting on my belly. It was too cold. It will give me colic. You should have mulled it.’ He moves a little and belches. At the same time a sour smell comes from the bed where he has farted.

  ‘Shall I send to the kitchens for something else? A warm drink?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. But stir up the fire and tell me that you are glad to be queen.’

  ‘Oh! I am so very glad!’ I smile as I bend and put on some kindling and then some great logs from the basket by the fireplace. The embers glow. I stir them with a poker, raising the logs so they rest one against another and flicker into life. ‘I am glad to be queen, and I am glad to be a wife,’ I say. ‘Your wife.’

  ‘You are a housewife,’ the king exclaims, pleased with my success at fire-making. ‘Could you cook my breakfast?’

  ‘I have never cooked,’ I say, a little on my dignity. ‘I have always had a cook, and kitchen maids too. But I know how to command a kitchen and a brewhouse and a dairy. I used to make my own physic from herbs, and perfumes and soaps.’

  ‘You know how to run a household?’

  ‘I commanded Snape Castle and all our lands in the North when my husband was away from home,’ I tell him.

  ‘Held it in a siege, didn’t you?’ he asks. ‘Against those traitors. That must have been hard. You must have been brave.’

  I nod modestly. ‘Yes, my lord. I did my duty.’

  ‘Faced down the rebels, didn’t you? Didn’t they threaten to burn down your castle and you inside it?’

  I remember the days and the nights very well when the desperately poor men in rags came against the castle and begged for a return to the good days, the old days when the churches were free with charity and the king was guided by the lords. They wanted the church restored and the monasteries back in their former glory. They demanded that my husband Lord Latimer speak for them to the king, they knew that he agreed with them. ‘I knew they would not prevail against you,’ I say, faithless to them and their cause. ‘I knew that I had to hold on and that you would send my lord home to relieve us.’

  I am making the best of a bad story, hoping that he doesn’t remember the truth of it. The king and his council rightly suspected my husband of siding with the rebels, and when the rebellion was brutally crushed my husband had to side with reform: he betrayed his faith and his tenants for his own safety. How glad he would be now to see that it is all changed again. The churchmen have the upper hand and are busy restoring the abbeys. My husband would have delighted in his friend Stephen Gardiner’s new authority. He would have been all for the burning of reformers in the marshes of Windsor. He would have agreed that the ashes of heretics should blow away into the mud and that they should never rise from the dead.

  ‘And how old were you when you first went from your mother?’

  The king settles back against the pillow like a child wanting a story.

  ‘You want to know about my girlhood?’ He nods.

  ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well, I was a good age when I left home, more than sixteen. My mother had been trying to marry me off from the age of eleven. But it didn’t take.’

  He nods. ‘Why ever not? Surely you were the prettiest little girl? With that hair and those eyes, you could have had your pick.’

  I laugh. ‘I was pretty enough, but I had no more dowry than a tinker. My father left almost nothing – he died when I was only five. We all knew that Nan, my sister, and I would have to marry to oblige the family.’

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Three, just three. I’m the oldest and then William, my brother, and then Nan. You will remember my mother? She was a lady-in-waiting, and then she got Nan a place with—’ I break off. Nan served Katherine of Aragon and every queen since. The king has seen her walk in to dinner behind every single one of his six wives. ‘My mother got Nan a place at court,’ I amend. ‘And then she got my brother, William, married to Anne Bourchier. It was the very pinnacle of her ambition; but you know how badly that went. It’s been a costly mistake for us all. Both Nan and I were put aside so that William could marry well. There was only money for William, and once my mother had got Anne Bourchier there was no money left for a dowry for me.’

  ‘Poor little girl,’ he says sleepily. ‘If only I had seen you then.’

  He did see me then. I came to court once with my mother and Nan. I remember the young king of those days: golden-haired, strong in the legs, chest broad but lean. I remember him on horseback; he was always on horseback like a young centaur. He rode past me once and I looked up at him, high on his horse, and he was dazzling. He looked directly at me, a little girl of six jumping up and down, waving at the twenty-seven-year-old king. He smiled at me and raised his hand. I stood stock-still and stared up at him in wonderment. He was as beautiful as an angel. They called him the handsomest king in the world, and there was not a woman in England who did not dream of him. I used to imagine him riding into our little home and asking for my hand in marriage. I thought that if he came for me everything would be all right, for the rest of my life, for always. If the king fell in love with me, what more could I want? What more could anyone want?

  ‘And so I was married to my first husband, Edward Brough, the eldest son of Baron Brough of Gainsborough.’

  ‘Mad, wasn’t he?’ comes sleepily from the richly embroidered pillows. His eyes are closed. His hands, clasped over the mound of his chest, rise and fall with each wheezy breath.

  ‘That was his grandfather,’ I say very quietly. ‘But it was still a fearsome house. His lordship had a terrible temper and my husband shook like a child when he raged.’

  ‘He was no match for you,’ he says with sleepy satisfaction. ‘They were fools to match you to a boy. Even then, you must have been a girl who needed a man you could admire, someone older, someone who could command.’

  ‘He was no husband for me,’ I confirm. I understand now how he wants this bedtime story to go. There are only half a dozen tales in the world, after all, and this one is to be about the girl who never found happiness until she met her prince. ‘He was no match for me at all, and he died, God bless him, when I was ju
st twenty.’

  As if the denigration of poor, long-dead Edward has lulled him, a long rumbling snore is my reply. I wait for a moment as he suddenly stops breathing. For one frightening moment there is no sound in the quiet room at all, then he catches his breath and loudly exhales. He does this over and over again until I learn not to flinch. I sit back in my chair by the fireside and watch the flames lick around the logs and flicker, making the shadows jump forward and then recede around me as the thick snorting goes on and on, like a boar in a sty.

  I wonder, what is the time? Surely it must be dawn soon. I wonder when the servants will come. Surely they must make up the fires at dawn? I wish I knew the time. I would give a fortune for a clock to tell me how much longer I have to wait for this endless night to be over. It’s so odd that the nights with Thomas passed in a moment, as if the moon flung itself to set and the sun hurried into the sky. Not now. Perhaps never again. Now I have to wait for a lifetime till dawn, and hours and hours go by as I wait for the first light.

  ‘How was it?’ Nan whispers. Behind her, the servants take the golden washing bowl and ewer from my room, as the maids-in-waiting sprinkle my linen with rosewater and hold it to the fire to make sure that it is completely dry.

  Nan has the purse of dried rue. With her back to the room she takes up the mulling poker from the red embers of the fire, seethes a mug of small ale and stirs in the herb. Nobody notices as I drink it down. I turn my face away so no-one can see my grimace.

  I go with her to my prie-dieu and the two of us face the crucifix and kneel side by side so closely that no-one can hear a word but will think that we are muttering our prayers in Latin.

  ‘Is he potent?’

  The question alone is a capital offence. Anne Boleyn’s brother was beheaded for asking this very thing.

  ‘Just about,’ I tell her tersely.

  She puts a hand over mine. ‘He didn’t hurt you?’

  I shake my head. ‘He can hardly move. I’m in no danger from him.’

  ‘Was it . . .?’ She breaks off. A well-loved wife herself, she cannot imagine my revulsion.

  ‘It was no worse than I thought it would be,’ I say, my head bowed over my beads. ‘And now I have some pity for him.’ I glance up at the crucifix. ‘I’m not the only one suffering. These are hard years for him. Think of what he was, and what he is now.’

  She closes her eyes in a silent prayer. ‘My husband, Herbert, says that God’s hand is over you,’ she says.

  ‘You must perfume my room,’ I decide. ‘Send to the apothecary for some dried herbs and perfume. Rose oil, lavender, strong perfumes. I can’t stand the smell. The one thing I cannot stand is the smell. I really can’t sleep with it. You’ve got to get this done. It’s the only thing I really can’t bear.’

  She nods. ‘Is it his leg?’

  ‘His leg and his wind,’ I say. ‘My bed smells of death and shit.’ She looks at me, as if I have surprised her. ‘Of death?’

  ‘Of the corruption of the body. Of a corrupting body. Of the plague. I dream of death,’ I say shortly.

  ‘Of course, the queen died here.’

  I cry out in horror, and as my ladies turn to look, I try to turn it into a cough. At once someone brings me a glass of small ale to sip. When they have stepped back I turn on Nan. ‘Which queen?’ I demand, thinking wildly of the child Katherine Howard. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Queen Jane, of course,’ she says.

  I knew that she died after giving birth to the prince, but I had not thought it was in these rooms, in my rooms. ‘Not here?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says simply. ‘In this bedroom.’ When she sees my aghast face she adds: ‘In this bed.’

  I shrink back, clutching my rosary. ‘In my bed? That bed? Where we slept last night?’

  ‘But, Kateryn, there’s no need to take on. It was over five years ago.’

  I shiver and find that I cannot stop. ‘Nan, I can’t do this. I can’t sleep in his dead wife’s bed.’

  ‘Dead wives,’ she corrects me. ‘Katherine Howard slept here. It was her bed too.’

  I don’t cry out this time. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  She takes hold of my shaking hands. ‘Be steady. It is God’s will,’ she says. ‘God’s calling. You have to do this, you can do this. I will help you and God will bear you up.’

  ‘I can’t sleep in the dead queen’s bed and mount her husband.’

  ‘You have to. God will help you. I pray to Him, I pray every day God help and guide my sister.’

  I nod convulsively: ‘Amen, amen. God keep me, amen.’

  It is time for me to be dressed. I turn to let them take the night robe from my shoulders and wash me with the scented oils and pat me dry, and then I step into my beautifully embroidered linen shift. I stand like a doll while they tie the ribbons at my throat and at my shoulders. The ladies-in-waiting bring gowns and a choice of sleeves and hoods, and hold them before me in attentive silence. I choose a gown in dark green, sleeves of black and a hood of black.

  ‘Very modest,’ my sister remarks critically. ‘You’re out of black now. You’re a bride, not a widow. You should wear gowns of brighter colours. We’ll order some for you to choose.’

  I love fine clothes, she knows that.

  ‘And shoes,’ she says temptingly. ‘We’ll have the cobblers come to you. You can have all the shoes you want now.’ She sees my face and she laughs. ‘Now, you have much to do. You’ll have to arrange your household. I have half of England wanting to send their daughters to serve you. I’ve got a list of names. We can go through them after Mass.’

  One of my ladies steps forward. ‘If you will forgive me, I have a favour to ask. If I may.’

  ‘We’ll look at all the requests together, after chapel,’ my sister rules.

  I step into the gown and stand still while they tie the skirt, the bodice, and then hold the sleeves in place and thread the laces through the holes.

  ‘I’ll send for our brother, William,’ I say quietly to Nan. ‘I’ll want him here. And our uncle Parr.’

  ‘Apparently we have family we never knew before. From all over England. Everyone wants to claim kinship to the new Queen of England.’

  ‘I don’t have to give them all places, do I?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll need people who depend on you around you,’ she says. ‘Of course you would reward your own family. And I assume you’ll send for the Latimer girl, your stepdaughter?’

  ‘Margaret is very dear to me,’ I say, suddenly hopeful. ‘Can I have her with me? And Elizabeth my stepdaughter? And Lucy Somerset, my stepson’s betrothed? And my Brough cousin, Elizabeth Tyrwhit?’

  ‘Of course, and I thought you’d appoint Uncle Parr to something in your household, and his wife, Aunt Mary, will come too, and our cousin Lane.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ I exclaim. ‘I would want Maud with me.’

  Nan smiles. ‘You can have whoever you want. Whatever you want. You should ask for everything you want now, in the early days, when everything will be granted you. You need people who are yours, heart and soul, around you to guard you.’

  ‘Against what?’ I challenge her as they put my hood on my head, as heavy as a crown.

  ‘Against all the other families,’ she whispers as she smooths my auburn hair in the golden net. ‘Against all the previous families who enjoyed their kinswoman’s patronage, and don’t want to be excluded now by a new queen: families like the Howards and Seymours. And you will need protection against the king’s new advisors, men like William Paget and Richard Rich and Thomas Wriothesley, men who have risen from nowhere and don’t want a new queen advising the king instead of them.’

  Nan nods towards Catherine Brandon, who comes into the room carrying my small chest of jewels for me to make my choice. She lowers her voice. ‘And against women like her, wives of his friends, and any pretty lady-in-waiting who might be the next favourite.’

  ‘Not now!’ I exclaim. ‘We were married only yesterday!’

  She
nods. ‘He’s greedy,’ she says simply, as if it were a question of numbers of dishes at dinner. ‘He always wants more. He always needs more. He cannot get enough admiration.’

  ‘But he married me!’ I exclaim. ‘He insisted on marrying me.’

  She shrugs. He married all my predecessors; it didn’t stop him wanting the next one.

  At chapel, on the second storey, in the queen’s box, looking down at the priest going about God’s work, creating the miracle of the Mass and turning his back on the congregation as if they are not fit even to see it, I pray for God’s help in this marriage. I think of the other queens who have knelt here, on this footstool embroidered with the royal coat of arms and the pied rose, and prayed here, too. Some of them will have prayed with increasing anguish for live Tudor sons, some of them will have mourned the loss of their previous lives, some will have been homesick for their childhood home and the family who loved them for themselves, not for what they could provide. One, at least, had a heartache like mine, had to wake each day and put away the thought of the man she loved. I can almost feel them around me as I rest my face in my hands. I can almost smell their fear in the wood of the book rest. I imagine that if I licked the polished grain I would taste the salt of their tears.

  ‘Not merry?’ The king meets me in the gallery outside the chapel. He with his friends behind him – Queen Jane’s brother, Queen Anne’s uncle, Queen Katherine’s cousin – I with my ladies behind me. ‘Not merry on your wedding morning?’

  At once I beam. ‘Very merry,’ I say determinedly. ‘And you, Your Majesty?’

  ‘You can call me “my lord husband”,’ he says, and takes my hand and crushes it between the curve of his thickly padded waistcoat and the embroidered sleeve. ‘Come with me to my privy chamber,’ he says informally. ‘I need to talk with you on our own.’

  He releases me so that he can lean on a page and slowly limp forward. I follow him through his great waiting chamber, where there are hundreds of men and women gathered to see us pass, through the presence chamber, where scores more are waiting with petitions and requests, and into his privy chamber where only the court is admitted. At each doorway more people fall away, excluded from the room within, until it is just the king and Anthony Denny, a couple of clerks, his two pages, his Fool, Will Somers, two of my ladies and me. This is what he means by being alone with his wife.