Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1

by Philippa Gregory

  Richard Beard translates this and both he and Norfolk have to hide their amusement. ‘I have your word then,’ the duke says shortly.

  I nod. ‘You do. And I never break my word. I shall make no trouble for the king. I wish to live here alone, in peace.’

  He looks around, he is something of a connoisseur of beautiful buildings. He has built his own great house and he has torn down some fine abbeys. ‘You are happy here?’

  ‘I am,’ I say, and I am telling the truth. ‘I am happy here.’

  Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court, October 1540

  I should have warned Lady Margaret Douglas not to meddle with a man who was certain to land her in trouble, but I was so absorbed with trying to keep Katherine Howard steady in her first days of marriage that I did not watch the ladies as I should have done. Besides, Lady Margaret is the king’s own niece, daughter of his sister. Who would have thought that his hard, suspicious gaze would fall on her? In the first days of his marriage? When he told us all that for the first time in his long life he had found happiness? Why, in those honeymoon weeks, should I have thought that he would plot his own niece’s arrest?

  Because this is Henry – that is why. Because I have been in his court for long enough to know that things he may overlook when he is chasing a woman will be reckoned up the moment that he has her. Nothing distracts the king from his suspicious terrors for very long. As soon as he was up and out of bed from his fever he was looking around the court to see who had misbehaved in his absence. I was so desperate that he should not suspect the queen and her silly friends that I forgot to look to her ladies. In any case, Lady Margaret Douglas would never have listened to me, given her complete inability to see any sense at all. All the Tudors follow their hearts and make up their reasons after, and Lady Margaret is just like her mother before her, Queen Margaret of Scotland who fell in love with a man with nothing to recommend him, and now her daughter has done the same. Only a few years ago Lady Margaret married Thomas Howard, my kinsman, in secret and had the pleasure of enjoying him for no more than days before the king discovered the couple and sent the young man to the Tower for his impertinence. He was dead within months and she was in disgrace. Of course! Of course! Where is the surprise in this? You cannot have the king’s niece marrying where she pleases and her fancy lighting on a Howard! You cannot have one of the greatest families in England, close to the throne on their own account, coming closer yet because a girl likes a dark glance and a merry smile and a certain devil-may-care approach to life. The king swore he would teach her the respect her position deserves and for months she was a widow with a broken heart.

  Well, it’s mended now.

  I knew that something was going on, and within weeks everyone knew of it too. When the king took to his bed with his fever the young couple gave up all attempt to conceal their love affair. Anyone with eyes could see that the king’s niece was wholly in love with the queen’s brother Charles.

  Another Howard, of course, and a favourite; a member of the Privy Council and high in the family command. What did he think he would gain from such a betrothal? The Howards are ambitious, but even he must have considered that he might be over-reaching himself. Good God, did he think he might get Scotland by this girl? Did he fancy himself as King Consort? And she? Why would she not see her own danger? And what is it about these Howards that is a magnet for the Tudors? You would think it was some kind of alchemy, like jam for wasps.

  But I should have warned her that she would be discovered. It was a certainty. We live in a house of glass, as if the Venetian glass blowers of Murano had devised a special torment for us. In this court there is not a secret that can be kept, there is not a curtain that can conceal, there is not a wall that is not transparent. Everything is always discovered. Sooner or later, everyone knows everything. And as soon as it is known, everything splinters into a million jagged shards.

  I went to my lord duke and found his barge ready to sail and he himself on the pier. ‘May I see you?’

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked. ‘I have to catch the tide.’

  ‘It is Lady Margaret Douglas,’ I say shortly. ‘She is in love with Charles Howard.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘Are they married?’

  Even I am shocked. ‘He is a dead man if they are.’

  The thought of the queen’s brother, his own nephew, dead for treason does not disturb him. But then, it is a familiar thought. ‘Unless the king, in honeymoon mood, is minded to forgive young love.’

  ‘He might,’ I concede.

  ‘If Katherine were to put it to him?’

  ‘He has refused her nothing so far; but all she has asked for has been jewels and ribbons,’ I say. ‘Should she ask him if another member of her family can marry another of his? Won’t he suspect?’

  ‘Suspect what?’ he asks blandly.

  I look around us. The boatmen are too far away to hear, the servants are all in Norfolk livery. Even so, I step closer. ‘The king will suspect that we are planning to take the throne,’ I say. ‘Look what happened to Henry Fitzroy when he was married to our Mary. Look what happened to our Thomas Howard when he was married to Lady Margaret. When these Tudor – Howard marriages take place a death follows thereafter.’

  ‘But if he was in generous mood …’ the duke starts.

  ‘You have planned this,’ I suddenly see.

  He smiles. ‘Surely not; but I can see an advantage if it happens to come about. We hold so much of northern England, it would be such a pleasure to see a Howard on the throne of Scotland. A Howard heir to the Scots throne, a Howard grandson on the English throne. Worth a little risk, don’t you think? Worth a little gamble to see if our girl can pull it off?’

  I am silenced by his ambition. ‘The king will see this,’ is reluctantly forced out of me by my own fear. ‘He is in love but he is not blinded with love. And he is a most dangerous enemy, sir. You know this. He is at his worst when he thinks his inheritance is threatened.’

  The duke nods. ‘Fortunately we have other Howard children if dear Charles is snatched from us; and Lady Margaret is a fool who can be locked up at Syon Abbey for another year or two. At the very worst we do not lose much.’

  ‘Is Katherine to try to save them?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. It’s worth a try,’ he says carelessly. ‘It’s a great gamble for a great prize,’ and he steps up the gangplank into the waiting barge. I watch them cast off the ropes and I see the barge swing into the current. The rowers’ oars are held upwards, like lances, and at the command they lower them in one smooth sweep into the green water. The Norfolk standard at the stern ripples out and the barge leaps forwards as the oars bite. In a moment the duke has gone.

  Katherine, Hampton Court, October 1540

  Like a fool I am in the privy garden at half past nine. I cannot trust anybody with the secret that I am meeting Thomas Culpepper, so I send my ladies to my rooms ahead of me as soon as I hear the clock strike ten. Within a minute of them leaving, the door in the wall opens and he comes in.

  He walks like a young man. He does not drag his fat leg like the king. He walks on the balls of his feet like a dancer, as if he were ready to run or to fight at a moment’s notice. I find I am smiling in silence, and he comes to my side and looks at me, saying nothing. We look at each other for a long time and for once I am not thinking what I should say, nor even how I look. I just drink in the sight of him.

  ‘Thomas,’ I breathe, and his name is so sweet that my voice comes out all dreamy.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he says back.

  Gently he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. At the last moment, as he touches his lips to my fingers, he looks at me with those piercing blue eyes and I can feel my knees go quite weak, just at this slight touch.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Oh, yes. Are you?’

  He nods. We stand, as if the music has just stopped in a dance, facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘The king?’ I as
k. For a moment I had forgotten all about him.

  ‘Better this morning,’ he says. ‘The physician came and purged him last night and he laboured painfully for some hours but now he has passed a great motion and is better for it.’

  I turn my head away at the very thought of it and Thomas gives a little laugh. ‘I am sorry. I am too accustomed; all of us in his rooms are accustomed to talk in much detail about his health. I did not mean …’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I have to know all about it too.’

  ‘I suppose it is natural, once one reaches such a great age …’

  ‘My grandmama is his age and she does not talk about purges all the time, nor does she smell of the privy.’

  He laughs again. ‘Well, I swear that if I ever get to forty I shall drown myself. I couldn’t bear to grow old and flatulent.’

  I laugh now, at the thought of this radiant young man growing old and flatulent. ‘You will be as fat as the king,’ I predict. ‘And surrounded by adoring great-grandchildren and an old wife.’

  ‘Oh I don’t expect to marry.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  He looks at me intently. ‘I am so much in love. I am too much in love. I can only think of one woman, and she is not free.’

  I am breathless. ‘Can you? Does she know?’

  He smiles at me. ‘I don’t know. D’you think I should tell her?’

  The door behind me opens and Lady Rochford is there. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Here is Thomas Culpepper come to tell me that the king has been purged and is better for it,’ I say brightly, my voice high and thin. I turn back to him, I dare not meet his eyes. ‘Will you ask His Grace if I may visit him today?’

  He bows without looking at me. ‘I will ask him at once,’ he says, and goes quickly from the garden.

  ‘What d’you know of Lady Margaret and your brother Charles?’ Lady Rochford demands.

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie at once.

  ‘Has she asked you to speak to the king for her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘Yes. I am hoping that he will be pleased.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Take care how you do it,’ she warns me. ‘It may be that he is not pleased.’

  ‘Why should he not be pleased?’ I ask. ‘I think it is lovely. She is so pretty and a Tudor! It is such a high match for my brother!’

  Lady Rochford looks at me. ‘The king may think it a high match for your brother too,’ she says. ‘He may think it too high. You may need to use all your charm and all your skills to persuade him to allow them to marry. If you want to save your brother and advance your family, you had better manage him as well as you have ever done. You had better choose your time and be very persuasive. You must do this, your uncle would like it.’

  I make a little face at her. ‘I can do it,’ I say confidently. ‘I shall tell the king that it is my wish that they be happy and he will grant my wish. Voilà!’

  ‘Voilà perhaps,’ she says sourly, the old cat.

  But then it all goes wrong. I think I shall tell the king when I see him that night, and Lady Margaret agrees to follow me in and beg for his forgiveness. Actually, we are both quite excited, certain that it will go well. I am going to plead and she is going to cry. But before dinner Thomas Culpepper comes to my rooms with a message to say that the king will see me on the morrow. I agree and go to my dinner – why should I care? The king has missed dinner so many times I don’t think that it matters. Certainly he’s not going to fade away in a hurry. But poor me! It does matter, for while I am at dinner, and dancing actually, someone pours poison in the king’s ear about his niece and even about me and poor management of my rooms, and voilà!

  Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court, October 1540

  The king marches into her private rooms and jerks his head at the three of us ladies in waiting, and says, ‘Outside’, as if we were dogs for his ordering. We scuttle from the rooms like whipped hounds and linger at the half-closed door and hear the terrifying rumble of royal rage. The king, out of bed for only half a day, knows everything and is most displeased.

  Perhaps Lady Margaret thought that Katherine would intercede for them before they were caught and that she could be persuasive enough. Perhaps the lovers thought that the king, rising out of his sickbed, returning to wallow in his own uxorious joy, would be forgiving to other lovers, to other Howard lovers. They are sadly mistaken. The king speaks his mind briefly and to the point and then strides out of her room. Katherine comes running after, white as her collar, flooded with tears, and says that the king is scenting plots and conspiracies and lush unchastity at the court of his rose, and he is blaming her.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she demands. ‘He asks if I cannot keep control of my ladies. How should I know how to keep control of my ladies? How should I command his own niece? She is the daughter of the Queen of Scotland, she is royal and six years older than me. Why would she ever listen to me? What can I do? He says he is disappointed in me and that he will punish her, he says the two of them will face his extreme displeasure. What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I tell her. ‘You can do nothing to save her.’ What can be easier to understand than this?

  ‘I cannot let my own brother be sent to the Tower!’

  She says this, unthinking, to the woman, me, who saw her own husband go to the Tower. ‘I’ve seen worse happen,’ I say dryly.

  ‘Oh then, yes.’ She flaps her hand dismissively and twenty diamonds catch the light and dazzle away the ghosts of them, Anne and George, going to the Tower without a word to save them. ‘Never mind then! What about now? This is Lady Margaret, my friend, and Charles, my own brother. They will expect me to save them.’

  ‘If you so much as admit that you knew they were meddling with each other then it could be you in the Tower as well as them,’ I warn her. ‘He is against it now, you had better pretend you knew nothing of it. Why can you not understand this? Why should Lady Margaret be such a fool? The king’s ward cannot bestow her favours where she wishes. And the king’s wife cannot put her own brother into bed with a royal. We all know this. It was a gamble, a great and reckless gamble, and it has failed. Lady Margaret must be mad to risk her life for this. You would be mad to condone it.’

  ‘But if she is in love?’

  ‘Is love worth dying for?’

  That stops her romantic little ballad. She gives a little shudder. ‘No, never. Of course not. But the king cannot behead her for falling in love with a man of good family and marrying him?’

  ‘No,’ I say harshly. ‘He will behead her lover; so you had better say farewell to your brother and make sure that you never speak with him again unless you want the king to think you are in a plot to supplant him with Howards.’

  She blanches white at that. ‘He would never send me to the Tower,’ she whispers. ‘You always think of that. You always harp on about that. It happened only once, to one wife. It will never happen again. He adores me.’

  ‘He loves his niece and yet he will send her to Syon to imprisonment and heartbreak, and her lover to the Tower and death,’ I predict. ‘The king may love you, but he hates to think of others doing their own will. The king may love you, but he wants you like a little queen of ice. If there is any unchastity in your rooms he will blame you and punish you for it. The king may love you, but he would see you dead at his feet rather than set up a rival royal family. Think of the Pole family – in the Tower for life. Think of Margaret Pole spending year after year in there, innocent as a saint and as old as your grandmother, yet imprisoned for life. Would you see the Howards go that way too?’

  ‘This is a nightmare for me!’ she bursts out; poor little girl, white-faced in her diamonds. ‘This is my own brother. I am queen. I must be able to save him. All he has done is fall in love. My uncle shall hear of this. He will save Charles.’

  ‘Your uncle is away from court,’ I say dryly. ‘Surpri
singly he has gone to Kenninghall. You can’t reach him in time.’

  ‘What does he know of this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘You will find that he knows nothing about it. You will find that if the king asks him he will be shocked to his soul at the presumption. You will have to give up your brother. You cannot save him. If the king has turned his face away, then Charles is a dead man. I know this. Of all the people in the world: I know this.’

  ‘You didn’t let your own husband go to his death without a word. You didn’t let the king order his death without praying for mercy for him!’ she swears, knowing nothing, knowing nothing at all.

  I do not say: ‘Oh, but I did. I was so afraid then. I was so afraid for myself.’ I do not say: ‘Oh, but I did; and for darker reasons than you will ever be able to imagine.’ Instead, I say: ‘Never mind what I did or didn’t do. You will have to say goodbye to your brother and hope that something distracts the king from the sentence of death, and if not, you will have to remember him only in your prayers.’

  ‘What good is that?’ she demands heretically. ‘If God is always on the king’s side? If the king’s will is God’s will? What good is praying to God when the king is God in England?’

  ‘Hush,’ I say instantly. ‘You will have to learn to live without your brother, as I had to learn to live without my sister-in-law, without my husband. The king turned his face away and George went into the Tower and came out headless. And I had to learn to bear it. As you will have to do.’

  ‘It isn’t right,’ she says mutinously.

  I take her wrists and I hold her as I would a maid that I was about to beat for stupidity. ‘Learn this,’ I say harshly. ‘It is the will of the king. And there is no man strong enough to stand against him. Not even your uncle, not the archbishop, not the Pope himself. The king will do what he wants to do. Your job is to make sure that he never turns his face from you, from us.’