Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (209 page)

The two young men, and half a dozen others, each of them with good reason to believe that they are the queen's favourites, circle her every day and the court has all the tension of a whorehouse before a brawl. The queen, excited by the attention she gets at every corner, at every hunt and breakfast and masque, is like a child who has stayed up too late; she is feverish with arousal. On the one hand she has Thomas Culpepper, holding her when she dismounts from her horse, at her side for dancing, whispering in her ear when she plays cards, first to greet her in the morning, and last to leave her rooms at night. On the other she has young Dereham, appointed to wait for her orders, at her right hand with his little writing desk, as if she ever dictated a letter to anyone, constantly whispering to her, stepping forwards to advise, ever present where he need not be. And then, how many others? A dozen? Twenty? Not even Anne Boleyn at her most capricious had so many young men circling her, like dogs slavering at a butcher's door. But Anne, even at her most flirtatious, never appeared to be a girl who might bestow her favours for a smile, who might be seduced by a song, by a poem, by a word. The whole court begins to see that the queen's joy, which has made the king so happy, is not that of an innocent girl whom he so fondly believes adores only him, it is that of a flirt who revels in constant male attention.

Of course there is trouble, there is almost a fight. One of the senior men at court tells Dereham that he should have risen from the dinner table and gone, since he is not of the queen's council and only they are sitting over their wine. Dereham, loose-mouthed, says that he was in the queen's counsels long before the rest of us knew her, and will be familiar with her long after the rest of us are dismissed. Of course: uproar. The terror is that it might get to the king's ears and so Dereham is summoned to the queen's rooms and she sees him, with me standing by.

‘I cannot have you causing trouble in my household,' she says stiffly to him.

He bows but his eyes are bright with confidence. ‘I meant to cause no trouble, I am yours: heart and soul.'

‘It is all very well to say that,' she says irritably. ‘But I don't want people asking what I was to you, and you were to me.'

‘We were in love,' he maintains staunchly.

‘This should never be said,' I interpose. ‘She is the queen. Her previous life must be as if it had never been.'

He looks at her, ignoring me. ‘I will never deny it.'

‘It is over,' she says determinedly, I am proud of her. ‘And I will not have gossip about the past, Francis. I cannot have people talking about me. I shall have to send you away if you cannot keep silent.'

He pauses for a moment. ‘We were husband and wife before God,' he says quietly. ‘You cannot deny that.'

She makes a little gesture with her hand. ‘I don't know,' she says helplessly. ‘At any rate, it is over now. You can have a place at court only if you never speak of it. Can't he, Lady Rochford?'

‘Can you keep your mouth shut?' I ask. ‘Never mind all this never denying it nonsense. You can stay if you can keep your mouth shut. If you are a braggart you will have to go.'

He looks at me without warmth, there is no love between us. ‘I can keep my mouth shut,' he says.

It has been a good summer for me, my first as a free woman in England. The farms attached to my palace are in good heart and I have ridden out and watched the crops ripen, and in the fruit orchards the trees are growing heavy with fruit. This is a rich country, we have built great stacks of hay to feed the animals through the winter, and in the barns we are piling up great mountains of grain to go to the miller for flour. If the country was ruled by a man who wanted peace, and who would share the wealth, then it would be a peaceful and prosperous land.

The king's hatred of both Papists and Protestants sours the life of his country. In the church when they raise the Host even the smallest children are trained to keep their eyes on it, and bob their heads and cross themselves by rote, and are threatened by their parents that if they do not do as the king demands, then they will be taken away and burned. There is no understanding of the sanctity of the act among the poor people, they just know that it is the king's desire now that they should bob and bow and bless themselves, just as before they had to hear the Mass in English, not Latin, and they had a Bible put in the church for anyone to read, and now it has been taken away again. The king commands the church just as the king commands more and more unjust taxation: because he can, because no-one can dare to stop him, because now it is treason even to question him.

There are quiet murmurs that the rebellion in the North was led by brave men, courageous men who thought that they could fight for their God against the king. But the older men of the little town point out that they are all dead now, and the king's progress to the North this year is to march over their graves and insult their widows.

I don't interfere with anything that anyone says, if there is anything spoken in my hearing which could amount to treason I go quickly away, and make sure that I tell one of my ladies or one of my household that something was said, but I did not understand it. I hide in my stupidity, I think it will be my salvation. I put on my dull, uncomprehending face and trust that my reputation for ugliness and stolidity will save me. In general, people say nothing before me but treat me with a sort of puzzled kindness, as if I have survived some terrible illness and should still be treated with care. In a way, I have. I am the first woman to survive marriage with the king. That is a more remarkable feat than surviving the plague. The plague will go through a town and in the worst summer, in the poorest areas, perhaps one in ten women will die. But of the king's four wives only one has emerged with her health intact: me.

Dr Harst's spy reports that the king's spirits are much improved and his temper lifted by his travels north. The man was not ordered to go with the court but has stayed behind to clean the king's rooms in the general sweetening of Hampton Court Palace. So I cannot know how their progress is going. I had a brief letter from Lady Rochford and she told me that the king's health is better and that he and Katherine are merry. If that poor child does not conceive a baby soon, I do not think she will be merry for much longer.

I write also to the Princess Mary. She is much relieved that the question of her marriage to a French prince has been utterly put to one side as Spain and France are to go to war and King Henry will side with Spain. His great fear is of an invasion from France and some of the hated taxation is being well spent on forts all along the south coast. From Princess Mary's point of view, only one thing
matters: if her father is aligned with Spain then she will not be married off to a French prince. She is such a passionate daughter of her Spanish mother that I think she would rather live and die a virgin than be married to a Frenchman. She hopes the king will allow me to visit her before autumn. When he returns from his progress I shall write to the king and ask him if I may invite the Princess Mary to stay with me. I should like to spend time with her. She laughs at me and calls us the royal spinsters, and so we are. Two women who are of no use. Nobody knows whether I am a duchess or a queen or a nothing. Nobody knows if she is a princess or a bastard. The royal spinsters. I wonder what will become of us?

Well, it is as I could have predicted, an utter disappointment. King James of Scotland is not coming and there is to be no jousting and no rival courts, and I am queen only of the little English court and nothing special is happening at all. I shall not see my darling Thomas joust, and he will not see me in the royal box with my new curtains. The king swears that James is too afraid to show his face this far south of the border, and if that is true, then it can only be because he does not trust the king's own honourable word of truce. And, though nobody dare say it, he is quite right to be cautious. For the king promised a truce to the leaders of the northern revolt and his friendship, and all manner of changes that they wanted, he swore it on his royal name; and then, when they trusted him, he caught them and hanged them. Their dead heads are still stuck on the walls all around York, and I must say it is most disagreeable. I remark to Henry that perhaps James fears being hanged too and he laughs a lot and says that I am a clever little kitten and that James might well be afraid. But actually, I don't think it's very good if people can't trust you. Because if James had been able to trust the king's word then he would have come and we would all have had a merry time.

Also, this is a very fine house and newly done for us, and yet I can't help but notice that it was a beautiful abbey before it was the King's Manor, and I should think that since the people of York are
great sympathisers for the old faith (if not secret Papists) that they would very much resent us dancing about where the monks used to pray. I don't say this of course, I am not quite an idiot. But I can imagine how I might feel if I had come here for help and prayer and now find the place quite changed and a great fat greedy king sitting in the middle of it all, and calling for his dinner.

Anyway, what matters most is that the king is happy, and even I, amazingly enough, don't mind about missing the joust nearly as much as I should. I am a little disappointed by the lack of handsome Scotsmen, and being so far from the London goldsmiths; but I cannot really be troubled about it. Astoundingly, it doesn't even seem that important. For I am in love. For the first time in my life, utterly and completely, I have fallen in love, and I cannot believe it myself.

Thomas Culpepper is my lover, he is my heart's desire, he is the only man I have ever loved, he is the only man I ever will love. I am his and he is mine, heart and soul. All the complaints I have ever made about having to bed a man old enough to be my father are now forgotten. I do my duty by the king as a form of tax, a fine I have to pay; and then the moment he is asleep I am free to be with my love. Better even than that, and far less risky, is that the king is so wearied by the celebrations on this progress that he often does not come to my rooms at all. I wait until the court is quiet and then Lady Rochford creeps down the stairs, or opens the side door, or unlocks a hidden door to the gallery and in steps my Thomas and we can have hours together.

We have to be careful, we have to be as careful as if our very lives depended on it. But every time we move to a new place Lady Rochford finds a private way to my rooms, and tells Thomas how it is to be done. Without fail he comes to me, he loves me as I love him. We go to my room and Lady Rochford guards the door for us, and all night I lie in his arms and we kiss and whisper and make promises of love that will last forever. At dawn she makes a little scratch on
the door and I get up and we kiss, and he slips away like a ghost. Nobody sees him. Nobody sees him come, and nobody sees him go, it is a wonderful secret.

Of course the girls talk, this is a most unruly crowd. I cannot believe that they would dare to chatter such gossip and scandal if Queen Anne were still on the throne. But because it is only me and most of them are older than me, and so many are from the old days at Lambeth, they have no respect at all, and they laugh at me, and they tease me about Francis Dereham, and I am afraid that they watch what time I go to bed and wonder that my only companion is Lady Rochford, and that the door to my bedroom is locked and no-one can come in.

‘They know nothing,' she assures me. ‘And they would tell nobody, anyway.'

‘They should not be gossiping at all,' I say. ‘Can you not tell them to keep their tongues off my business?'

‘How can I, when it was you laughing about Francis Dereham with Joan Bulmer, yourself?'

‘Well, I never laugh about Thomas,' I say. ‘I never mention his name. I don't even say his name in the confessional. I don't even say his name to myself.'

‘That is wise,' she says. ‘Keep it a secret. Keep it a complete secret.'

She is brushing my hair and she gives a little pause and looks at me in the mirror. ‘When is your course due?' she asks.

‘I can't remember.' I never keep count. ‘Was it last week? Anyway, it hasn't come.'

There is a sort of bright alertness in her face. ‘It has not come?'

‘No. Brush at the back, Jane, Thomas likes it smooth at the back.'

Her hand moves but she does not do it very carefully. ‘Do you feel at all sick?' she asks. ‘Are your breasts any bigger?'

‘No,' I say. Then I realise what is in her mind. ‘Oh! Are you thinking I might be with child?'

‘Yes,' she whispers. ‘Please God.'

‘But that would be dreadful!' I exclaim. ‘Because, don't you see? Don't you think? Lady Rochford, it might not be the king's child!'

She puts down the brush and shakes her head. ‘It is God's will,' she says slowly, as if she wants me to learn something. ‘If you are married to the king and you conceive a child then that is God's will. It is God's will that the king has a child. So it
is
the king's child, as far as you are concerned, it is the king's own child, whatever has happened between you and another.'

I feel a little muddled by this. ‘But what if it is Thomas's child?' At once I have a picture of Thomas's little son, a brown-haired, blue-eyed rascal like his father, a strong boy from a young father.

She sees my face and she guesses what I am thinking. ‘You are the queen,' she says firmly. ‘Any child you bear will be the king's child, as God wishes. You cannot think for one moment anything different.'

‘But …'

‘No,' she says. ‘And you should tell the king that you have hopes of being with his child.'

‘Is it not too early?'

‘It's never too early to give him cause for hope,' she says. ‘The last thing we want is to have him discontented.'

‘I will tell him,' I say. ‘He is coming to my room tonight. You will have to fetch Thomas to me later. Then I will tell him too.'

‘No,' she says. ‘You won't tell Thomas Culpepper.'

‘But I want to!'

‘It would spoil everything.' She speaks very fast, persuasively. ‘If he thinks you are with child he will not lie with you. He will find you disgusting. He wants a mistress, not a mother of his children. You say nothing to Thomas Culpepper, but you can give the king hope. That's the way to handle this.'

‘He would be pleased …'

‘No.' She shakes her head. ‘He would be kind, I am sure, but he would not come to your bed again. He would take a mistress. I have
seen him talking to Catherine Carey. He would take a mistress until your time was over.'

‘I couldn't bear that!'

‘So tell him nothing. Tell the king you have hopes, but tell Thomas nothing.'

‘Thank you, Lady Rochford,' I say humbly. If it were not for her advice I don't know what I would do.

That night the king comes to my rooms and they help him into my bed. I stand by the fire while they labour to heave him in and they leave him tucked up with the sheets under his chin like an enormous baby.

‘Husband,' I say sweetly.

‘Come to bed, my rose,' he says. ‘Henry wants his rose.'

I grit my teeth on the stupidity of him calling himself Henry. ‘I want to tell you something,' I say. ‘I have some happy news.'

He heaves himself up, so that his head with the nightcap askew bobs up a little.

‘Yes?'

‘I have missed my course,' I say. ‘I may be with child.'

‘Oh, rose! My sweetest rose!'

‘It is early days,' I warn him. ‘But I thought you would want to know at once.'

‘Before anything else!' he assures me. ‘Dearest, as soon as you tell me it is true, I shall have you crowned queen.'

‘But Edward will still be your heir,' I query.

‘Yes, yes, but it would be such a weight off my mind if I knew that Edward had a brother. A family cannot be safe with only one son: a dynasty needs boys. One small accident and everything is finished, but if you have two boys you are safe.'

‘And I will have a grand coronation,' I specify, thinking of the crown and the jewels and the gown and the feasting and the thousands of people who will come out to cheer me, the new Queen of England.

‘You will have the greatest coronation that England has ever seen, for you are the greatest queen,' he promises me. ‘And as soon as we get back to London I shall declare a day of national celebration for you.'

‘Oh?' This sounds rather wonderful, a day to celebrate my existence! Kitty Howard:
voilà
indeed! ‘A whole day for me?'

‘A day when everyone will go to church and say prayers of thanksgiving that God has given you to me.'

Just church, after all. I give a faint, disappointed smile.

‘And the master of the revels will prepare a great feast and celebration at court,' he says. ‘And everyone will give you presents.'

I beam. ‘That sounds lovely,' I say with satisfaction.

‘You are my sweetest rose,' he says. ‘My rose without a thorn. Come to bed with me now, Katherine.'

‘Yes.' I make sure I do not think of my Thomas as I go to the bloated figure in the big bed. I have a wide, happy smile on my face and I close my eyes so I need not look at him. I cannot avoid the smell of him or the feel of him, but I can make sure that I do not think of him at all while I do what I have to do, and then lie beside him and wait for the little snuffles of satisfaction to turn to wheezy snores as he goes to sleep.