The Taming of the Queen (10 page)

At chapel, on the second storey, in the queen’s box, looking down at the priest going about God’s work, creating the miracle of the Mass and turning his back on the congregation as if they are not fit even to see it, I pray for God’s help in this marriage. I think of the other queens who have knelt here, on this footstool embroidered with the royal coat of arms and the pied rose, and prayed here, too. Some of them will have prayed with increasing anguish for live Tudor sons, some of them will have mourned the loss of their previous lives, some will have been homesick for their childhood home and the family who loved them for themselves, not for what they could provide. One, at least, had a heartache like mine, had to wake each day and put away the thought of the man she loved. I can almost feel them around me as I rest my face in my hands. I can almost smell their fear in the wood of the book rest. I imagine that if I licked the polished grain I would taste the salt of their tears.

‘Not merry?’ The king meets me in the gallery outside the chapel. He with his friends behind him – Queen Jane’s brother, Queen Anne’s uncle, Queen Katherine’s cousin – I with my ladies behind me. ‘Not merry on your wedding morning?’

At once I beam. ‘Very merry,’ I say determinedly. ‘And you, Your Majesty?’

‘You can call me “my lord husband”,’ he says, and takes my hand and crushes it between the curve of his thickly padded waistcoat and the embroidered sleeve. ‘Come with me to my privy chamber,’ he says informally. ‘I need to talk with you on our own.’

He releases me so that he can lean on a page and slowly limp forward. I follow him through his great waiting chamber, where there are hundreds of men and women gathered to see us pass, through the presence chamber, where scores more are waiting with petitions and requests, and into his privy chamber where only the court is admitted. At each doorway more people fall away, excluded from the room within, until it is just the king and Anthony Denny, a couple of clerks, his two pages, his Fool, Will Somers, two of my ladies and me. This is what he means by being alone with his wife.

They lower him into his great chair, which creaks a little under his weight, they put a footstool under his leg, then drape it with a cloth. He gestures that I may sit near him, and waves them all away. Denny goes to the back of the room and pretends to be talking to his wife, my lady-in-waiting Joan. I am sure that they are both ears-pricked, to hear every word.

‘So you are merry this morning?’ Henry confirms. ‘Though I was watching you in chapel and you seemed grave. I can see you through the lattice of my box, you know. I can keep you under watch and ward all the time. Be very sure that I am always mindful of you.’

‘I was praying, my lord.’

‘That’s good,’ he approves. ‘I like it that you are truly devout; but I want you to be happy. The Queen of England should be the happiest woman in Christendom as well as the most blessed. You must show the world that you are merry on your wedding morning.’

‘I am,’ I assure him. ‘I truly am.’

‘Visibly happy,’ he prompts me.

I show him my most dazzling smile.

He nods his approval. ‘And now you have work to do. And you must do everything that I say. I am your husband now, and you have promised obedience.’ His indulgent tone tells me that this is a joke.

I peep up at him. ‘I shall try to be a very good wife.’

He chuckles. ‘These are my commands: you have to order the tailors and the seamstresses to bring beautiful clothes and fabrics, and you have to order a great many gowns,’ he says. ‘I want to see you dressed like a queen, not like the poor widow Latimer.’

I give a little affected gasp and I press my hands together.

‘They tell me you like birds?’ he asks. ‘Colourful birds and singing birds.’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘But I could never afford to buy them.’

‘Well, now you can,’ he says. ‘I shall tell the captains of the ships that go far afield that they are to bring home little birds for you.’ He smiles. ‘It can be a new tax on shipping – little birds for the queen. And I have something for you now.’ He turns and snaps his fingers and Anthony Denny steps forward and puts a fat purse on the table and a small box. Henry passes me the box first. ‘Open it.’

It is a magnificent ruby, table-cut like a block, on a simple gold band. It is too big for my fingers, but the king slides it on my thumb and admires the red glow. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I love it.’

‘And there are more, of course. I have had them sent to your rooms.’

‘More?’

He warms to my naïvety. ‘More jewels, my dear. You are the queen. You have a treasury of jewels. You can pick out new ones to wear for every day of the year.’

I don’t have to feign my delight. ‘I do love pretty things.’

‘They’re a tribute to your own beauty,’ he says gently. ‘I have wanted you draped in the royal treasures ever since I first saw you.’

‘Thank you, husband. Thank you so much.’

He chuckles. ‘I am going to love giving you things. You blush like a little rose. This purse of gold is for you, too. Spend it on whatever you like and then come to me for another. You will have lands and rents and income of your own soon. Your steward will show you a list of all that you will own. You will be a wealthy woman in your own right. You will have all the queen consort lands and Baynard’s Castle in London. You will command a fortune in your own name. This is just to tide you over.’

‘I should like to be tided over,’ Will Somers observes. ‘For some reason it is low tide with me, all the time.’

The men laugh as, unobserved, I weigh the purse in my hand. It is heavy. If they are gold nobles, and I imagine that they are, this is a small fortune.

The king looks at his page. ‘Give me the list,’ he says.

The young man bows and hands him a rolled piece of paper. ‘These are men and women who want to serve in your household,’ the king says. ‘I have marked the ones that I wish you to take. But you can please yourself for most of the posts. I want you to be happy in your rooms and choose your own playmates.’

It is the right of the queen to choose her own ladies. They are with her night and day. It is only fair that they should be her friends, family and favourites. The king should not be making out the list.

‘I dare say I will approve your choices,’ he says. ‘I am sure there will be none that I do not approve. You have such beautiful taste, you are certain to choose ladies who will be an ornament to your court and to mine.’

I bow my head.

‘But they must be pretty,’ he specifies. ‘Make sure of that. I don’t want an eyesore.’

I say nothing to his plan that I should choose as my companions the women who will please him, and at once, he squeezes my hand. ‘Ah, Kate, we shall deal well together. We’ll go hunting this afternoon and you shall sit with me.’

‘I would love that,’ I say. I long to be on my horse and ride with the hunt. I want the sense of freedom of riding behind the hounds, following where the scent takes them, going fast and riding far from the great palace, but I know it will not be like this. I shall have to sit in the royal shelter beside the king and watch the deer driven towards us so that Henry can shoot his loaded bow from his seat. Before him the huntsmen will herd and chivy the deer forward. Behind him, a page will take the sharpened bolt and load it into the crossbow. The king will do nothing but point and shoot. He makes a hunt, with all the chance and hazard of field and woodland, into a farmyard killing, a butcher’s yard. The king’s hunt, which was once a pageant of excitement, has become a shambles where animals are driven and slaughtered. But this is all he can do now. The man that I remember as a centaur, as a huntsman, who rode three horses one after another in a single day till they foundered, is diminished to a murderer, slumped in a chair, defeated by old age and ill health, with a younger man loading his bow.

‘I shall be so happy to sit beside you,’ I lie.

‘And you shall learn to shoot,’ he promises me. ‘I will give you a little crossbow of your own. You must share in the sport. You must have the pleasure of the kill.’

He intends to be kind to me. ‘Thank you,’ I say again.

He nods that I am to leave. I rise to my feet and hesitate as he beckons me towards him and lifts up his big moon face. He is like a little child, trustingly offering a kiss. I put one hand on his massive shoulder and I bend down. His breath is terribly rank – it is like letting a hound pant in my face – but I don’t flinch. I kiss him on the mouth and I meet his eyes and smile.

‘Dearest,’ he says quietly. ‘You are my dearest. You will be my last and dearest wife.’

I am so touched that I bend down again and put my cheek to his.

‘Go and buy some pretty things,’ he commands me. ‘I want you to look like a beloved wife and the finest queen that England has ever known.’

I leave the room a little dazed. If I look like a beloved wife it will be for the first time. To my second husband, Lord Latimer, I was a partner and a helpmeet, someone to guard his lands and educate his children. He taught me the things that he needed me to know and he was glad to have me alongside him. But he never petted me, or gave things to me, or imagined how I would appear to others. He rode away and left me in terrible danger, expecting me to serve him as the captain of Snape Castle, confident I would command his men in his absence. I was his deputy, not his love. Now I am married to a man who calls me his beloved and plans treats for me.

Nan is waiting with Joan at the door, which opens before us. ‘Come on,’ I say to her. ‘I think there are some things you’ll want to see in my chambers.’

My own presence chamber is already filled with people come to congratulate me on my wedding and hoping to ask me for a place or a favour or an audience or a fee. I walk through them with a smile to one side and the other, without pausing. I will start my work as queen today. But right now, I want to see my husband’s gifts.

‘Oh, my,’ Nan says as the guards throw open the double doors to my private rooms and my ladies rise to their feet and gesture, rather helplessly, to the half-dozen boxes that the king’s men have put all around the room, the great keys ready in the locks.

It is a sin to feel this leap of cupidity. I laugh at myself. ‘Stand back!’ I say jokingly. ‘Stand back, for I am about to dive into treasure.’

Nan turns the key to the first chest and together we lift the heavy lid. It is a travelling chest and it holds the gold plates and goblets for the queen’s private tables. I nod to two of the maids-in-waiting to come forward. They unpack one glorious plate after another and tip the reflections so the golden lights dance around the room like mad angels. ‘More!’ I say and now everyone holds a plate and shines it into each other’s eyes and flashes discs of light into every corner of the room until the room is dappled with shifting reflections. I laugh with delight and we shine the gold plates on one another, rise up, dance, and the whole room is dancing with us, filled with dazzling light.

‘What’s next?’ I demand breathlessly, and Nan opens the next chest. This is filled with necklaces and belts. She draws out ropes of pearls and belts embroidered and encrusted with sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds and stones that I cannot even name, sparkling dark beauties set in thick blocks of silver or gold. She spreads chains of gold on the arms of chairs, necklaces of silver and diamonds in the laps of the maids so that they dazzle against rich fabric. There are opals with their soft milky light gleaming in green and peach, there is amber in great chunks of dark orange, and there are handfuls of uncut stones in purses looking like pebbles, hiding the flash of precious light within their rocky depths.

Nan opens another chest that has been carefully packed with rolls of the softest leather. Out come rings heavy with precious stones, and single stones on long chains. Without comment, she lays before me Katherine of Aragon’s famous necklace of plaited gold. Another purse is undone and there are Anne Boleyn’s rubies. The royal jewels of Spain come from one great box, the dowry of Anne of Cleves is spread on the floor at my feet. The treasure that the king showered on Katherine Howard comes in a chest all to itself, untouched since she was stripped of everything and went out to take the axe on her bare neck.

‘Look at these earrings!’ someone exclaims, but instead I turn away and go to the window to look down on the formal gardens and the glimpse of the silvery river through the trees. I am suddenly sickened. ‘Those are dead women’s goods,’ I say unsteadily as Nan comes to my side. ‘They are the favourite treasures of dead queens. Those necklaces have been around the necks of the wife before me, some of them have been worn by every one of them who has gone before me. The pearls were warmed by their dead skins, the silver is tarnished by their old sweat.’

Nan is as pale as me. She wrapped Katherine Howard’s emeralds in their leather folders and put them in that very jewel box on the day of her arrest. She fastened Jane Seymour’s sapphires around her neck on her wedding day. She handed Katherine of Aragon her earrings and here they are now, on the table in my privy chamber for my use.

‘You are the queen, you get the queen’s treasures,’ she rules, but her voice trembles. ‘Of course. It’s how it has to be.’