by H. M. Castor
It is just that I cannot wait that long.
“What was it Fitzwilliam said?” I ask Anthony Browne, my Master of the Horse, as our horses pick their way side by side over a particularly muddy stretch of road. “About her looks?”
Browne pushes his hood back; the drizzle has stopped. It is New Year’s morning and, though his face is more than usually pale after last night’s Court celebrations, under his cloak he is dressed as meticulously as ever. He is a man who takes notice of appearances. I wonder if he will have to give up any of his jewelled buttons or gold lace-ends; a good deal of money was lost at the gaming tables last night.
“He certainly praised the lady’s beauty, sir,” Browne says now, flicking a wet leaf off his sleeve. “Though, I regret, I don’t remember the exact words. He had more to say, I think, about the card games he taught her while they were waiting for a fair wind at Calais.”
“Someone said that, in beauty, she outshines the Duchess of Milan ‘as the golden sun outshines the silver moon’. Was that Ambassador Mont?”
“The Duchess of Milan…” Tom Culpeper whistles. He is riding at my other side with a hopeful sprig of mistletoe attached to the hood of his cloak.
I laugh and reach out to dig him in the ribs with my riding crop. The Duchess of Milan, a very young widow, was another marriageable candidate on the list Cromwell compiled for me. I had her portrait taken – and I have kept it, just for its decorative value. Which is high: the Duchess is sixteen, dimpled and breathtaking. Anyone outshining that must be practically an angel.
Approaching Rochester, we find the city looking far from celestial. The city walls and rooftops huddle grey under a grey sky, while the damp finger of the cathedral spire stirs the low-hanging clouds above.
We dip through the shadows of the city’s north-east gate and emerge into the cobbled streets beyond. Doorways are hung with holly and yew, small boys run past with pies for the cook shop, and shabby loiterers call out New Year greetings, as they might to any group of well-heeled gentlemen from whom they have hope of a penny. I pull my hood low over my face and leave it to my companions to dish out coins.
Our destination is the bishop’s palace, not far from the cathedral. Browne rides ahead to warn the bishop’s staff that a party of the King’s men approaches. My presence is not announced; I want to surprise my bride.
Back at Greenwich now, had I stayed, I would be leaning against the cupboard in my Presence Chamber as my courtiers queued up to present me with their New Year’s gifts: jewels and gold plate, clocks and curiosities. As it is, I am making my own way to the best gift of all.
“Ready, sir?”
Our horses have halted, stamping and snorting, just inside the Palace’s main gate, and Browne comes forward to tell me he has forewarned the staff. The lady remains in delicious ignorance.
“Keep your cloaks on, gentlemen. No clues,” I say and dismount, with Browne’s help. “Where is she, then?”
“In an upper chamber at the back, sir,” he says, pointing across the courtyard. “She’s watching a bull-baiting in the yard beyond.”
“Ah, hence the racket.” Barks and shouts are carrying clearly through the cold air. I turn to Browne. “Right. Go to her. Say her New Year’s gift from the King has arrived. I’ll follow.”
Browne strides ahead to the entrance to the main staircase: an imposing arched doorway in one corner of the courtyard. Energised, despite the long ride, I follow him quickly. I even manage to take the stairs two at a time.
At the top of the staircase I head past a rank of startled servants, through the great hall and on – following the billowing shape of Browne’s parti-coloured cloak – to the Palace’s best suite of private rooms. My heart is pounding and I feel flushed; my pulse seems to beat in my face.
Reaching the lady’s chamber door, I meet Browne coming out. “She will receive the gift,” he says, and grins.
“How is she?” I ask, gripping his sleeve. “Is she stunning?”
A ghost of pain seems to cross Browne’s face – no doubt because I am crushing some very fine gold-thread embroidery. I release his sleeve. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll see for myself.”
We enter as a pack, my men and I, our matching cloaks giving no clue to our – to my – true identity. The chamber air hits us: a warm fug of cinnamon and cloves. It is a comfortable if old-fashioned room, with antique tapestries on the walls and the Bishop’s coat of arms carved monumentally large above the fireplace.
Straight ahead, there’s a figure at the window.
Good God, the German fashions are strange. The lady’s wearing a high-necked dress and a peculiar wide bonnet that makes her head look like a coal bucket. I can tell from her bearing she’s alarmed to see so many men burst into her chamber. A lifetime ago I used to play this trick on Catherine, dressed as Robin Hood or a Turkish sultan. Her astonishment, I thought at the time, was very pretty.
“Greetings, Lady Anna,” I say, removing my cap with a flourish and walking forward. “The King has sent you this token.” I work a ring off my little finger and hold it out to her.
Lady Anna of Cleves is not dimpled; she is not breathtaking. Hers is a long-nosed face – though not, I think, without potential. My enthusiasm is running, after all, at full gallop; I cannot pull up now.
“Good day, my lord,” she says in a thick accent, laying out each word carefully. “I… thank… His Majesty.”
As she reaches to take the ring, I catch hold of her hand and raise it to my lips; then, with a quick tug, pull her in for a kiss on the cheek.
Ladies of the English Court greet such games with giggles and teasing looks, with delight and pretty blushes. Lady Anna gasps and jerks her head away. Below the long nose, her mouth is twisted with disgust.
For a moment, we are frozen. It is an ugly pose. My neck is still stretched forward, my head still inclined for the kiss, meeting nothing but empty air.
Then I release her hand and she moves away swiftly, brushing her palms down her skirts and saying something in her own grating language to a lady-servant standing in the corner, who shrugs at her mistress and shoots me a scandalised look.
My bride then resumes her stance at the window. Resolutely staring out, willing me to leave. In the yard below, the tormented bull bellows and I hear the scrape of its chain against the ground. The bulldogs are barking; I wonder, distractedly, whether one of them has already sunk its teeth into the bull’s snout.
Thinking this, I am still watching her. My heart is still beating as fast as when I climbed the stairs, as fast as when I grabbed Browne’s sleeve outside the door. But all the hope and excitement I had then has shrivelled.
I turn. My men, still in their damp-stained cloaks and muddy boots, avert their gaze, each one finding sudden interest in his gloves, the floor, or the weave of the wall-hangings.
I push past them out of the room.
♦ ♦ ♦ III ♦ ♦ ♦
“I like her not.” Absently, I line up the purses on the trestle table: orange velvet, pink satin, white leather, cloth of gold. I don’t see them; I see only that long-nosed face. I say, “She is ugly. She looks like a horse. I can tell you now, I will not be able to get sons on that… that woman.” I turn to Cromwell and smile – but not pleasantly. “So, Thomas. What remedy?”
Cromwell is standing by the cupboard displaying the gilt cups and plates. We’re in the Presence Chamber at Greenwich, where my New Year’s gifts are on display. Against all those burnished surfaces he’s looking clammy and pale. And edgy. He says, “I know none, sir. But I am very sorry for it.”
“Really? That’s odd. You’ve never told me before that there is no remedy.” I pick up a pair of spurs, test the spikes, put them down. “In fact, I seem to remember you saying once – I don’t remember the occasion but I remember the words quite clearly – ‘Anything can be done.’ Anything. So. I want you to get me out of this marriage.”
“But…” Cromwell begins, and checks himself; runs a hand through his hair; starts again. �
��Sir, as you know, this is not simply a marriage, this is an alliance. With Cleves. To strengthen us against our enemies, who are every day threatening to invade.” He spreads his meaty hands. “And… look, sir, the lady is here. She has completed a long and arduous journey from her homeland. To reject her now would be a very public humiliation, both for the lady and for her brother, the Duke. And if the Duke is pushed into the arms of the Emperor—”
“He will join the long list of rulers working to deprive me of my throne. And no doubt my life.”
Cromwell rubs his fingers over his mouth and chin. His shoulders give the ghost of a shrug: he can’t bring himself to nod, but it’s clear I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“Well, what a marvellous situation you have brought me to. Let me see. I am forced into a marriage with a hateful woman. I have rulers queuing up to depose me. Tell me. You’re not working for one of them by any chance, are you?”
Cromwell says, “The Duke of Norfolk would like you to think so.”
The comment is accompanied by a rueful grin: he has enemies at Court and he’s making a joke of it. But I asked if he is betraying me; who dares brush away that question? In two strides I’m across the room with a fistful of Cromwell’s fur-trimmed black gown in my hand. His grin has vanished.
“I am prey to no man’s influence,” I say, my spittle flecking his pasty face. “Not Norfolk’s, not yours. Do not imagine that you know what is in my mind. If I thought my cap knew my counsel I would throw it on the fire. It would delight me to watch it burn.”
♦ ♦ ♦ IV ♦ ♦ ♦
A slash of colour appears across my vision, like a horizontal door opening. I am in darkness; out there, blurred figures move. They loom and swing away. I seem to be lying down. Have I fallen from my horse?
Someone bends near. Who is it? The face is lit from one side only; the other side melts into shadow. It looks sinister. The mouth is moving, but I can’t hear the words. Only the blood rushing in my ears. It sounds like the sea. Am I on a ship?
All is dark again. The pain is bad. My leg is on fire.
I have to move. Have to turn onto my side.
Gingerly, I shift my position a fraction. It’s agony. I stop. I daren’t breathe.
“The sore must be kept running.” The words swim to me from somewhere. I can’t see who’s speaking.
“Cut it open, then.”
No. No one is to cut anything. I open my eyes – try to speak. No one responds. Patches of candlelight show black-robed figures moving at the end of the bed. I am seized with fear.
How long have I been here? Hours – days? Weeks?
What’s the last thing I remember?
I try to think… and then the light is different. Paler, washing in from high up on my right. Time has passed. Did I sleep? I am clutching a hand. Someone is gibbering and whimpering. It’s a disgusting sound: pitiful moaning.
Pain. Pain pain pain pain.
Figures tower over me – a line of them along each side, like coffin-bearers. But they are not lifting me, they are pressing on me. I am being held down.
I try to mash the hand I’m holding – crush it. The knuckles roll against each other as I squeeze. A face is near: Culpeper’s, wincing. I have never been so grateful to see him in my life.
That sound comes again, the whimpering. It’s me.
At the height of the pain nothing else exists. I need every ounce of energy just to get from one moment to the next.
Then, when there’s a lull, I rest, panting. I feel the pleasure of just lying. The lightness of no longer being held down. The softness of the pillows. I attempt to speak. I manage: “They… poison… me. Fetch Cromwell.” I swallow drily, and try again. Culpeper is leaning in to catch the words. I say, “Don’t tell. Fetch him. Quickly.”
Culpeper’s hand slides out of mine as he stands up. He moves away; I see him talking to a figure. Not in a black robe – a red figure. I want to shout: I told you not to tell them—
Terror, now. Like a wave crashing over me; I’m gasping for breath. Is Culpeper in on it? Is this slow murder? Where is my son Edward? Do they have Edward too?
The red figure expands; it wears a courtier’s doublet; it has a face. Anthony Browne’s neat fringe and dark eyes hang in a moon-white disc. The mouth says, “Cromwell is dead, sir. He has been dead these last six months.”
I turn a little; curl up slightly. He cannot be gone. He was so solid. Where have they hidden him?
And yet they all leave me, eventually.
My pillow is wet. I whisper, “What was it – plague? The sweat?”
It’s a moment before Browne answers. “You commanded his execution, sir.”
♦ ♦ ♦ V ♦ ♦ ♦
The light is soft, tinged green by the leaves of the climbing rose that has spread across half the window. It is like being in a summer glade.
I’m sitting in a chair and my eyes are half-closed. There’s a gentle hum of conversation in the room behind me; a chink of glass as drinks are poured; a few rippling notes of the virginals as someone begins to play; a snatch of singing, broken by laughter. Mesmerised, I watch the flickering pattern of light and shade on the sill before me as the wind stirs the leaves.
A rustling sounds close by. Silken arms slide around my neck and a kiss brushes my cheek.
“Sweetheart.” I draw her onto my lap. She is only nineteen: the Duke of Norfolk’s niece and a dainty little thing, with velvet eyes and the softest skin. Her name is Kate Howard.
She says, “Join us. Tom proposes a game.”
“Does he?”
“And you know how I like games.” She traces a finger along my jawline; looks at me: a secret look, just for the two of us.
This is my new world: Cromwell is dead and this beautiful creature is my wife. The marriage to that German woman, the Lady Anna, happened – as it had to… but I made sure it was annulled as soon as possible. My lawyers studied the documents, and found their reasons – did she not have a precontract to marry the Duke of Lorraine’s son? And besides, witnesses heard me say I could not bring myself to take the woman in my arms, let alone put a son in her belly. Without physical union, there is no union in God’s eyes.
Chief among those witnesses was Cromwell. I kept him alive long enough to see that the annulment was achieved. He died the same day I married Kate. There was a certain neatness in it.
Now I kiss Kate lingeringly and haul myself up to stand. “See – I can’t resist you,” I say, and she laughs. One of the men moves my chair to a place in a loose circle they are creating in the centre of the room, made of stools and benches and cushions.
There, I sit again, with Kate beside me, her plump hand resting in mine. As the others settle themselves in the circle, I lose myself in gazing at her: at the way the light falls on her; at the way she smiles; at the way a pearl that hangs from her ear catches on the soft frill of fine linen at her neck, swings, and catches again as she turns her head. She is covered in jewels. She asks for them as a child asks for sweetmeats and toys. She looks so pretty in them, and so pleased; I can deny her nothing.
Our young companions are settled now: the men with their bright-coloured legs stuck out in front of them, slashed and jewelled arms slung languidly over the backs of chairs or propped on knees; the women with their skirts arranged, the pomanders and trinkets hanging from their girdles gathered into their laps.
“Take a slip of paper and read it out,” says Anthony Denny, one of my gentleman-servants, passing round a basket. It stops at Kate first. She dips her hand in and unfolds a paper, eager and excited. She says, “It’s a question. ‘What quality would you most like the person you love to possess? And, since everyone must have some defect, what fault would you choose they should have?’”
“Sir?” Her eyes are on me. “What would you say?”
“Beauty, sweetness of nature.”
“And a fault?”
I smile. “Only that she is too innocent.”
Culpeper, sitting on Kate’s other
side, says, “That she is already married.” Oh, roguish boy; he cannot resist playing the gallant.
It makes Kate laugh. “How can that be a fault?” she says, turning to him. “It would be the fault of the other, to have fixed his affections on a lady who is beyond his reach.”
I say, “Quite so, my love, but how can anyone help it?” I smile at her again, and she smiles in return, and I see that her eyes are lit with adoration.
As the discussion continues round the circle, my thoughts drift again. I think: she will give me sons, that’s certain. Look at her: her flesh seems edible – it has a sugary sheen. She’s like one of those marzipan goddesses the confectory makes for banquets. The sons she gives me will be ruddy and healthy. Edward is only three years old, and too pale. Whey-faced, like his mother. Someone said that once. Who was it?
Now Tom Culpeper is reaching into the basket.
“If you had to be openly mad,” he reads, “what kind of foolishness would you be thought most likely to display?”
“Lovesickness,” Kate says, and blushes deeply.
At that moment I am suddenly aware that, on the other side of the room, there is an interested spectator.
The boy – the thing, the spectre – is standing against one of the curtains, staring at me. As exact and real as every other person here. He is ragged as a tramp, his skin yellow and seemingly patched with sores; he looks young and old at once, alive and dead. His hands are held, dangling, slightly away from his sides. He’s wearing glossy red gloves. Intermittently, the gloves drip.
“Sir?” says a voice – Denny’s. Miles away.
Those are no gloves. The boy’s hands are the red of a butcher’s hands, a surgeon’s hands. The hands of an executioner who has delved deep into the belly of his victim. The spots of red on the floor are merging into small pools.