The Taming of the Queen (23 page)

And then, though I am trapped in the sin of fear, and a slave to a passion, something very strange happens. Though it is nowhere near dawn, though it is the darkest time of the night, I feel the room lighten, the ashes of the fire grow a little brighter. I raise my head, and my forehead no longer throbs and my fearful sweat has cooled. I feel well, as if I had slept well and I am waking to a bright morning. The smell from the king’s room is diminished and I know once again my deep pity for him in his pain and illness. His rumbling snore has grown quieter and I am glad that he is sleeping well. Hardly believing my own sense of being uplifted, I feel as if I can hear the voice of God, as if He is with me, as if He has come to me in this night of my trial, as if His mercy can look on me, a sinner, a woman who has sinned and has longed for sin, who still longs for sin, and that, even seeing all this, He can forgive me.

I stay, kneeling on the hearthstone, till the clock on the table strikes four with its silvery little chime and I realise that I have been in a trance of prayer for hours. I have prayed and I believe that I have been heard. I have spoken and I believe I have been answered. No priest took my confession or gave me absolution, no church took my fee, no pilgrim badges or miracle cures or little pieces of trumpery helped me to come into the presence of God. I simply asked for His great mercy and I received it, as He promised in the Bible that it should be granted.

I rise up from the floor and I get into my bed, shivering a little. I think, with a sense of great wonderment, that I have been blessed, as God promised I would be blessed. I think He has come to me, a sinner, and that I have, by His grace, been granted forgiveness and the remission of my sins.

The army is setting sail for France; Thomas Howard has already gone with the vanguard but still the king delays.

‘I have summoned my astronomer,’ he says to me as we leave Mass one morning. ‘Come with me and see what he advises.’

The king’s astronomer is as skilled as any of the European scientists in understanding the movement of the stars and the planets, and he can also identify a favourable date for any venture depending on which planet is in the ascendancy. He treads a difficult course between describing the known and observable movement of the heavens, which is philosophy, and the art of fortune-telling, which is illegal. To suggest that the king might be ill or injured is treason, so anything he sees or foresees has to be described with extreme caution. But Nicholas Kratzer has drawn charts for the king many times before, and knows how to phrase his warnings and advice to stay inside the law.

Henry tucks my hand under his elbow and leans on his page on the other side as we walk to his privy chamber. Behind us come the rest of the court, the king’s noblemen and my ladies. Somewhere among them is Thomas Seymour; I don’t glance round. I think that God will hold me to my resolution. I will not glance round.

We walk through the presence chamber and most of the court wait there, only a few of us going inwards to the privy chamber, where a great table has been pulled into the centre of the room, spread with charts weighted down with little astrological symbols made of gold. Nicholas Kratzer, his blue eyes twinkling, is waiting for us, holding a long pointer in one hand and rolling a couple of the little gold figures in the other. He bows low when he sees us and then waits for the king to command him.

‘Good, I see you are prepared. I am come to listen to you. Tell me what you think.’ The king approaches the table and leans heavily on it.

‘Am I right in thinking that you are in alliance with Spain for this war against France?’ the astronomer asks.

Henry nods.

‘Even I know that!’ Will Somers interrupts from under the table. ‘If that’s a prediction I could have done it myself. And I could have found it in the bottom of a mug of ale in any taproom outside the Tower. I don’t need to look at stars. Just give me the price of a jug of ale and I’ll make another prediction.’

The astronomer smiles at the king, not at all disturbed by the Fool. Behind us I see that a few of the courtiers have come in. Thomas is not among them. The door shuts. Perhaps he is waiting outside in the presence chamber, perhaps he has gone to his own rooms or to the stables to see his horses. I suppose that he is avoiding me for our safety. I wish I could be sure of that. I cannot help but fear that he has lost his desire for me, and that he is keeping out of my way to spare us both the embarrassment of a love that is dead and gone.

‘So I shall show you first the chart of the Emperor of Spain, your ally,’ Nicholas Kratzer says. He draws one chart forward and shows how the emperor’s fortune is coming into the ascendancy this autumn.

‘And here is the chart for the French king.’

There is a murmur of interest as the chart shows clearly that Francis of France is moving into a time of weakness and disorganisation.

‘This is promising,’ Henry says, pleased. He glances at me. ‘Don’t you think so?’

I was not listening, but now I look alert and interested. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘And this is a chart for Your Majesty.’ Nicholas Kratzer points to the most complex chart of them all. The signs for Mars: the dogs of war, the spear, the arrow, the tower, are all drawn and beautifully coloured around the king’s chart.

‘See that?’ The king nudges me. ‘Warlike, isn’t it?’

‘Mars is rising in your house,’ the astronomer says. ‘I have seldom seen more puissance in any man.’

‘Yes, yes.’ The king approves. ‘I knew it. You see it in the stars?’

‘Absolutely. But therein lies the danger—’

‘What danger?’

‘The symbol for Mars is also the symbol for pain, for heat in the blood, pain in the legs. I fear for Your Majesty’s health.’

There is a muted murmur of agreement. We all fear for the king’s health. He thinks he can ride to war like a boy when he cannot even walk to dinner without support on either side.

‘I’m better,’ the king says flatly.

The astronomer nods. ‘Certainly the auguries are good for you,’ he says. ‘If the physicians can keep the heat from your old wound. But, Your Majesty, remember it was a weapon’s wound, and like a war wound it waxes and wanes with Mars.’

‘Then it is bound to trouble me a little when I go to war,’ the king says stoutly. ‘By your own reading, Astronomer. By your own signs.’

I give him a little smile. The king’s stubborn courage is one of the finest things about him.

The astronomer bows. ‘That would certainly be my reading of the chart.’

‘And shall we get as far as Paris?’

This is a dangerous question. The court, the whole country, is anxious that the king shall not attempt to go too deep into France. But nobody dares to tell him so.

‘You shall go as far as you wish,’ the astronomer says cleverly. ‘A general such as yourself, who has fought over this very ground before, shall be the best one to judge what should be attempted when you see the opposition, the ground, the weather, the temper of your men. I would advise that you don’t overreach what your army can do. But what might a king such as you do with them? Not even the stars can answer that.’

The king is pleased. He nods to his page, who gives Master Kratzer a heavy purse. Everyone tries not to look at it and estimate its worth.

‘And what of Venus?’ the king asks with heavy humour. ‘What of my love for the queen?’

I am so glad that Thomas is not in the room, hearing this. Whatever he thinks of me now I would not have him see the king rest his heavy hand on my shoulder, and stroke my neck as if I am his mare, his hound. I would not want Thomas Seymour to see the king lick his little lips and my tolerant smile.

‘The queen was born for happiness,’ Kratzer states.

I turn to him in surprise. I’ve never thought such a thing. I was raised to assist my family to greatness, perhaps God has called me to help England stay true to the reformed faith, but I never thought I was born for happiness. My life was never planned with my happiness as its goal. ‘D’you think so?’

He nods. ‘I looked at the stars at the time of your birth,’ he says. ‘And it was clear to me that you would marry several times and find happiness at the end.’

‘You saw that?’

‘He saw true happiness in your third marriage,’ the king explains.

I show him my prettiest smile. ‘Anyone can see happiness in it.’

‘Again,’ Will intones wearily from under the table, ‘I could have predicted all of this, and then I could have had that heavy purse. Are we now to observe that the divine Katerina is happy?’

‘Kick him,’ Henry advises me, and the court laughs when I pretend to swing a foot and Will bounds out, howling like a dog and holding his buttocks.

‘The queen was destined to marry for love,’ Kratzer says as Will limps to the side of the room. ‘In spirit, and in person, she is formed and destined to love deeply and well.’ He looks solemn. ‘And alas, I think she will pay a great price for her love.’

‘You mean that she has had to take great office, she has to undertake great duties for her love?’ the king asks gently.

The astronomer frowns slightly. ‘I am afraid that love may lead her into grave danger.’

‘She is Queen of England for love of her husband,’ Henry says. ‘That is the greatest and the most dangerous place for any woman in the country. Everyone envies her, and our enemies would see her humbled. But my love for her, and my power, will defend her.’

There is a silence as many people are genuinely moved by the king’s words of devotion. He takes my hand to his mouth and kisses it and I too am deeply touched that he should love me, and declare it so publicly. Then some sycophantic courtier exclaims, ‘Hurrah!’ and the moment is broken. The king opens his arms to me and I step into his warm embrace, and as his big fat head comes down I press my lips to his damp cheek. He lets me go and I turn away from the table and the astronomer. Nan is at my side.

‘Ask the king’s astronomer to draw my chart and bring it when I send for him,’ I say to her. ‘Tell him to keep it private and discuss it with no-one but me.’

‘Are you interested in the love or the danger?’ she asks sharply.

I look at her blandly. ‘Oh, in both, I suppose.’

The astronomer’s predictions convince the king that he should start for France while Mars is high in his chart. The physicians strap up his wound and give him drugs that ease the pain and keep him as elated as a young man drunk at his first joust. The Privy Council surrenders to the king’s enthusiasm and comes to Whitehall Palace to see him set sail in the royal barge to go down-river to Gravesend, and from there to ride to Dover. He will cross the Narrow Seas to meet the Spanish emperor and decide on the pincer attack of their two armies on Paris.

The king’s rooms at Whitehall are filled with maps and lists of equipment that need to be assembled and the goods that must be sent out after him. Already, the army in France is complaining that they have not enough powder and shot; already we are robbing the Scots border forces to supply the invasion of France. Once a day, every day without fail, the king remarks that the only man who could organise a war was Cardinal Wolsey and that the people who tormented that great almoner should go down to hell themselves for robbing England of such a treasure. Sometimes he stumbles on the name and curses everyone for robbing him of Thomas Cromwell. It makes us all oddly uneasy, as if the red-robed cardinal might be summoned from the grave by his old master’s need, the fur-robed councillor come quietly behind him; as if the king can recall the beheaded and press them into service once again.

My ladies and I are all sewing standards and rolling strips of linen for bandages. I am embroidering the king’s thick jacket with Tudor roses and gold fleurs-de-lys when the door opens and half a dozen noblemen walk in with Thomas Seymour at their head, his handsome face quite impassive.

I realise that I am staring at him completely aghast, my needle suspended. He has not looked at me since we parted as lovers, at dawn more than a year ago, and we swore then that we would never again speak to each other, nor seek each other out. My sense of being called by God has failed to dilute my passion for him though I prayed that it would. I never enter a room without searching for his face. I never see him dance with one of my ladies without hating her for his hand on her waist, for the attentive tilt of his head, for her sluttish flushed face. I never look for him at dinner but somehow he is always at the corner of my eye. Outwardly I am pale and grave; inside, I burn up for him. I wait to see him every day, at Mass, at breakfast, at the hunt. I make sure that no-one ever sees me notice him. No-one can ever tell that I am acutely, passionately aware when he is in the room, bowing to me, or walking across the chamber, or that he has thrown himself casually onto a bench at the window and is talking quietly with Mary Howard. Morning and evening, breakfast and dinner, I keep my face completely impassive as my eyes glide over his dark head and then I look away as if I have not seen him at all.