Boleyn Traitor, page 26
‘She can do no more than she does,’ I say flatly. ‘She greets him with pleasure every time she sees him; she’s learning English as fast as she can; she’s learning the dances; she’s learning our entertainments. If he comes again in disguise, she knows to act falling in love with him. She’s changed her clothes to French fashions. She rides like a centaur, and she has the patience of a saint. What more d’you want of her?’
‘I want her to be like Kitty Howard!’ he exclaims as if it is forced out of him. He immediately drops to a whisper. ‘I want her to flirt.’
‘Kitty Howard was born a flirt and raised a flirt. If the king had married her, you’d have an inquiry into her lovers in the first year.’
‘She has lovers?’ he demands, alert to any Howard weakness.
‘God only knows what her step-grandmother the dowager duchess allowed in Norfolk House,’ I say. ‘She’s already in love with three different courtiers. Currently, it’s Thomas Culpeper – the king’s new favourite.’
Cromwell grins with genuine amusement. ‘How will she take the king’s eye if she’s courting with the groom of the bedchamber?’
‘She’s a Howard girl,’ I say shrewdly. ‘She can do both.’
Whitehall Palace, February
1540
IN FEBRUARY, I FIND boxes in the Howard hall and my uncle’s travelling cape thrown over them.
‘You’re going away, my lord?’ I ask, curtseying to him.
‘To France,’ he says. ‘To persuade Francis of France that whoever our king marries, even if his bride is a Lutheran, we are still their friend – and a better friend than they’ll find in Spain.’
‘God speed,’ I say piously.
The duke takes my elbow in a hard grip. ‘You can tell your patron, Thomas Cromwell, that if I can turn the King of France back to our side, then we won’t need friendship with Cleves, nor with any paltry German princes, nor with any whining Lutherans. And if we’re not bound to them, we can be rid of the heretic queen and – more – we can say a fond farewell to the fool who made the marriage!’
I stand stock-still, and he releases me.
‘Not if she conceives a child,’ I say, to test his knowledge.
The scowl from under his craggy eyebrows tells me that he doesn’t know the king’s failure. Kitty Howard has not reported to our uncle; the queen’s secret is still safe. I rather like Kitty for this unexpected loyalty to her queen.
‘When pigs fly with their tails forward,’ he says; but he is bluffing.
‘He comes to her bed every night.’
‘He complains she’s not inviting,’ he says uncertainly.
‘A king doesn’t need invitation. No man in England is more potent than him.’
My husband died at the hands of this man, for questioning the king’s potency. ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘We all know that.’
KITTY HOWARD AND I are supposed to be laying out the queen’s evening gown; but she is prancing about with a cape over her shoulders instead of spreading it out on the chest.
‘I’m glad you don’t tell your uncle all the secrets of the queen’s bedchamber,’ I remark. ‘Take that off, child.’
‘How d’you know that?’ she asks wonderingly. ‘Do you know everything that happens everywhere, your ladyship?’
‘Yes,’ I say, laughing. ‘I am the she-pope, all-seeing and all-knowing.’
‘But you are terribly clever, aren’t you?’ she asks engagingly. ‘I mean, you read all the time, and you can understand Latin and everything.’
‘You could understand Latin,’ I say. ‘I could teach you?’
She makes a pretty little pout. ‘I don’t need to know Latin,’ she says. ‘I have enough trouble reading and writing.’ She looks shyly at me. ‘But could you advise me about my money?’
None of the maids can resist buying ribbons and jewels with their salaries; they are always in debt. ‘I can try,’ I say.
‘I have a hundred pounds in coin, and I don’t know where to keep it safely,’ she says. ‘It’s not mine, or I’d just spend it. I’ve promised to keep it: but where?’
‘A hundred pounds? That’s a fortune. Where did you get it from?’
She looks both embarrassed and defiant. ‘My young man – a young man of my acquaintance – left England and gave it to me for safekeeping until he returns.’
‘Is it stolen?’
‘Oh no! Well, at least not a robbery?’
‘He’s cheated someone out of it?’ I hesitate. ‘It’s not counterfeit money, is it?’
‘No …’ She wriggles like a child at the question. ‘I don’t know for sure. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think. I think it may be … I think it is profit from his work.’
‘That’s very profitable work,’ I comment acidly. ‘And a lot of money for a young man to trust to a friend. Are you betrothed, that he should give you his life savings?’
‘Oh no!’ She laughs, blushes, and then catches at my hands. ‘Oh, don’t ask me! You know what it’s like, when you’re first in love – you make all sorts of promises, and you do all sorts of things! But now I’m come to court, I see that it was nothing serious. He means nothing to me now that I’ve met young noblemen. Fancy giving me money but not for spending! Saying he may never come back!’
‘You’d better give it to me, and I will keep it in my treasure chest in my room. It’ll be safe there. If he comes back, you can tell me, and I’ll return it to him myself. That way, you’re not obliged to him, nor him to you. And if he doesn’t come back, then I’ll return it to you and we’ll say no more about it. As long as you’re sure it’s not stolen, Kitty? What work did he do to earn such a fortune?’
‘He was a purveyor for my grandmother’s household at Lambeth,’ she says airily. ‘So you can see, I would never have been betrothed to a young man like that.’
‘Indeed not,’ I say. ‘He’s far beneath you, and our family would never have consented. But at any rate, we can see how he made his profit: he stole from the dowager duchess.’
She looks stricken. ‘I suppose he must have done,’ she says. ‘I thought he was wonderful when I lived there. But now I have come to court and seen gentlemen like Master Culp—’ She breaks off.
‘There are many handsome gentlemen and noblemen at court,’ I say severely. ‘Far better suited for you than your grandmother’s purveyor. But there are rogues and tricksters at court, as at Norfolk House. You must take care, Katheryn. You’ll have to marry where you’re ordered, not where you like. You’re the daughter of a great house. Our good name is your name. You must carry it with pride.’
‘Oh, I do!’ She widens her hazel eyes; she is completely unconvincing. ‘I really do.’
‘Did the duchess or your uncle promise you a great marriage?’ I ask curiously. ‘Did they tell you what to say when the king came in disguised at Rochester?’
She gives a little giggle. ‘Over and over again! They tried it out a dozen different ways. They rehearsed it like a masque until I knew exactly what to do. But it was easy – the king is such a sweet old man, and old men always like me.’
‘You can’t allow any favours,’ I warn her. ‘Not to old lords any more than young ones.’
‘Oh no!’ she says. ‘My grandmother is very strict. She says I may be surprised at my good fortune if I can stop myself behaving like a slut.’
‘Good advice,’ I say. ‘Though rather blunt. But you do that.’
Westminster Palace, Spring
1540
LORD CROMWELL SUMMONS me to his grand rooms in a tower of the Palace of Westminster. The secret of the queen’s cold bed has got out but not from us. The king has betrayed his own secrets. He has chosen to tell his friends that he is impotent with her – the most extraordinary self-shaming. No man at this court of boisterous cavaliers and seducers would ever admit to such a weakness. But the king has done so. He is so desperate to tell the world that he doesn’t like her, that he is ready to call himself unmanned, to say himself what it is illegal for us to say: that he is impotent.
I find my spymaster gazing down from his window at the little garden below his tower. Daffodils dance at the foot of a tree of springing green; a blackbird is singing in a ripple of notes. I don’t think I have ever seen him idle before. I close the heavy wooden door and take a seat.
His counting-house books are one end of the table: he uses the Italian double-entry system, counting what goes out of his purse as well as what comes in and calculates his wealth by comparing the two of them. The old lords, my uncle among them, only count income: rents, fees, gifts, bribes, and pensions and hope they are spending no more than last year. If their steward tells them that the stocks are running low in their treasure room, they increase the rents or sell land or get a loan. I never knew until I worked for Lord Cromwell that it was possible to know to a penny what I was worth. From him, I have learned to calculate my treasure chest, the rents from my new lands, and the cost of running my house at Blickling. And – more importantly – I account for my own life: ambition against defeat, advancement against being dropped. I double-entry my power and influence and watch my value rise.
‘The king says her body is slack with use.’ Lord Cromwell turns from the view to scowl at me. ‘He says her belly is fat, like a woman who has given birth, her breasts hanging down like a woman who has given suck.’
My courtier mask falls from my face in my amazement. ‘She’s a virgin of twenty-four years old! Her breasts are plump and high; her belly is round and firm. Susannah Hornebolt could paint her as Beauty.’
He snorts. ‘Holbein painted her as a beauty; that’s why she’s here.’
‘Does the king complain to Master Holbein?’
He shrugs away the question. ‘He says she stinks.’
Lord Cromwell knows as well as I do that the king suffers from constipation and purging that brings on stinking farts, and the sore on his leg oozes a noisome pus. The grooms of his chamber and Dr Butts change the bandages three times a day, but still the reek goes with him everywhere. We all carry pomanders for when he is close, and we launder the queen’s sheets every day to be rid of the familiar stench of king.
‘D’you deny it?’ he demands.
I give him a long level look. ‘Obviously, she doesn’t smell.’
‘Then he must be suffering from a delusion,’ Cromwell says, pleased, as if this is a good answer. ‘He must have been bewitched. Someone has put a spell on the king to make him find his Lutheran wife displeasing. Who would do such a wicked thing as that?’
‘Bewitched?’ I repeat slowly, as I take in a new move.
My spymaster tuts at my slowness. ‘Jane, please. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that the king has been bewitched so badly that he is unmanned.’
‘We can say unmanned?’
‘For the sake of argument.’
‘Petitio principii? We agree a false supposition and then we try to prove it?’
‘As scholars,’ he says. ‘Let’s proceed by logic and never mind about truth for a moment. Say someone is discouraging him from bedding the queen – who would do such a thing?’
I restore my courtier face and join the masque of false accusation. ‘All the Papists, the Spanish party, the French party?’
‘She, herself?’
‘Why would the queen cast a spell to make him impotent?’
‘Out of disgust, to avoid him. Or to speed his death so she can be dowager queen? She has ambitions. She wants to be a regent queen?’
I don’t answer; it is too ridiculous. I shake my head.
‘Well, put that to one side for now. Someone else? Any family putting a pretty girl forward to take her place? Who’s new to court?’
‘Catherine Carey – Mary Boleyn’s daughter – as pretty as her mother; but she’s the king’s niece, perhaps even his daughter. He likes Kateryn Parr, visiting her sister Anne; but she’s married to Lord Latimer. Or Mary Norris – the daughter of – er – Henry …’ I break off. ‘But his favourite by a country mile is Katheryn Howard?’
‘No, I can’t name a Howard girl for witchcraft,’ he says briskly. ‘Thomas Howard’s star is rising since he killed so many rebels at such speed. If he comes back from France with an alliance, he’ll be unassailable.’
‘No, my lord,’ I say primly. ‘You can’t name a Howard girl, nor any innocent girl for witchcraft, because it would be her death – and none of the maids-of-honour or ladies-in-waiting are guilty of being anything but silly and flirtatious. No one is casting spells.’
‘Agreed, but – just for the exercise, remember! – let us assume that someone is casting spells. Never mind who.’ He slaps his hand on the table and startles me. I’ve never known him less than courteous. ‘For the sake of an argument, Jane.’
‘As you wish – as a “useful fallacy”.’ I pause to consider the holes in this confection. ‘But my lord – who is left? Gertrude Courtenay and Geoffrey Pole are released and terrified into obedience? And if Lady Margaret Pole can summon a witch from the Tower, then the keeper of the Tower is dangerously at fault.’ I pause. ‘And that’s you, my lord.’
He gives his familiar little snort of laughter. ‘All right. Not her. What about Lady Mary?’
‘Nobody would ever believe that Lady Mary would instruct a witch,’ I say flatly.
‘Then it’s got to be the Lisles. Lady Lisle with her pretty daughter Anne Basset at court, working her wiles on the king to replace the Lutheran queen. Anne Basset as their favourite horse in the race, Arthur, Lord Lisle, betraying Calais to the Papists – that might even be true. And the Lisle family are of the old royal family, Plantagenets, founder and key members of the Spanish party … and kin to Lord Hungerford!’ he finishes with a flourish.
‘What’s Lord Hungerford to do with it?’
‘His wife has evidence that he’s a traitor and a Papist! And he hired a witch – name of Mother Roache – to predict the end of the Tudors. There’s your witch: Mother Roache. There’s your motive: a Papist plot. There’s your guilty party: the Spanish party, old royals, Plantagenets and Hungerford. There’s their candidate for queen: Anne Basset – and therefore your conspiracy!’
‘It hangs together as an argument; but it’d never stand up in a trial. Nobody would believe that Lord Lisle and his lady are anything but loyal, and she’s far too grand to have anything to do with a drunk like Hungerford and some grubby hedge-witch. Even if anyone can be brought to believe that Lord Hungerford hired a witch in the first place.’
‘Oh, that bit’s true,’ Cromwell assures me. ‘I’ve got sworn evidence from Eliza Hungerford. She wants a divorce, and she’ll say anything to be rid of him. But you’re right: it won’t go to trial – I’d do it with a writ of attainder. I’d just tell the Houses of Parliament that he’s guilty and get a death warrant. Trials are uncontrollable; defendants say too much. I won’t use a trial again.’
I pause at that. ‘You do remember that a fair trial is the right of all Englishmen – won by the barons in the Magna Carta? What will we become, without justice in England?’
He touches my hand, gently, almost apologetically. ‘We’ll become a good tyranny, run by godly men. It’s the best way to rule; it’s the most efficient.’
We are silent for a moment; his fingers are warm on the back of my hand.
‘And anyway,’ he says softly, ‘what else but witchcraft could cause His Majesty to fall impotent?’
He dares me to say that the king’s grossness, his drunkenness, and his superstitious fear of sin stands between him and normal, healthy lust. I don’t even think of love. He has no ability to love. I think he lost it when he exiled Katherine of Aragon, the love of his life.
‘Well then,’ Lord Cromwell says, taking silence for agreement – as tyrants do. ‘So you see. I solve the mystery of the king’s impotence. He’s been bewitched by Lord Hungerford in conspiracy with the Plantagenets, to turn him against the Lutheran queen and replace her with one of their own. Conveniently, in one stroke, I am rid of Lord Hungerford, his wife Elizabeth is rid of Lord Hungerford, and we reformers are rid of the Lisles and the last redoubt of the Spanish party. It’s neat, isn’t it, Jane?’
‘It’s neat,’ I say. ‘But what if you kill everyone and the king is not restored to vigour? What if you execute Lord Hungerford and the poor old witch, Lord Lisle and his affinity – and the king still doesn’t bed his wife? Still doesn’t want her as his wife?’
He nods gravely. ‘Yes, that’s true, Jane. You’re right. The work is half-done. The king can’t have a wife who does not incite him. We’ll have to get rid of her. Behind the plot, there is the queen – unmanning him.’
I am horrified. This is worse than accusing innocent ladies-in-waiting. ‘No, no, my lord. You really can’t say that. You can’t accuse her of witchcraft. Even a whisper of it would be her ruin.’
He shrugs. ‘What can I do? If the king does not want the marriage, it has to be dissolved, one way or another.’
‘Yes! I understand!’ I am desperate that she is not smeared with a witchcraft accusation. ‘But he can annul it? He’s Head of the Church?’
He smiles at me. ‘Wouldn’t that be tyranny?’ He stops teasing when he sees the fear in my face. ‘Oh, very well, it can be done! If you insist on it – for argument’s sake. We can say that her childhood betrothal still stands, that God spoke to the king at the altar, so he did not consent in his heart and did not consummate his marriage. And as it is not consummated, it’s easily annulled. How’s that?’ He looks at me with an air of triumph.
‘Prior contract again?’ I ask incredulously. ‘Is Queen Anne to be the third royal bride that was married before? Isn’t that rather a lot?’
‘Would you prefer that we go down the Papist and witchcraft route so that Lord Lisle dies, Lord Hungerford dies, his priest and his physician and Mother Roche die on the common scaffold, and even poor old Lady Margaret Pole? And all their evidence leads to the queen as master-planner and witch?’
‘Nobody would believe the queen is a witch.’
