The Taming of the Queen (30 page)

Anthony Denny looks up and exchanges a glance with Doctor William Butts. They all wait to see if I can calm the king. I am their only hope. I go very close to him and put my hand against his hot damp face.

‘My love,’ I say. ‘You’re not alone. I love you, the country adores you. This is terrible, I am so sorry.’

‘I have heard this very night from Portsmouth, from Portsmouth, madam. Tom Seymour set sail into the worst storm they have seen for years and is likely to be lost. And all my ships lost with him.’

I don’t flinch, I don’t even close my eyes though I feel a great pulse in the core of my body, as if I am wounded, actually bleeding inside; but I remain steadily smiling down at his furious face, my hand against his burning cheek. ‘God save them for England,’ I say. ‘God save all of them in peril on the sea.’

‘God save my ships!’ he bellows. ‘D’you have any idea how much it costs me to build and equip a ship? And then Tom gets one of his brilliant ideas and throws away the fleet on a hopeless venture! Drowns himself in the process.’

‘He is drowned? The fleet is lost?’ My voice is steady but I can feel my temples pulse with pain.

‘No, no, Your Majesty, it’s not that bad yet. We have no news for certain.’ Denny steps forward and addresses the king. ‘We know there is a storm and that some ships are missing, the admiral’s ship among them, but we have no more news than that. It might all be well.’

‘How can it be well when they are sinking like stones?’ Henry shouts.

We are all silent. Nobody can do anything with the king when he is in such a rage, and nobody dares to try. My hands are trembling but so too is Denny. I think: surely I would know if he were dead? Surely I would simply know it – if he were rolling with the tide, his dark hair floating from his white face, his boots slowly filling with water and taking him down to the seabed? Surely God would have more mercy than to let a sinner like me, a sinner like him, be parted without one word of love?

‘The admiral’s ship is lost?’ I ask Denny quietly as Doctor Butts steps forward with a draught in a small glass. Wordlessly he presses it into the king’s hand, which is clenched on the arm of his chair, and wordlessly we watch as Henry downs it in one great gulp. After silent moments we see his grip ease on the chair, the terrible scowl ironed from his forehead. He heaves a great sigh.

‘I suppose you are not at fault,’ he says begrudgingly to me.

I manage a smile. ‘I think not,’ I say.

He rubs his damp face against my hand like a sick dog seeking a caress. I bend and kiss his cheek. He puts his hand on my tightly laced back and, out of sight of the court, slides it down to clench my buttock. ‘You are distressed,’ he states.

‘For you,’ I say firmly. ‘Of course.’

‘Very good. So go to dinner and come back to me when you are in a quieter frame of mind. Come back when you have dined.’

I curtsey and go to the doorway. Anthony Denny, now Sir Anthony Denny since his knighthood at Boulogne, steps out with me.

‘Are many men lost?’ I ask him quietly.

‘They set out and got scattered, and then they had to run before a storm, but more than that we don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s in God’s hands.’

‘The admiral’s ship?’

‘We don’t know. Pray God that we get news soon and that the king is not further distressed.’

Of course, that is the most important thing to Sir Anthony. The lives of the sailors, the bright courage of Thomas, matter little – to him, to all of us – compared to the king’s temper. I bow my head. ‘Amen.’

I pray for him; it is all I can do. I pray for his safety and I listen to the king complain of his failure, of his stupidity, of his recklessness, while I pray that he is alive, that he has survived the storm, that somewhere out on the Narrow Seas he is scanning the horizon for a break in the dark clouds and watching the reefed-in sails for the slackening of the gale.

Then we get news from Portsmouth that the fleet has limped into port, one at a time, sails ripped and masts torn down, and that some vessels are still missing. The admiral’s ship comes in with its mainmast broken but Thomas is standing, wrapped in his sea cape, in the stern. Thomas has returned, Thomas is safe. There is joy at court that he is alive – his brother, Edward, runs to the chapel to fall on his knees to thank God for sparing his most brilliant kinsman – but the king does not share it, and nobody dares to voice it before him. On the contrary, he repeats his complaints that Thomas is a fool, a fearless fool, and that he has destroyed the king’s trust and been false to his appointment. The king mutters that it is probably treason, that it is a matter for a trial, a man so reckless with the king’s fortune and forces is as bad as a traitor, worse than a traitor. That since God did not drown him it falls to the king to behead him.

I pray in silence. There can be no thanksgiving Mass from me for the survival of the admiral. I don’t say one word in his defence. Only once do I think, madly, of asking his sister-in-law Anne to write in her own name, never mentioning me, and warn him to come to court at once, before the king argues himself into a greater rage, and arrests Thomas for the crime of bad weather. But I dare not. She may share my interest in the new religion, she may be sworn to my service, but she is no great friend of mine; her devotion to the Seymour family comes before everything else. She has never been a friend to Thomas for his own sake. Foolishly, her passionate devotion to her husband makes her jealous of everyone else in his life. She eyes Thomas with suspicion for his charm and his ease at court. She is afraid that people prefer him to her husband – and she is right. Her only praise for any single member of her husband’s family is reserved for his dead sister Jane, Queen Jane, the mother of Prince Edward, and she mentions her before the king whenever she can: ‘my sister Jane’, ‘sainted Jane’, conveniently dead Jane.

So I dare say and do nothing, not even when the king limps painfully into my rooms to sit with me to watch my ladies dancing, or to listen to me read. Not even when he comes in with a chart of the south coast and the endangered ports under his arm as I am pouring water into a shallow dish for my favourite pair of canaries to take a bath, warmed by the sunshine that streams in the window.

‘Take care! Will they fly away?’

‘They come to my hand.’

‘Won’t they drown themselves?’ he asks irritably.

They duck their bright heads in the water and flutter their wings, I step back laughing as they splash. ‘No, they like to take a bath.’

‘They’re not ducks,’ he observes.

‘No, lord husband. But they seem to enjoy water.’

He watches for a moment. ‘I suppose they are pretty things.’

‘I love them dearly, they are so bright and quick, you would almost think that they understand.’

‘Just like courtiers,’ he says grimly.

I laugh. ‘Do you have a map there, my lord?’

He gestures with it. ‘I am on my way to meet with the Privy Council,’ he says. ‘We have to repair every castle at every Southern port. We will have to build new ones. The French are coming, and Thomas Seymour has failed to stop them.’

He snaps his fingers for his page who is waiting in the doorway. The youth comes forward and takes the king’s weight on his shoulder. ‘I will leave you to your amusements. You did not have sunny mornings and little birds when you were married to old Latimer.’

‘Indeed, I did not.’ I am thinking desperately how to ask him about Thomas. ‘Are we in danger, lord husband?’

‘Of course we are, and it’s all his fault. I shall command the Privy Council to try Tom Seymour for treason for the reckless loss of my fleet.’

The cock bird flutters to the top of one of the cages, alarmed by the king’s rough tone, so I am able to turn my face away and say lightly: ‘Surely he cannot be guilty of treason? He has been such a good and loyal servant to you, and you have always loved him.’

‘I’ll have that handsome head on a spike,’ he says with sudden cold violence. ‘Would you take a wager on it?’ and he goes out of the door.

Silently, like a ghost, I make my way to the king’s side of the old palace. Nobody is with me. I told my ladies that I had a headache and would lie down and sleep, then I slipped from my bedroom to make my way to the king’s rooms, through the small winding galleries to the secret door into his bedroom, then through his deserted privy chambers to his inner presence chamber where the Privy Council meet. It is like my dream, creeping about on my own, seen by no-one. I could be climbing a dark stair, in a silent tower. It is like my dream in the quiet rooms with no-one here. There is no guard on the door between the inner presence chamber and the empty rooms. I can stand outside the door and listen to what they say. I swear to myself that if I hear them say that they will arrest Thomas I will send a message to warn him, whatever the risk. I cannot stand by, struck dumb with fear, when the king takes bets about putting his head on a spike on London Bridge.

His brother, Edward, speaks up for him. I can hear him reading aloud from a letter Thomas has sent defending himself. Edward’s voice is clear and I can make out every word through the thick door.

‘And look here,’ Edward says. ‘Let me read you this, Your Majesty. Thomas writes:

‘Oh, he writes a good letter,’ Henry grumbles. ‘Nobody ever said he was lacking in charm. But how many ships are missing?’

‘It is the mischance of war,’ Edward replies. I hear the crackle of the paper as he slides the letter across the table for the king to read. ‘Nobody knows better than Your Majesty the dangers a man may run when he goes to war. You, who have sailed to France in the most hazardous weather! Thomas is lucky to report to a king who knows better than any other in Christendom what dangers a brave man has to face. You have been in terrible danger, Your Majesty. You know how a man of courage has to throw the dice and hope that it falls his way. It is the very essence of chivalry – the chivalry that you love so well – that a man takes his life in his hands to serve you.’

‘He was reckless,’ the king says flatly.

‘In a season of storms,’ I hear the old Duke of Norfolk Thomas Howard’s rumbling complaint. ‘Madness to go out! Why could he not wait for spring, as we always do? Typical of a Seymour that he thought he could outrun an autumn wind.’

‘The coast has to be defended against the French,’ John Dudley intervenes. ‘And the French are not waiting for fair weather. He couldn’t risk leaving our fleet in port. What if they had attacked? He writes that their barges can bombard from a distance, they can go among moored ships with or without wind. They carry weapons, they are rowed by their crew and they can make war in any season in any water. He had to destroy them before they invaded us.’

I hear the king’s thick hacking cough and his juicy hawk and spit. ‘You all seem satisfied with his conduct,’ he says grudgingly.

I hear a protesting bark from Henry Howard.

‘All except the Howards and their party,’ the king says grimly. ‘As usual.’

‘Certainly there was no deliberate attempt to risk the fleet,’ someone points out.

‘Well, I am not satisfied,’ says Stephen Gardiner. ‘Clearly he has been reckless. Clearly, he should be punished.’

‘Easy to say from a warm fireside,’ Edward mutters.

I hold my breath. Thomas’ popularity with the court is playing in his favour, and besides, everybody knows that he is risking his life at sea while they are dry-shod.

‘He can keep his commission,’ Henry decides. ‘Make sure you tell him I am most displeased. He must come and report to me himself.’

I hear the scrape of his chair and the rustle of the strewing herbs as he struggles to rise and the Privy Council jump to their feet and two of them go to help him. At once I tiptoe, silently in my leather slippers, away from the door, through the inner privy chamber, and I am about to run through the king’s bedroom when I freeze in sudden terror.