The Taming of the Queen (16 page)

Lady Mary takes to this Christmas family as a young woman who has tiptoed through the world since the exile of her mother. It is as if she has been holding her breath in fear and she can breathe out at last. At last she knows where she should be: and she lives in a court where she has an honoured place. I would not dream of trying to mother her – it would be ridiculous: we are nearly the same age – but we can be like sisters together, making a home for the two younger ones, diverting and comforting the king, and keeping the country in alliance with Spain: Mary’s kinsmen. I support the religious reforms that her father has judged are right; naturally she would want the church to return to the rule of Rome; but I think that the more she hears of the philosophers who want to restore the church to its earliest purity, the more she will question the history of the papacy that has brought the church into corruption and disrepute. I believe that the Word of God must mean more to her than the empty symbols that decorated the churches and monasteries, the pointless ritual that was used to dazzle people who cannot read and think for themselves. When she thinks of this, as I am thinking about it, she will surely turn to reform as I am doing.

Though we may differ over points of doctrine she comes every day to my rooms and listens to the readings. This Christmas season I have chosen the favourite psalms of the late Bishop Fisher. It is an interesting example of the delicate path I tread: inside inquiry, outside challenge. The bishop, a sainted man, a wonderful writer, died for the Church of Rome in defiance of the king. He was confessor to Katherine of Aragon, Mary’s mother, so it is natural and daughterly that she should think well of him. Many who secretly thought as he did are now the king’s favoured advisors, so it is allowed to read the bishop’s writings once again.

My almoner, Bishop George Day, served as Fisher’s chaplain and loved his master. He reads from his collection of Latin psalms every day, and no-one can deny that these words of God have been beautifully rendered by the old bishop from the original Greek. It’s like a precious inheritance: from Greek to Latin and now, the ladies of my rooms, my churchmen, the Lady Mary and even little Elizabeth and I work on an English translation. The language is so fine that it seems wrong to me that only those who can understand Latin should be able to read what this holy man composed. Mary agrees with me, and her care for the work and the beauty of her vocabulary make every morning a time of great interest – not just to me but to all my ladies.

My stepson Edward is my sweetheart, the darling of the court. He speaks with ridiculous formality, he is stiff with etiquette, and yet he longs to be loved and petted, teased and tickled like a normal boy. Slowly, gradually, through sports, games and silly jokes, with shared study and shared amusement, he comes to be easy with me, and I treat him as I treated my two Latimer stepchildren when they were under my care – with affection and respect, never trying to replace the mother that they had lost, but loving them as she might have done. To this day, Margaret Latimer still calls me ‘Lady Mother’, and I write often to my stepson Latimer. I am confident that here too I can give these royal children a mother’s love. My best judgement, I think, is to treat Edward with familiarity – as if we are a loving, carefree family, as if he might trust me, and I might be easy with him.

Having struggled for my own place in the world – first in the house of a bad-tempered father-in-law, and then as a young wife to a cold and distant husband, before coming into a court as an insignificant widow – I have learned that the most precious thing is a place where you can be as you are, where someone can see you as your true self. Edward comes to my presence chamber where I am hearing petitions, and is greeted both as a prince and a little boy. I pull him up to my great throne to sit beside me, to listen and to talk quietly to me, to be the child that he is, and not a little manikin that everyone secretly eyes, wondering what he can do for their prospects.

‘Kate, you are everything that I hoped you would be,’ the king says, coming to my rooms late one night. I had thought that he was sleeping in his own bed and my maid-in-waiting, who had been settled for the night on the truckle bed, scuttles quickly away, bobbing a curtsey and closing the door behind her.

‘Thank you,’ I say, a little startled.

‘I shall trust you further,’ he tells me, easing his great bulk into my bed. ‘No, I can manage,’ he says, raising his hand and heaving himself up into a half-sitting position. ‘You shall have the care of the kingdom while I am away. Tom Seymour has done his job: we have an alliance with the Netherlands, we have a treaty with Spain, we are ready to go to war with France.’

His name, suddenly dropped into the conversation as I sit in my bed, naked but for my thin linen nightgown, gives me a shock that is almost physical, as if someone has violently shaken me, shouting his name aloud in the quiet room. I realise that the king is watching me closely.

‘You are alarmed?’ he asks. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve gone white!’

‘At the thought of war,’ I say unsteadily. ‘Only at the thought of danger.’

‘I will go myself,’ he announces. ‘I. Myself. Into the very heart of danger. I shall not send my armies without me. I shall lead them.’

I close my eyes briefly. Thomas will almost certainly be coming home. If he has agreed the treaty he will have to come to court to receive his orders. He will meet with his brother and together they will muster their tenants and soldiers. It is certain that I will see him. It is impossible for him to stay away or for me to avoid him. He will have to bow before me and congratulate me on my happiness. I will have to nod and look indifferent.

I shudder at the thought of it. Everything that I have achieved – with the children, with the court, with the king – has been in the certainty that I will never feel Thomas’s dark eyes on me, that I will never glance up and see him looking at me. I don’t know that I can even sleep if he is under the same roof. I can’t imagine lying quietly in my bed if he is somewhere in the palace, naked but for a sheet, waiting for my soft tap on his door. I won’t know how to dance if he is watching. What if we are in the same set and there is a moment when we go hand to hand? How shall I feel his touch and not turn to him? And when he puts his warm hand on my waist? How shall I land on my feet if he lifts me in the
haute danse
and I feel his breath on my cheek? When he helps me down from my horse I will have to put my hands on his shoulders; when he puts me on the ground will he take the chance to hold me close?

I have no idea how I can hide my utter need for him. I cannot imagine how it should be done. I am on show all the time; everyone watches me. I cannot trust myself; I cannot trust my hand not to shake when I hold it out for the polite brush of his warm lips. This is a court schooled in the bad habit of watching Henry’s queens. I succeed Katherine Howard: a byword for immorality. Everyone will always be watching me to see if I am a fool like her.

‘I shall lead them myself,’ Henry repeats.

‘Oh, no,’ I say weakly. ‘My lord . . .’

‘I shall,’ he says.

‘But your health?’

‘I am strong enough. I would not send an army to France without their king at the head. I would not ask them to face death without me.’

I know very well what I am to say, but I feel too slow and stupid to form the words. All I can think is that Thomas Seymour will be coming home to England and I will see him again. I wonder if he still thinks of me, if his desire is unchanged, if he still wants me as he did. I wonder if he has put me out of his mind, if – like a man – he has cut off love and severed desire, put it away and forgotten it. Or, does he, like me, still ache? I wonder if I will be able to ask him.

‘Surely, one of your lords can go?’ I say. ‘You don’t need to be at the forefront.’

‘Oh, they will all go!’ the king says. ‘Be very sure of that! The Seymours, the Howards, the Dudleys, every single one of them. Your brother will earn his new title and ride at my side. But I shall be at the head of the army. They shall see my standard go out and they will see it enter Paris. We will reclaim our lands in France. I shall be King of France in truth.’

I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling at the thought of Thomas Seymour going to war. ‘I’m afraid for you.’

He takes my hands. ‘Why, you’re icy! Are you so fearful?’ He smiles. ‘Don’t be afraid, Kateryn. I shall come home safe. I shall ride to victory and come home triumphant. And you shall rule England in my absence. You will be regent, and should God require of me the greatest sacrifice’ – he pauses and his voice quavers a little at the thought of my loss, of England’s loss – ‘should I be taken from you and from my army and from my country, then you will rule England for me until Edward is a man.’

God forgive me, the first thing I think is that if England loses its king then I will be free to marry, and Thomas will be free, and there is no-one who could stop us. Then I think: I will be queen regent. Then I think: I will be the most powerful woman in the world.

‘Don’t even say it.’ I put my cold fingers to his little mouth. ‘I can’t think of it.’ It is true. I really must not. I cannot allow myself to think of another man, as my husband leans back on the heaped pillows, the bed ropes creaking, and beckons me to come to him, his big pink face gleaming with sweat and anticipation.

He kisses my fingertips. ‘You shall see me return in triumph,’ he promises me. ‘And I shall know that you are my faithful wife and helpmeet in every way.’

Bishop George Day comes to find me in my rooms, a roll of manuscript in his hand. ‘My clerk has completed the copying,’ he says with triumph in his voice. ‘It’s done. It’s fair.’

He gives me the pages. For a moment I simply hold them, as if they were my newborn baby and I wanted to feel his weight. I have never borne a child but I imagine I feel something of a mother’s pride. This is a new joy for me. This is the joy of scholarship. For long moments I don’t unfurl the pages; I know well enough what they are, I have waited for them.

‘The psalms,’ I whisper. ‘Bishop Fisher’s psalms.’

‘Just as you translated them,’ he confirms. ‘The Latin psalms set into English. They read very beautifully. They read as if the first psalmist spoke the finest English. As they should. They are an honour to God and an honour to you. They are an honour to John Fisher, God bless him. I congratulate you.’

Slowly, I spread the pages out and start to read them. It is like reading a chorus through time: the old, old voice of the original psalmist in Hebrew translated to Greek, the sonorous wise voice of the martyred bishop rendering the Greek into Latin, and then it is my voice which sounds through the English lines. I read one psalm:

‘Should it be
harmless
?’ I ask myself.

George Day knows better than to answer. He waits.

‘
Without harm
is clumsy,’ I say. ‘
Safe
is too strong. But
harmless
has the merit of meaning without harm and without being able to do harm
.
It feels a little odd perhaps, but the oddness draws attention to the word.’ I hesitate.

‘My clerk can copy any changes you want into fair script for the printer,’ he offers.

‘
Under Thy wings I shall be harmless,
’ I whisper to myself. ‘It’s like poetry. It carries a sense that is greater than the words, greater than the simple meaning of the words. I think it’s right. I don’t think I should change it. And I love how it sounds –
under Thy wings
– you can almost feel the feathers of the great wings, can’t you?’

George smiles. He can’t. But it doesn’t matter.

‘I don’t want to change it,’ I say. ‘Not this, not anything.’

I glance up at George Day, nodding his head at the steady rhythm of the words. ‘Clear as plainsong,’ he says. ‘Clear as a bell. It is open and honest.’

Clarity means more to him than poetry, and so it should. He wants English men and women to understand the psalms that Bishop Fisher loved. I want to do something more. I want to make these verses sing as they once did in the Holy Land. I want boys in Yorkshire, girls in Cumberland to hear the music of Jerusalem.

‘I shall publish these.’ I shudder at my own daring. No other woman has ever published in English under her own name. I can hardly believe that I can find the courage: to stand up, to speak aloud, to publish to the world. ‘I really will. George – you do think that I should? You don’t advise against it?’

‘I took the liberty of showing them to Nicholas Ridley,’ he remarks, naming the great reformer and friend of Thomas Cranmer. ‘He was deeply moved. He said that this is as great a gift to the faithful Christians of England as the Bible that your husband the king gave them. He said that these will be spoken and sung in every church in England where the priest wants the people to understand the beauty of God as well as His wisdom. He said that if you will lead the court and the country to a true understanding you will be a new saint.’