The Taming of the Queen

by Philippa Gregory

  ‘Is your hand cramped from writing?’ Nan asks me. ‘One of us could write for you if you would like a clerk, Your Majesty.’

  ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I am well, all is well.’

  Nan is at the head of my ladies as we are about to walk into court. As I enter my presence chamber from my private rooms in a new gown of dark red, she comes to my side as if to straighten the rubies at my neck, and whispers to me.

  ‘Lord Edward Seymour has written to his wife that there is a rumour in Europe that the king is planning to set you aside. Has the king said anything, anything at all to you? Has he even been critical of you?’

  ‘Just the usual,’ I say quietly. ‘That he wishes I were with child. Nan – don’t you think . . .?’

  ‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘A dead child would be your death warrant. Trust me. Let him long for it, get down on your knees and pray with him if you have to, but don’t conceive something that he would take as a sign from the devil.’

  ‘But if the child were to be well? Nan, I want a child. I am thirty-three! I want a child of my own.’

  ‘How could it be?’ she demands flatly. ‘There’s been no healthy child born of a living mother since Princess Elizabeth. And half the court say that she is Mark Smeaton’s bastard, from strong young stock. So – no legitimate child since Princess Mary, thirty years ago. He can’t get a healthy child on a healthy woman. Last time it killed the mother.’

  She bends down and straightens the train of my silk gown. ‘So what shall I do about these rumours?’ I ask as she comes up.

  ‘Face them down,’ she counsels. ‘Complain about them. And we’ll pray to ride them out. There’s nothing we can do, anyway.’

  I nod, my expression grim.

  ‘And even now, even with this gossip spreading we are safe, unless . . .’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless they come from the king himself,’ she says unhappily. ‘If he has said that he is thinking of a new wife, to someone who has repeated it elsewhere . . . if he is the source, then we are lost; but there is still nothing we can do.’

  I look down the line of my ladies to Anne of Cleves preparing to come in to dinner with her cheerful smile, the former wife he now loves so well that he keeps her at court. She was invited for Christmas and she is still here although it is nearly Easter. Catherine Brandon is behind her, the widow of Henry’s dearest friend, the beautiful girl that he has watched grow into womanhood, perhaps his lover, perhaps his love; and there are the new ones, the pretty ones, the ones young enough to be my daughter, the ones as young as Kitty Howard when he first saw her, young enough to be his grandchild.

  ‘At least Anne of Cleves can go home,’ I say in sudden irritation.

  ‘I’ll see she does,’ Nan promises.

  That afternoon, without warning, Thomas Seymour comes to court to report on the strength of the navy and the gathering danger of the French.

  ‘Come and listen to Tom Seymour.’ The king beckons me to the table in his presence chamber. He takes my hand and puts it on his, holding my fingers trapped between his, so that I must stand beside him, facing Thomas, as if I am yearning towards the king, my hand resting on my husband’s clenched unresponsive fist, listening to Thomas report on ships built and restored, docks dry and wet, outfitters and chandlers and rope merchants and sail lofts. He reports that another effort to raise the Mary Rose is being undertaken. She could be raised. She could sail again. Perhaps she might, like our king, defy time itself and go on and on forever, outliving the rest of the fleet, sailing on when all love and loyalty is gone, holding the future hostage, a live fleet yoked for ever to her rotting timbers.

  ‘There is an archery tournament in the garden for Your Majesty’s amusement,’ I say. ‘If you could walk to it?’

  ‘I can walk,’ he says. ‘Thomas, you will have seen I have an engine to get me up and downstairs. What d’you think? Should you bring me a crane from your shipyard? Will you fetch me a hoist from Portsmouth?’

  Thomas smiles at his king, his eyes warm with sympathy. ‘If greatness were weighed, Your Majesty, nothing would ever lift you.’

  Henry cracks a laugh. ‘You’re a pretty fellow!’ he exclaims. ‘Take the queen to the archery butts and tell them I am coming. They can get ready for me. I may take a bow myself and see what I can do.’

  ‘Your Majesty must come, and show them how to do it,’ Thomas recommends, and offers his arm to me and we go towards the door, my hand burning on his sleeve, both of us looking studiously forward, at the guards, at the parting courtiers, at the opening door, never anywhere towards each other.

  Behind us come the ladies of my chamber and their husbands, behind them the king’s companions wait for him, while he is helped up from his chair to his close-stool. Someone fetches Doctor Wendy to give the king warm ale and a draught to help with the pain, and guards to help him into his carriage and wheel him out into the garden like a dead boar in a cart.

  The double doors to the garden are thrown open by the yeomen of the guard as soon as Thomas and I approach them, and the warm spring air, smelling of the first cut of grass, floods into the palace. We glance at each other – it is impossible not to share our pleasure in the sudden sense of freedom, of release, in joy at the sunshine and the birdsong, and the court dressed in their best and preparing for another nonsensical game.

  I am smiling, simply for the joy of being with him; I could laugh out loud. The sun is warm on my face and the musicians start to play; Thomas Seymour, briefly and unnoticed, touches my hand as it rests on his arm, a swift and invisible caress.

  ‘Kateryn,’ he says quietly.

  I incline my head to left and right as people curtsey to me as we walk by. Thomas is tall, a head taller than me. He moderates his steps to mine but we stride out together, as if we would go all the way to Portsmouth and set sail on his ship. I think that we are so well matched, if we could have been together – what a couple we would have made, what children we would have conceived!

  ‘Thomas,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Love,’ he replies.

  We need say nothing more. It is like lovemaking, the give and take of few words, the touch of warm skin, even through a thick sleeve, a glance from him to my bright face, my own sense that I am alive now and I have been dead for months. I have been wearing dead women’s gowns and I have been dead myself. But now I feel alive again and longing. I feel desire as a sort of trembling wordless need that makes me think: if I could just lie with him once, I would never ask for more. If I could lie beneath him just once and have his long weight bear down on me, his mouth on mine, the scent of him, the sight of the dark hair on the nape of his neck, the smooth bronzed line from his ear to his collar bone . . .

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ he says. ‘Will you sit here?’

  There is a throne ready for the king when he comes and a chair beside it for me and then lower chairs for the princesses. Elizabeth comes bounding forwards and then smiles and blushes when she sees Thomas. He’s not even aware of her as she turns away and strolls back to the archery butts, picks up a bow and poses: fitting an arrow on the string, and drawing it back. I take my seat and he stands slightly behind the chair, leaning down so that he can whisper in my ear, but we are both facing the green and the competitors testing their strings, and taking aim, and throwing a few blades of grass in the air to see the wind. We are completely visible to everyone, we are on show. We are hidden in plain sight.

  ‘Don’t move, and keep your face still,’ he warns me.

  ‘I am listening.’

  ‘I have been offered a wife,’ he says quietly.

  I blink, nothing more. ‘Who?’ I say shortly.

  ‘Mary Howard, the Duke of Norfolk’s daughter.’

  This is a remarkable offer. Mary is the widow of the king’s beloved bastard son that he made the Duke of Richmond. If the boy had not died, he might have been named Prince of Wales and the king’s heir. Edward was not born then, and Henry needed a son; even a bastard would have don
e. At Richmond’s death the king refused to mention his name and Mary Howard, the little widowed duchess, went back to live at her father’s great castle at Framlingham. When she visits court the king always greets her warmly, she is pretty enough to attract his heavy gallantry; but I didn’t know that there had been any proposals for her second marriage.

  ‘Why Mary Howard?’ I ask incredulously. Someone bows to me and I smile and nod my head to acknowledge their greeting. A few archers start to line up for practice shots. Princess Mary walks towards us.

  ‘So that the Howards and us Seymours should forget our differences,’ he says. ‘It’s not a new proposal. They made it before, when she was first widowed. So that the Howards can become kinsmen to Prince Edward. Princess Elizabeth is not royal enough for them.’

  ‘You didn’t seek it then?’ I can feel a taste in my mouth as bitter as the morning drink of rue. I realise that this is the flavour of jealousy.

  ‘I don’t seek it now,’ he points out.

  I want to pinch my face as it feels numb. I want to shake my hands and stamp my feet. I feel as if I am frozen, as still as ice on my throne, as Princess Mary comes slowly towards me across the grass.

  ‘Why would you?’ I ask.

  ‘It is advantageous,’ he says. ‘A set of alliances to link the families. We gain their alliances: they’re friends with Gardiner and all who think like him. We would cease the endless struggle over the king. We could agree together how far reform is to go instead of fighting it out step by step. And they’d give me a fortune with her.’

  I can see it is a good match. She is a daughter of a duke, and sister to Henry Howard, one of the king’s young commanders, reckless in Boulogne but still a favourite. If Thomas marries her, she will come to court, she will ask to be one of my ladies. I will have to watch him walk with her, dance with her, whisper to her. She will ask permission to leave my rooms early to go to his bed, she will go away from court to join him at Portsmouth. She will be his wife; I will attend her wedding and hear him swear to love and honour her. She will promise him to be bonny and blithe at bed and board. I think: I will never be able to bear it. I know that I must.

  ‘What does the king say?’ I ask the all-important, the only, question.

  Thomas shows me his twisted smile. ‘He says that if Norfolk wants to give his daughter a husband he might as well choose a man so young and lusty as he will please her at all points. ’

  ‘Points?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Don’t torture yourself. It was years ago.’

  ‘But the marriage is proposed again now!’ I exclaim.

  He bows, as if I have made a good remark in an argument that anyone may join. ‘It is.’

  ‘What will you do?’ I whisper.

  ‘What d’you wish?’ he returns, his eyes on Princess Elizabeth. ‘I am yours heart and soul.’

  ‘Is the king my father coming to watch?’ Princess Mary joins us and nods her head to Thomas’s bow.

  ‘Yes, he’s coming at once,’ I reply.

  As I walk to dinner at the head of my ladies that night I pass Will Somers. He is throwing a ball in the air and catching it in a cup, a foolish little game. We hesitate as we go by.

  ‘Would you like to try?’ he asks Princess Elizabeth. ‘It’s harder than it looks.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ she says. ‘I can see, it’s nothing but catch.’

  Will turns and gives her a fresh cup, a new ball. ‘You try,’ he says.

  She throws the ball high, and confidently she stretches out the cup as it falls. She catches it perfectly and a splash of water from the cup drenches her. ‘Will Somers!’ she shouts and she runs at him. ‘I am soaked! I am drowned! You are a wretch and a varlet and a rogue!’

  Instead of running, Will drops to his hands and knees and bounds down the gallery giving tongue as if he were a naughty dog. Elizabeth hurls the cup after him and catches him on his rump. Will howls and leaps up a stair and we all laugh.

  ‘At least you caught him,’ I say to her. Nan hands me a napkin and I pat Elizabeth’s laughing face and the lace at the neck of her gown. ‘You gave as good as you got.’

  ‘He’s a wretch,’ she says. ‘And I will tip a chamber pot on his head when he next walks beneath my window.’

  The gentlemen of the court are waiting for us outside the hall. The king, tired by the archery, is dining in his rooms this evening.

  ‘What’s this?’ Thomas Seymour asks Elizabeth, seeing her damp hair. ‘Have you gone swimming?’

  ‘Will Somers and his stupid games,’ she says. ‘But I flung a cup at him.’

  ‘Shall I fight him for your good name?’ he smiles down at her. ‘Shall you have me as your knight errant? Just say the word and I am yours.’

  I see her colour rise. She looks up at him and she is speechless, like a flustered child.

  ‘We will call on you,’ I say, to spare her.

  He bows. ‘I am dining with the king. I will come to the hall after dinner.’

  Without any word the ladies align themselves in order of precedence. I go before everyone and behind me comes Princess Mary, and then Elizabeth, then my ladies, in order, Anne Seymour in her place. We walk through the crowded hall and the men stand and salute me and the women curtsey. I go to the dais and my steward helps me into my great chair.

  ‘Tell Thomas Seymour to come to me when he leaves the king’s rooms,’ I say quietly.

  The dinner is served far more quickly than when the king is calling for extra portions and sending the dishes all around the room. When everyone has eaten they clear the tables.

  Thomas Seymour comes in through a side door, speaks to one man and then another and then appears at my side. ‘Will you dance, Your Majesty?’ he asks me.

  ‘No, I shall go to the king shortly,’ I say. ‘Was he in good spirits?’

  ‘I thought he was well.’

  ‘He is certain to ask me if you are still here, if you are staying for many days?’

  ‘You can tell him that I am leaving for Portsmouth tomorrow.’

  Nan moves out of earshot and Catherine Brandon and some of the others take their places in a dance.

  ‘What do you think?’ Thomas says abruptly. ‘About my marriage?’

  ‘I have to say this without anyone knowing what I am feeling,’ I say. ‘I have to be stony-faced.’

  ‘You must,’ he says. ‘We have no choice.’

  ‘We have no choice in the matter of your marriage either.’ I turn and smile at him as if I have made an interesting small point of conversation.

  He nods courteously and then from the breast of his jacket he draws a little notebook, filled with sketches of rigging and sails. He opens it and shows it to me as if I may want to study it. ‘You are saying that I have to marry her?’

  Blindly, I turn a page. ‘Yes. What possible excuse could you give for refusing? She is young and beautiful, probably fertile. She is wealthy and she comes from a great family. An alliance with them would be good for your house. Your brother would ask it of you. How can you refuse?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘But what if you were to become free? And I was then married?’

  ‘I would be your mistress,’ I promise without a moment’s hesitation. I keep my face calm as if I am deeply interested in the book he holds out to me. ‘If I am free and you are married I will become your sinful adulteress lover. If it costs me my soul I will do it.’

  He breathes out. ‘My God, Kat. I so long for you.’

  Silently, we turn the pages for a few moments, then he says, ‘And when I am married and happy and she is with child, and she gives me a son and heir, and her boy takes my name, and I love him and am grateful to her, will you be able to forgive me? Will you be my lover then?’

  He does not even hurt me with this picture, the worst that he could draw. I am prepared for it. I close the book and give it back to him. ‘We’re beyond that,’ I tell him. ‘We’re beyond jealousy and wanting to own each other. It’s as if we went down with the Mary R
ose: we’re beyond hating each other or forgiving each other or even hope. All we can do now is try to swim.’

  ‘They were trapped,’ he remarks. ‘The sailors were trapped by the nets that were stretched over the decks to prevent boarders. They should have dived from the boat as she went down and swum for shore but they were caught in their own grave and drowned.’

  I turn my head and blink away the tears. ‘So are we,’ I say. ‘Swim if you can.’

  Of course the Howards, always quick to gobble up any advantage, had Mary Howard in their rooms ready for sale, and they visited the king before dinner was even served to ask for his permission for Thomas Seymour and Mary Howard to be married. The king saw them in his privy chamber where he was dining with a few lords and he agreed to the renewed proposal. While I was dining before the court in the great hall, doing my duty as queen, they were agreeing – Seymours and Howards – with the king that the marriage should go ahead. When I told Thomas that we were trapped like his drowning sailors the king was drinking the health of the young couple.

  Anne Seymour brings the gossip to the ladies’ rooms. Her husband has told her that the king is pleased that the two great families of England will unite in marriage and content that his daughter-in-law shall remarry.

  ‘Did you know, Your Majesty?’ Anne Seymour asks me curiously. ‘Has His Majesty spoken with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘This is the first I have heard of it.’

  Anne cannot hide her pleasure that she has this news before me, and I have to allow her the little triumph.

  ‘Just as well,’ Nan says to me as we go into my bedroom before the night-time prayers.

  ‘Just as well – what?’ I say disagreeably as I sit down before the glass and look at my pale face.

  ‘Just as well to get Mary Howard out of the way. The king has always liked her and they are a family with no feeling but ambition, and no scruples at all.’

  ‘She is the widow of the king’s dead bastard son,’ I say with assumed patience. ‘She is hardly likely to be a temptation to the king.’