“The king will please himself,” I say fiercely. “That is the first thing that you learn in this court. The king is king, and head of the church; he is a tyrant who answers to nobody. He rules men’s bodies and their souls. He speaks for God in this country. He himself believes that he knows God’s will, that God speaks directly through him, that he is God on earth. He will do exactly what he wishes and he will decide if it is right or wrong, and then he will say that God wills it. Tell my brother that he puts me in very real danger and discomfort if he fails me in this one small thing. He has to send the documents or I fear for myself.”
Katherine, Hampton Court,
March 1540
Easter morning and a happy Easter for me. I so hate Lent – for whatever have I to do penance for, or regret? Next to nothing. But I hated Lent even worse this year when it meant no dancing at court and no music except the dreariest of hymns and psalms; and worst of all no masquing and no plays. But for Easter we shall at last be merry. The Princess Mary is to come to court, and we are all desperate to know how she likes her new stepmother. We are already laughing in anticipation of that greeting as the queen tries to be a mother to a child only one year her junior, tries to speak to her in German, tries to guide her to the reformed religion. It will be as good as a play. Princess Mary is said to be very grave and sad and pious; while the queen is lighthearted and merry in her rooms and born and bred a Lutheran or an Erasmian or one of those sorts of things, reformed, anyway. So we are all on the tips of our toes to get a good view from the window as the Princess Mary rides up to the front of the palace, and then we all scuttle like a flock of frantic hens to get into the queen’s rooms before the Princess Mary is shown up the stairs. We fling ourselves into the seats around the room and try to look as if we are quietly sewing and listening to a sermon, and the queen says, “Naughty girls,” with a smile, and then there is the knock on the door, and in comes the princess, and – such a surprise – she has the Lady Elizabeth with her, by the hand.
Up we all pop and drop into very careful curtsies; we have to curtsy to the Princess Mary low enough to indicate our respect to a Princess of the Blood Royal, and rise up before the Lady Elizabeth can take the credit since she is only a bastard of the king, and perhaps not his at all. But I give her a smile and poke out my tongue at her as she goes past me for she is only a little girl, poor little poppet, only six years old, and besides, she is my cousin, but with the most distressing hair you can imagine, red as a carrot. I should die if I had hair like that, but it is her father’s hair, and that must be worth having for a child whose parentage is in doubt.
The queen rises to greet her two stepdaughters, and she gives them each a kiss on both cheeks and then draws them into her privy chamber and closes the door on all of us, as if she would be alone with them. So we have to wait about outside with no music and no wine and no merriment at all and, worst of all, no idea what is going on behind the closed door. I take a little stroll toward the privy chamber; but Lady Rochford frowns me away and I raise my eyebrows and say, “What?” as if I have no idea that she is preventing me from eavesdropping.
Within minutes anyway we can all hear the laughter and the chatter of little Elizabeth, and within half an hour they throw open the door and out they come, and Elizabeth has hold of the queen’s hand, and Princess Mary, who was so dour and sad when she came in, is smiling and looking quite flushed and pretty. The queen presents us by name one after another, and Princess Mary smiles graciously at each of us, knowing half of us to be her sworn enemy, and then at last they call for refreshments and the queen sends a message to the king to tell him that his daughters are come to court and are in her rooms.
Now things improve even more, for the next thing is that the king himself is announced, and all the men come in with him. I sink into a curtsy, but he goes past me with hardly a second glance to greet his daughters.
He is very fond of them; he has some sugared plums in his pocket for the little Lady Elizabeth, and he speaks kindly and gently to Princess Mary. He sits by the queen, and she puts her hand over his and says something quietly in his ear. Clearly they are a merry little family, which would be very sweet if he were a wise old grandfather with his three pretty granddaughters around him, as one might almost think.
I feel a little sour and irritated by all this, since no one is paying the least attention to me, and then Thomas Culpepper – whom I have not forgiven for one moment – comes up to me and kisses my hand and says, “Cousin.”
“Oh, Master Culpepper,” I exclaim, as if I am surprised to see him. “Are you here?”
“Where else could I be? Is there a prettier girl in the room?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” I say. “The Princess Mary is a beautiful young lady.”
He makes a face. “I am talking about a girl who can turn a man’s heart upside down.”
“I don’t know of a girl like that for you, since I don’t know of any girl who could make you keep an appointment on time,” I say sharply.
“You cannot still be cross with me,” he says, as if this is a great wonder. “Not a girl like you, who could have any man she wanted with a snap of her fingers. You cannot be cross with someone as unimportant as me when I am commanded away from you, though my heart was breaking at the thought of leaving you.”
I give a little crow of laughter, and put my hand over my mouth as the queen glances over to me. “Your heart was never breaking,” I say. “You have none.”
“It was,” he insists. “Broken in two. But what could I do? The king commanded my attendance, but my heart lies with you. I had to break my heart and do my duty, and now you still will not forgive me.”
“I don’t forgive you because I don’t believe a word of it,” I say cheerfully. I look toward the queen, and I see that the king is now watching us. Carefully, I turn my head a little away from Thomas Culpepper and withdraw slightly. It will not do to seem too engaged with him. I glance under my eyelashes, and indeed the king is looking at me. He beckons me to him with a crook of his finger, and I ignore Thomas Culpepper and step up to the royal chair.
“Your Grace?”
“I am saying that we should have some dancing. Will you partner the Princess Mary? The queen tells me you are the best of her dancers.”
So now who capers like an Italian? I flush hot with pleasure, and I wish with all my heart that my grandmother could see me now, being ordered to dance by the king himself on the recommendation of the queen.
“Of course, Your Grace.” I curtsy beautifully; I cast down my eyes modestly as well, since everyone is watching me, and I put out my hand to the Princess Mary. Well, toll-loll, she doesn’t exactly leap up to take it, and she walks to the center of the room to form the first line of the dance with me as if she were not much honored by her partner. I toss my head a little at her grave face and summon the other girls, who form a line behind us. The musicians strike a chord and we start to dance.
And who would have thought it? She’s rather a good dancer. She moves gracefully, and she holds her head high. Her feet twinkle through the steps; she has been wonderfully taught. I give a little sway of my hips just to make sure that the king, and every man in the room, keeps his eyes on me, but to be honest, I am sure that half of them are watching the princess, whose color rises as she dances and who is smiling by the time we have gone through the chain part of the dance and the walking your partner down the archway. I try to look modestly pleased with the success of my partner, but I am afraid I look as if I am sucking lemons. I can’t be a foil to someone else’s performance, I just can’t. It’s not my nature; I just don’t aspire to second place.
So we finish with a curtsy, and the king rises to his feet and calls, “Brava! Brava!” which is Latin or German or something for hurrah, and I smile and try to look quietly pleased while he comes toward us and takes the princess by the hand and kisses her on both cheeks and tells her he is delighted with her.
I stand back, as modest as a little flower, but a
s green with envy as a spike of grass at all the praise being showered on the dull creature; but then he turns to me and bends down to whisper in my ear. “And you, sweetheart, dance like a little angel. Any partner of yours would look the better for being at your side. Will you ever dance for me, d’you think? Just on your own, for my pleasure?”
And I, looking up at him, fluttering my eyelashes down as if I am overwhelmed by him, say: “Oh, Your Grace! I should quite forget my steps if I were to dance for you. I would have to be guided, every step of the way. You would have to lead me wherever you wanted.”
So he says: “Pretty little thing, I know where I would lead you, if I could.”
Oh, do you? I think. Well, you naughty old man. Can’t muster a salute for your own wife and yet whispering to me.
The king steps back and leads the Princess Mary back to the queen; the musicians strike a chord, and the young men of the court step forward for their partners. I feel a hand take mine, and I turn around with my eyes cast down as if I am shy at being asked. “No need to trouble yourself with that,” says my uncle Norfolk coldly. “I want a word with you.”
Rather shocked that it is not handsome young Thomas Culpepper, I let him escort me to the side of the chamber. There is Lady Rochford, as if waiting, of course she is waiting, and I am between the two of them and my heart sinks down into my little dancing shoes; I am sure, I am certain-sure that he is going to send me home for flirting with the king.
“What d’you think?” he asks Lady Rochford over my head.
“Uncle, I am innocent,” I say, but no one pays any attention to me.
“Possible,” she says.
“I’d say certain,” he returns.
They both look at me as if I were a cygnet for the carving.
“Katherine, you have taken the king’s eye,” my uncle says.
“I have done nothing,” I squeak. “Uncle, I swear I am innocent.” I give a little gasp when I hear myself. I am thinking of Anne Boleyn, who said those very words to him and found no mercy. “Please…” I whisper. “Please, I beg you… Truly I have done nothing…”
“Keep your voice down,” says Lady Rochford, glancing around, but nobody is paying us any attention, nobody is going to call me away.
“You have taken his fancy; now you have to take his heart,” he goes on, as if I had said nothing. “You have done beautifully so far; but he is a man of a certain age and he doesn’t want a little slut on his knee. He likes to fall in love; he likes the pursuit better than the capture. He wants to think he is courting a girl of unblemished reputation.”
“I am! Truly, I am! Unblemished!”
“You have to lead him on and bring him on and yet forever draw back.”
I wait, I have no idea what he wants of me.
“In short he is not just to lust for you; he has to fall in love with you.”
“But why?” I ask. “So that he gets me a good husband?”
My uncle leans forward, his mouth to my ear. “Listen, fool. So that he makes you his wife, his own wife, the next Queen of England.”
My exclamation of surprise is silenced by Lady Rochford, who pinches the back of my hand sharply. “Ow!”
“Listen to your uncle,” she says. “And keep your voice down.”
“But he is married to the queen,” I mutter.
“He can still fall in love with you,” my uncle says. “Stranger things have happened. And he has to know that you are a virgin untouched, a little rose, that you are a good enough girl to be Queen of England.”
I glance back toward the woman who already is the Queen of England. She is smiling down at the Lady Elizabeth, who is doing a little hopping dance in time to the music. The king is tapping his good foot in time to the beat. Even Princess Mary looks happy.
“Perhaps not this year, perhaps not next,” my uncle says. “But you must keep the king interested, and you must lead him into honorable love. Anne Boleyn led him on and held him off, and kept him coming on for six years, and she started when he was in love with his wife. This is not the work of a day. This is a masterpiece; it will be your life’s work. You are not to give him the least idea that he could make you his mistress. He has to honor you, Katherine, as if you were a young lady fit only for marriage. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He is king. Doesn’t he know everybody’s thoughts anyway? Doesn’t God tell him?”
“God help us, the girl is an idiot,” my uncle mutters. “Katherine, he is a man like any other, only now, in his old age, more suspicious and more vindictive than most. He has enjoyed an easier life than most; he has been idle for all his days. He has had kindness everywhere he has ever gone, no one has said no to him since he got rid of Katherine of Aragon. He is used to having his own way in everything. This is the man you have to delight, a man brought up to indulgence. You have to make him think you are special; he is surrounded by women who pretend to adore him. You have to do something special. You have to make him aroused and yet keep his hands off you. This is what I am asking you to do. You can have new gowns and Lady Rochford’s help, but this is what I want. Can you do it?”
“I can try,” I say doubtfully. “But what happens then? When he is in love and aroused but trusting? What happens then? I can hardly tell him that I am hoping to be queen while I serve the queen.”
“You leave that to me,” he says. “You do your part, and I will do mine. But you have to do your part. Just as you are: but a little more, a little more warmly. I want you to bring him on.”
I hesitate. I am longing to say yes, I am longing for the gifts that will come my way and the fuss that everyone will make of me if I am seen to take the king’s eye. But Anne Boleyn, my cousin, this man’s niece, must have felt that, too. He may have given her the very same advice, and look where it got her. I don’t know how much of a part he played in helping her to the throne, nor whether he helped her onto the scaffold. I don’t know if he will take better care of me than he did of her. “What if I can’t do it?” I ask. “What if something goes wrong?”
He smiles down at me. “Are you telling me that you doubt for a moment that you can make any man fall in love with you?”
I try to keep my face grave, but my own vanity is too much for me and I smile back at him. “Not really,” I say.
Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,
March 1540
We are riding to London, to the palace of Westminster for the opening of parliament. But this riding back to London is not the same as when we were riding out. Something has happened. I feel as if I am an old hound, the pack leader, who can lift her grizzled head and smell the change in the wind. When we rode out, the king was between the queen and young Kitty Howard, and anyone looking at them would have seen him distribute his smiles between his wife and her friend. Now, to me, perhaps only to me, the scene is quite different. Once again the king rides between the queen and her little favorite but this time his head is turned, all the time, to his left. It’s as if his round face has swiveled on the fleshy neck and got stuck. Katherine holds his attention like a dancing mayfly holds the attention of the fat, gaping carp. The king is goggling at Katherine Howard as if he cannot take his eyes from her; and the queen, on his right, and even the Princess Mary on her other side, cannot divert him, cannot distract him, can do nothing but provide a shield for his infatuation.
I have seen this before – my God – so many times. I have been at Henry’s court since I was a maid and Henry was a boy, and I know him: a boy in love, a man in love, and now an old fool in love. I saw him run after Bessie Blount, after Mary Boleyn, after her sister Anne, after Madge Shelton, after Jane Seymour, after Anne Bassett, and now this: this pretty child. I know how Henry looks when he is besotted: a bull, ready to be led by the nose. He is at this point now. If we Howards want him, we have him. He is caught.
The queen reins back to speak with me, and leaves Katherine Howard, Catherine Carey, Princess Mary, and the king riding together before us. They barely turn their heads
to see that she has gone. She is becoming a cipher, a person of no significance.
“The king likes Kitty Howard,” she observes to me.
“And Lady Anne Bassett,” I say equably. “Young people make him merry. You have enjoyed the company of the Princess Mary, I think.”
“No,” she says shortly; there is no diverting her. “He likes Katherine.”
“No more than any other,” I persist. “Mary Norris is a favorite.”
“Lady Rochford, be my friend: what am I to do?” she asks me simply.
“Do? Your Grace?”
“If he has a girl…” She breaks off to find the right word. “A whore.”
“A lover,” I correct her rapidly. “Whore is a very bad word, Your Grace.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Ach, so? Lover.”
“If he takes a lover, you must pay no attention.”
She nods. “This is what Queen Jane do?”
“Yes indeed, Your Grace. She did not notice.”
She is silent for a second. “They do not think her a fool for this?”
“They thought her queenly,” I say. “A queen does not complain of her husband the king.”
“That is what Queen Anne do?”
I hesitate. “No. Queen Anne was very angry; she made much noise.” God spare us ever again from the storm that broke over our heads on the day that Anne found Jane Seymour squirming and giggling on the king’s lap. “The king was then angry with her. And…”
“And?”
“It is dangerous to anger the king. Even if you are queen.”
She is silent at this; it has not taken her long to learn that the court is a death trap for the unwary.
“Who was the king’s lover then? When Queen Anne made much noise?”
This is rather awkward to tell the king’s new wife. “He was courting Lady Jane Seymour, who became queen.”