Boleyn Traitor, page 35
The Tower of London, March
1541
OF COURSE, SHE does not wear that gown – she changes her mind two or three times before her state entry to London. Overnight in the Tower, she changes her mind again, and then all progress grinds to a halt when she cannot decide on her shoes for the river parade from the Tower to Greenwich Palace.
‘You’ll be in the barge; no one will see your feet,’ I say patiently.
‘I shall know that they are hideous,’ she says. ‘And anyway, I can change my shoes a dozen times if I want to.’
‘You can change as much as you like, but you can’t keep the king waiting, and the council and the aldermen can’t bob about on the river while you change your shoes,’ I warn her.
The merest mention of the king throws her into a panic, and she is in the shoes she called hideous, out of the door of the royal rooms and down the stone stairs as the clock strikes the hour. She’s so quick down the stairs that I cannot get beside her and guide her away from Tower Green.
She turns towards the Green; she walks past it – after all, it means nothing to her. I keep my eyes on the hem of her gown. I don’t look up or look around me; I won’t see Tower Green where they beheaded my sister-in-law, where the new grass grows fresh. I won’t look up at the windows of the Tower where Thomas Wyatt – George’s friend and fellow poet – may be looking down on me now, as he did on Anne on that day, looking out and wondering if he is to be freed as he was before, killed like so many of his friends, or just left here until he dies like Thom Howard.
I don’t want to see his face. The ghost of my husband could be looking over his shoulder; these were his rooms, too. Francis Weston, Henry Norris, William Brereton, Thomas More, Bishop Fisher, and my spymaster Thomas Cromwell all gazed from these windows as they waited to die. I don’t look for any of them; I don’t want to see any ghosts.
I step forward to help the queen down the damp steps to the quay, where the royal barge is waiting, bobbing on the dark water, inside the water gate, which is lowered shut, a portcullis barring the light from the river. Her face is pale in the shadow of the archway. Housed in the rooms above us, on the south side of the Tower, is Lady Margaret Pole and the little Pole boy and his cousin, the Courtenay child. They will have heard the trumpets of the royal barge; they will hear the roar of the cannon to honour Katheryn Howard. I don’t look up at their windows either; I don’t want to see my old schoolmistress’ face looking out.
The bargemaster helps Kitty up the gangplank of the barge and settles her in her throne at the back. The curtains are open so she can be seen by the waiting Londoners lining the riverbank and the gentry on their barges. The king comes down the steps leaning on Thomas Culpeper on one side and Edward Seymour on the other. Bishop Gardiner follows them as they load the king like cargo into his seat on the opposite side of the barge.
I think: if Margaret Pole sees Bishop Gardiner, an enemy of the reform of religion so favoured, she will think herself due for release. I think: how terrible to be inside these damp walls when outside the sun is shining on the river and the gulls are wheeling and crying over the water, and spring is coming, May Day is coming. Then I think again: May Day has never been a happy day of promise in the Tower.
‘It is rather gloomy,’ Katheryn remarks feebly as the rowers pull away from the dark water gate and it rolls down behind us, the mechanism rumbling in the tower above, the dark water washing between the grille of the gates and the seaweed trailing like drowned hair.
‘It is,’ I agree.
‘Sort of sad,’ she says. ‘When you think of all the people who have been prisoners. And worse if you think of the ones who died.’
I really cannot chatter away about prisoners in the Tower and their execution.
‘I suppose I could ask the king for mercy?’ She glances uncertainly towards him. He is saying something to Thomas Culpeper; he pays no attention to her at all. ‘I mean, asking for mercy is a good thing to do, isn’t it?’
We pull into the centre of the river, where the London City barges are moored. The gun salute roars over our heads, and she waves and smiles at the City barges and the London merchants ships and the cheering people. The king has his back to us, waving to the other bank.
‘Who’s been talking to you?’ I demand.
She owns up at once. ‘Mary Howard,’ she says. ‘She says that Thomas Wyatt is a great poet and no traitor.’
‘That may well be true,’ I say. I wave to a couple of children leaning over the prow in an overloaded boat. ‘So Mary Howard can ask for mercy, if she cares so much for him?’
‘He wrote a beautiful poem about Anne Boleyn,’ Kitty remarks, as if at random. ‘He praised her for her beauty,’
‘Yes, I know.’ I think Mary Howard understands very well how to inspire Katheryn’s vanity in one clever courtier’s word.
‘Mary Howard says that queens ask for mercy, and they let their hair down and kneel before the king, and it’s a very pretty sight. People remember it and are grateful forever. If I did it now, then everyone in the river pageant would see that I’m a good queen.’
‘Once,’ I say dampeningly. ‘Katherine of Aragon asked for mercy once for the apprentice boys, and it was all agreed beforehand: planned and designed and – yes – it was very pretty. But Jane Seymour asked for mercy for the pilgrims, the northern rebels, and the king left her kneeling on the floor with her hair down and only me to help her up. Can you imagine how foolish she looked?’
Kitty looks shocked at the prospect. ‘Oh, I’d have to know he wanted to. He must want to pardon before I ask.’
‘Then you’re not begging for a man’s life but putting on a masque,’ I point out.
‘Yes,’ she says cheerfully. ‘That’s what I meant. Just like a masque. And me as Mercy. Can we do it now?’
‘Now?’ I glance over to the king’s side of the barge. He is drinking wine and eating pastries, waving at the procession of ships that have come to celebrate the new queen.
‘Now, where everyone can see me.’
‘I’ll ask if he wants to,’ I say and beckon to Thomas Culpeper.
He comes at once, bows politely, and listens to my whispered question.
‘Oh certainly,’ he says. ‘His Majesty thought fondly of Wyatt while we were overnight in the Tower. Asked if he had a good room and good cheer.’
I will not think about the king asking if a traitor has good cheer. I will not think about the monks who starved to death in their chains in these very rooms. ‘Would His Majesty welcome a plea for mercy from the queen?’ I ask.
‘I’ll make sure,’ he smiles to himself. ‘No man in the world could refuse her …’
I watch him cross the deck to the king, lean and whisper in his ear. The king’s cheeks are swollen with food; he takes a gulp of wine before he answers. But then I see him beam, and he calls the bargemaster to halt, and the drum stops, and the rowers feather their oars to keep us steady in the water.
‘Do it now,’ I say to her.
‘Now?’ She is delighted. ‘Right now? Can I?’
‘You’re very eager to get him pardoned.’
‘No,’ she says honestly. ‘Just so that everyone sees me being a queen.’
Carefully, I untie the cape she has over her shoulders, take off her cap, take the priceless ivory pins out of her hair. The bronze mass of hair tumbles down over her shoulders, and I stroke it out.
‘What do I do?’
‘Just walk towards him, go down on your knees and put your hands together like you were praying and look up at him,’ I say. ‘If you can cry, that’s good, too. But nothing to spoil your looks. Just a tear.’
‘I don’t say anything?’ she demands.
‘You say: “I cry mercy, mercy for Thomas Wyatt.”’
She rises from her throne and throws a quick nervous look over at Henry. He is looking out at the river, waving at some people who are cheering from a fishing smack.
‘What about his friend John Wallop?’ I ask. ‘And Lady Margaret Pole? She’s still in the Tower, the king’s own cousin. You could ask pardon for them, too? You should ask pardon for her first?’
‘Oh no,’ she says quickly. ‘I can’t go on and on. You know, I can’t be boring. Besides, the people won’t hear what I’m saying. It’s just for show.’
She steps past me, steady on the gently rocking deck, up to the raised dais. In full view of the boats on the river, she kneels in her silver gown, raises her praying hands to the king and mimes – for everyone watching – the beautiful young queen begging for mercy. She does it beautifully, a single tear rolls down her cheek.
The king leans forward on his chair, puts his hands around hers, and raises her to her feet. She bends down, her hair tumbling forward, and she kisses him on his wine-stained lips.
Greenwich Palace, March
1541
MY FATHER GREETS us on the quay at Greenwich, kneeling to the king and queen, who process proudly past him. He rises to give me his blessing.
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I say as I kiss his cheek. ‘Is my lady mother well, and my sister and brother?’
‘Yes, yes, all well,’ he says. ‘And before you ask, I’m here to ask the king for some lands at home – there’s no inquiry.’
‘Thomas Wyatt is to be released,’ I tell him. ‘The queen asked for pardon?’
‘Lady Margaret Pole?’ He raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head.
My father sighs. ‘Circa Regna Tonat,’ he says, quoting a Wyatt poem. ‘Thunder around the throne.’
I take his arm, and we follow the courtiers into the palace.
‘And how is your new queen?’
‘Young, but guided into her great calling,’ I say.
He understands at once. ‘Be modest, daughter,’ he says gently. ‘She should grow; but the greatest courtier never forgets he is in service. And you are on your own now you have no protector.’
‘I have you,’ I suggest.
He gives a little shrug. ‘I could translate a text for you, but little more. I am an observer of the machinery behind the masque; I don’t put my shoulder to the wheel.’
Greenwich Palace, April
1541
I COME INTO THE royal bedroom at Greenwich and find Katheryn is still in bed. She has a handful of counters from the gaming tables spread over her embroidered sheets, and a written calendar of dates.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ she says. She is breathless; the calendar is scribbled over and corrected several times. She has marked question marks at the foot of the page and a week of bold ticks at the top. ‘I’m not quite certain?’
‘You’re trying to calculate your courses?’ I ask her.
She looks up with relief. ‘Jane, d’you know if it’s due? I think I am late?’
I have been a courtier to five queens. It is an essential tool of my trade. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’re a few days late; but it could mean nothing.’
‘But I could be with child?’ She looks up from the counters and the calendar. ‘I could be with child?’
‘Only if you conceived as soon as the king came back to your bed. It’s too early to say. Certainly, too early to tell anyone.’
‘It must be then!’ she agrees. ‘He said God blessed him. I am with child; I know I am! I have a great desire for sugarplums.’
‘You always do,’ I point out.
‘Far more than usual,’ she says stubbornly. ‘I shall tell the king.’
‘No wait,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to get his hopes up and then disappoint him.’
The look she turns on me is that of a far older wiser woman. ‘Jane,’ she says. ‘Remember how he was before Lent? I have to get crowned.’
She is right: she must be crowned. We thought he would die then, and his illness is not cured but just in abeyance; it is a tertian fever it will flare up again and again. He could die before her baby quickens. A dowager queen veiled in black with a baby in her belly would be unbeatable. It’s worth the risk.
‘I’ll tell him after mass,’ she says, throwing back her fine linen sheets. ‘I’ll wear blue – get me my blue gown with blue sleeves, Jane. I’ll wear blue like the Virgin Herself.’
‘The annuntiati,’ I agree, hearing the snort of laughter of a ghost.
SHE ASKS ME the correct way to inform a king that his queen is with child, and I tell her lord chamberlain, who informs the king’s lord chamberlain. When mass is over, we ladies wait on our side of the chapel while the king gets Culpeper to haul him to his feet. I prompt her to curtsey very prettily, and step forward and whisper in his ear, blushing. Culpeper studies the floor.
The king takes her hand, kisses her on the mouth, turns her as if she were a little puppet, to face the altar and says: ‘Rejoice, highly favoured one. The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women!’
Everyone says ‘Amen!’ or ‘Thanks be to God!’ and gives a muted cheer. The Seymours look as if they have swallowed a furball and are going to have to go quietly into a corner to retch it up. But even they cross themselves and say: ‘God bless you and keep you well!’ to Kitty, who stands, flushed and so proud, among them all, with the king holding her hand and her eyes filled with tears, not crying so as not to spoil her looks – just tears of happiness.
Greenwich Palace, Spy Wednesday
1541
SPY WEDNESDAY IS the day before Maundy Thursday, named for Judas Iscariot, and I think of my master, the greatest spy in England, as if this were his memorial day – to honour spies. I think: what would he advise me – with the king disappearing from court? What would he do when the king came out, refusing to even remember that he nearly died? What would he do with a young queen who may have a royal heir in her belly? I think: he would have prepared for everything, for anything. That’s what I must do.
Katheryn tries to escape the long masses and prayers in these final days of Lent, and I have to bribe her into church with beautiful black-lace Spanish mantillas that Queen Katherine of Aragon left in the royal wardrobe. But she refuses outright to wash the feet of seventeen poor women – one for each year of her life. ‘It’s far worse for the king; he has to do fifty,’ I tell her. ‘Old men, too.’
‘It’s worse for me because I have no need to humble myself,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t born a queen. I am not an old king. Why do I have to wash their disgusting feet?’
‘They’re not disgusting; they’re washed already,’ I tell her. ‘And every queen of England has done it.’
‘I can’t bear it!’ she says with a little wail. ‘Why do I have to?’
‘Because Our Lord washed the feet of the disciples,’ I said. ‘The pope himself does it in Rome. The king does it. You can certainly do it.’
‘Only if you show me exactly how, and if you promise me a favour after.’
‘Oh, very well,’ I say impatiently.
We set up a line of stools, and her young maids-of-honour throw themselves into the roles of being old and poor. They limp and cough and insist on being carried and seated. They roll down their stockings and slip off their satin shoes, screaming with laughter and accusing each other of having smelly feet.
‘No laughing,’ Kitty says crossly. ‘The poor don’t laugh, do they? Why do I have to do this properly if no one else does!’
I show her how each poor woman will have her feet in the bowl before her, and all Kitty has to do is pour a jug of water into the bowl and touch the top of the foot.
‘Jane Seymour did it beautifully,’ I prompt her. ‘She saw it as part of queenly service.’
Down the line of seated giggling maids Katheryn goes, her face set and serious, pretending to pour from an empty jug, touching their feet with one extended fingertip. Margery Horsman takes the jug from her at the end of the line of stools, dries her hands, and hands her a purse. Kitty turns and walks back up the line, giving each woman a penny.
She stops at the end of the line and looks at me. ‘Then, do I just walk away?’
‘Bless them and wish them a Happy Easter.’
Katheryn turns back with the most angelic smile. ‘God bless you, smelly old ladies, and Happy Easter,’ she says.
The girls shriek with laughter. ‘God bless you, Queen Katheryn!’ they call. ‘God bless your sweet face! God bless your goodly belly and the baby inside it! God save you get another the way you got that one! God hope you enjoy it next time!’
‘Enough!’ I say sternly. ‘And put the stools straight.’ I turn to Katheryn. ‘That was well done. Do it just like that.’
‘And now my favour!’ She is suddenly bright with mischief; she draws me away from the noise of the girls taking the stools back to their rooms.
‘What favour?’
‘The favour you promised, if I do this?’
‘What d’you want?’ I ask uneasily.
‘I have a craving,’ she whispers.
‘No more than ten sugarplums,’ I rule.
She beams at me. ‘It is a person, not a plum. But just as mouth-watering …’
‘What person?’
‘I wonder if you can guess? You who always know everything?’
‘I won’t guess a person,’ I say unhelpfully.
‘I’ll tell you then! I want to see Thomas Culpeper, privately, in my rooms.’
‘You can’t,’ I say at once. ‘Your presence chamber is always filled with people, and your privy chamber with courtiers. You can’t see a man in your bedroom. There is nowhere you can see him alone.’
‘I want to give him a gift for Easter,’ she says. ‘No harm in that.’
‘Depends on the gift,’ I say warily.
‘Just a cap – a velvet cap,’ she whispers. ‘Nothing special. The sort that the king gives his favourites at Easter. Just like that. To thank him for being so good to my husband when he was ill.’
‘You needn’t thank him; it’s his duty. Are you going to see the Seymours and thank them?’
