Boleyn Traitor, page 43
She is rightly proud of her house, built in the modern fashion with soaring gables and high chimneys. I take it that Lord Russell has been given a brickyard among his other rewards, for the house is a palace with great gable ends of red-brick triangles without windows, like a fairytale castle. She takes us to the beautiful pavilion in the garden, where we have views over the parkland, newly enclosed for hunting and stuffed with deer, should the king choose to shoot at them as they are driven towards him. While the king rests in his rooms and complains to Lord Russell about the Scots king, who is poisoning his mind as his ulcer poisons his body, Lady Russell has wine and sugarplums served to Kitty and tells us the gossip from London.
The Ottoman army has reached Budapest, and I think this must be a benefit to England, as the Christian princes will want England to join a war against the infidel at the very gates of Christendom. An appeal from Spain and France will take the king’s mind off the insult from the Scots. But I have no one to discuss this with, my thinking hobbled by the company of ladies whose only concern is what this invasion will do to the price of soaps and silks. The only other person who might think strategically – Lady Mary – will not hear a word of criticism against Spain. She greets Lady Russell with particular affection. Her ladyship was in her Lady Mary’s household when she was a princess, before it was diminished. They are both extremely careful to show the greatest respect to Kitty.
Lady Russell takes us up to our rooms, and I see that the royal guest rooms have a picture gallery running between the king’s side and the queen’s rooms, where the lovers might meet. We dine in the great hall, and there is music after dinner, conversation and singing; but the king orders there is to be no dancing. He sits with his leg propped on a stool, and even from a distance, we can smell the oozing ulcer, which has opened up again. He is a man rotting before he is in the grave, and when he calls for more wine and more pastries, I think he is a man knowingly destroying his own body, as he destroys everything around him.
Lord Russell makes the mistake of telling the king that thieves have been caught at Windsor Castle. The king bursts out in an extraordinary fury that the two poor men must be charged with treason and hanged for treason, because stealing from a king is an attack on his greatness. This is not thieving, this is treason, high treason, the men must be hanged, cut down while they are alive, their bellies slit and their guts drawn out. Lord Russell – who has sat on more than one treason trial, including the death of my husband – is not a squeamish man; but even he murmurs that since the king was at York at the time of the burglary, it was no attack on him personally, nor on His Majesty.
‘Don’t speak to me of York!’ the king screams. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me of York! It’s treason, too! That’s treason to say it!’
All the musicians fall silent; the chorister warbles a note and then waits, open-mouthed. For a moment, I think: this is it! He has gone full-moon mad, and what are we going to do? We cannot overthrow him; we cannot disobey him. We have raised him all-powerful, and now he is beyond restraint, and none of us are safe. If you make a madman a despot, what are you to do when he goes insane?
‘Your Majesty …’ Lord Russell says helplessly.
The king waves furiously at Thomas Culpeper and Thomas Seymour, and they rush to his side, haul him to his feet and, half-dragging, half-lifting, get him out of the room.
Lord Russell, white with shock, turns to Kitty. ‘I am so sorry, I did not mean to offend …’ he starts.
Kitty is as frightened as a choirboy; she is open-mouthed like him.
‘No offence was intended,’ Lady Russell intervenes, smiling at the queen and at Lady Mary. ‘No doubt the king is weary from his long ride. Shall we all take our leave, Your Majesty? Shall we say goodnight? And I shall see that the king has a late supper; some good food and wine will restore him.’
‘Yes …’ Kitty stammers. ‘Goodnight, Lady Russell, Lord Russell. Thank you for your hospitality.’
WE THINK THAT Thomas will not be able to get away, that the king will gorge himself in his bedroom and want Thomas as a bedfellow to listen to his ranting before he sleeps. But at midnight, there is a light tap on the door from the gallery, and Thomas slips into the room.
He looks grim, and she is pale and strained. They cling together like children escaping a terrifying ordeal. They say nothing for long moments, and then he pulls back and looks at her face.
‘Is he asleep?’ she asks.
‘Dead drunk,’ he replies.
They do not speak another word. He leads her to the bed, and I turn my chair so that the high back shields them and I am facing the locked bedroom door. They are quiet, a few whispered words and warm kisses; I hear her sigh with pleasure and the susurration of her nightgown being raised. I hear him make a little wordless exclamation of longing and then delight, and then I hear him sigh. They don’t swive so much as melt together, and I find that I am breathless as they are, my cheeks burning, my body yearning. It is five years since I felt a man’s touch, since I heard the quiet whisper of words of love breathed against naked skin. Five years, but even before then, I was never touched as Thomas Culpeper silently touches Kitty, and I never sighed as she does, against his shoulder, muffling a cry – just one – as she finds ecstasy.
In silence, I wait for the chime of midnight from the clock on the red-brick tower before I whisper, without rising from my chair: ‘It’s time to go.’
I hear them breathe together, as if awakened from dreaming, and when I turn my chair around they are like creatures entranced; she is tying the cords of his cape, he has his hands on her waist, drawing her to him. Her hair is tumbled down, her nightgown pulled from her shoulders, her neck rosy with the flush of desire, her eyes green as a cat’s.
‘He has to go,’ I remind them.
They are far beyond words; they cannot even say goodnight. She lifts her face to him, and he kisses her softened mouth. She clings to him as he holds her. I think I will have to peel them off each other, one tendril after another, like bindweed.
‘You really have to go,’ I tell him.
Gently, he puts her from him. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ he whispers. It is the first time I have ever heard him think beyond the present moment. They are starting to want more than the intensity of now, than the moment of intimacy – they are starting to want a future.
‘Yes, yes, I have to see you tomorrow,’ she tells him.
‘If it is safe, if it is possible,’ I say.
I take hold of his hand and draw him away. She leans back against the wooden bedpost, as if she cannot stand if he is gone. Gently, I push him out of the door and lock it behind him.
‘I love him so,’ she says simply.
Gently, I guide her back to her bed, and put her between the rumpled sheets. She turns her head till she finds the place where he laid his head and she puts her face beside it, as if to inhale the scent of him as she sleeps.
‘Goodnight,’ I say.
She cannot speak, she smiles as if she hears his voice, sees his face. I take her candle and I sit by the fire until she sleeps.
I never thought I would see a true love, a love as green as a willow, in this arid court. I thought I would steer her through the hazard of courtly life and bring her safely to widowhood, bitter, wiser, and richer. I thought that court would spoil her and enrich her. I never dreamed it might transform her into a creature as beautiful as a swan, paired for life.
I, too, am changing. I never dreamed that I would come through this cold-hearted court, through the valley of the shadow of death, to believe that love matters more than power. The love that we offer to the king is false coin. The love that he promises to one favourite after another is worthless, too. The king only loves himself, and he loves himself madly, without restraint. The court is a flock of starlings, stripping everything it can peck. But I walk through this battlefield of warring desires as if spring is greening all around me. I have lived in a deception all my life; I have never had a mouth clean of lies – but now, I believe truly. I believe in something that rings true: I believe in the redeeming power of love.
FRANCIS DEREHAM, HAVING been quiet and at peace, a discreet beggar for occasional purses, now strolls into the queen’s room while she is sitting with Lady Russell and the ladies after breakfast. The king is in too much pain to hunt, but he is taking a ride around Lord Russell’s new park on a steady horse.
‘Your Majesty,’ Francis Dereham says, with his oily smile. ‘I bring you a friend from our happy childhood, a friend from Norfolk House!’
I rise to my feet, dreading the introduction of one of the tutors, schoolmasters, or pages who seemed to have spent their time flirting with the girls, or one of the indiscreet cousins that litter Norfolk House. Kitty is watching him like a bird watches an approaching snake.
‘Oh Alice!’ she says in relief as a young woman comes in and makes a demure curtsey. ‘Alice Restwold!’ She leaps to her feet and kisses her on both cheeks. ‘How glad I am to see you! What a long time it’s been!’
She turns, smiling and pretty. ‘Lady Russell, may I introduce my friend Mistress Alice Restwold. We were brought up almost as sisters in my grandmother’s house, and I’ve not seen Alice since I left for the court!’
Yes, I think at once. So why are we seeing her now?
Lady Russell greets the young woman, who curtseys politely to her and then to the rest of us. Her manners are elegant, there is no reason to refuse her a place. I would just rather not add another pupil from that school of vanity at Lambeth.
‘You can lodge with Catherine Tilney,’ Kitty says. She looks at me. ‘She can come to London with us, can’t she, Lady Rochford?’
‘Of course,’ I say, feigning a welcome. Since the girl is introduced by Francis Dereham, he is sure to have told her that childhood friends are welcomed and will be well provisioned if they play their cards right.
Catherine Tilney takes Alice off to her room, and before dinner, Kitty gives her a pair of gowns and a couple of hoods. They are the same height and build.
‘We used to be bedfellows,’ Alice says, admiring her reflection in the queen’s long looking-glass. ‘Together night and day.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ I say repressively. ‘And Her Majesty is called to a different station now.’
‘Oh, of course,’ she says quickly, her gaze going from the new gown to my grave face, reflected over her shoulder. ‘Her secrets are safe with me!’
‘I should hope there are no secrets,’ I say firmly. ‘Nothing can be said in the king’s court that cannot be said to the king himself. And nothing can be said that would displease the king.’
‘No, no,’ she says again. ‘You can rely on me, Lady Rochford. I’m very glad to be here.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ I lie.
WE STAY AT Chenies for several days, and though Lord and Lady Russell are extravagantly generous hosts, the king’s temper scarcely improves. He is a Zeus Xenia who demands godlike hospitality for merely arriving at their door. They lay on hunting and fishing, and they lose money to him playing cards every evening; but the insult at York burns in his belly and makes him belch after every enormous meal. I can see the same strain in Lady Russell’s face that I see in my mirror every morning.
I have some sympathy for her. For her husband, Lord Russell, a couple of days of feasting and driving deer towards the king is amply rewarded by the wealth that he will skim from England as a trusted favourite. But Lady Russell, who has to supervise the household, provide the entertainment, simulate admiration and even desire for an impossible guest, it is thankless work. I see her glance at Kitty with genuine pity: she knows that to be a queen to a sick and dying king is no way to spend young womanhood.
‘D’you think she might get with child?’ she asks me. My heart plunges at the thought that for the first time, I think the answer might be ‘yes’.
‘There’s no reason why not,’ I say firmly, denying the reality of an ill-tempered, sick man who wants to be a father at fifty.
‘It’s the only thing that would make him happy,’ Lady Russell says ambiguously.
This is a woman who reported to Thomas Cromwell just as I did. She learned spy-craft from him, as I did. She knows how to hear meaning in silences, what words would fill the gaps in conversation. She can make a casual comment and note the reply – just as I do.
‘Yes, she delights him.’
‘And in the future – would she be kind to Lady Mary …?’ She lets the question trail off.
I could smile that we once thought the Spanish party was defeated and Lady Mary’s last defender dead. Yet here is another, quietly working for her. ‘The queen loves all her stepchildren,’ I lie.
‘Would she speak against a French marriage for Lady Mary?’ she whispers. ‘I know Lady Mary would rather stay in England than be sent abroad. And she would be a good stepdaughter to the queen if she could stay?’
I see, this is how it will be for me; I will be the advisor behind the throne of the widowed queen. I will keep the balance between the Spanish party for the old faith and the reform party for the new. Kitty – who could not care less either way – will be guided by me, so that we gain the most power and benefit from whichever party is on the rise.
‘Are you sure that is Lady Mary’s wish?’ I ask. ‘Did she ask you?’
She is far too well trained to name her principal. ‘We who love her must wish for her to stay in England,’ she says carefully. ‘We would not want her to go to a country like France, without friends. But I fear that some of the king’s advisors do not think of her happiness.’
‘Oh we do,’ I say reassuringly, wondering how long it will take for my words to reach Toledo. ‘The queen is the best stepmother that Lady Mary could have. If she were crowned queen, she would take Lady Mary as her first lady and most beloved daughter.’
And that’s our price for Lady Mary to stay in England! – I could almost laugh aloud. That’s your stake in this gamble! You support Kitty’s coronation, and her inheritance as dowager queen and her position as queen regent, and in return we will prevent Lady Mary’s exile now and we will see her restored to the line of succession after the prince.
Cromwell-trained, Lady Russell betrays no pleasure that we have made an agreement.
‘I am so glad the weather has been so fine for your visit,’ she says.
‘The queen has enjoyed your gardens and parkland,’ I say. ‘A most beautiful setting for a beautiful house.’
Kitty impresses me in these last days of the progress at Chenies. I start to imagine her as a young dowager queen. Exquisitely dressed in her hunting costume, she stands beside the king as he sits on his bowman chair and shoots deer that are driven towards him, and her pity for the terrified creatures and her disgust at their agonising deaths never crosses her pretty face. She does not mount her horse until the king has been hauled into his saddle, so that she is never above him, looking down, so that he never feels that he is old and slow. She never shows a moment’s impatience when the horse staggers under his weight, when he is pale and bad-tempered, she says that she is tired, how exhausting the day has been! She only dances when he asks her to lead out the dancers, and even when the music sets everyone’s feet tapping and the man she adores is on the floor with another girl, she sits beside the king and tilts her head to hear his new complaint over the poor quality of the music, and how he was the best dancer in England.
When he comes to her bed, dragging his stinking leg, she smiles in welcome and ignores the men who help him mount into the high bed. She looks straight past Thomas Culpeper as he gently lifts the king’s bandaged leg, and she smooths the richly embroidered coverlet over the mountain of the king’s belly and does not turn her head, not even by a fraction of an inch, from the stink of his rasping breath.
She knows as well as I do, that if she and Culpeper happened to make a child on that one, irresistible time, then she has to bed the king for the rest of this month, so that he thinks it is his. Culpeper’s seed has to be followed by whatever the king can squeeze out, so that any baby can be named as royal. I don’t have to tell her this. These are the politics of the stable-yard, of the hound kennel. This is about breeding, not love. It is dirty and ordinary and unconcealed, and we set to it like kennel masters.
As we call at Windsor on the way to Hampton Court, I think: we won’t have to do this for long; the king is dying by inches. Every day, he does less; all he maintains is his enormous appetite, and as he belches and farts and sweats from every pore, it looks as if his digestion is breaking down, too, and foul juices and stinking gas are oozing out of his skin.
I think of the Seymour expectation of a regency in the spring, my alliance with Thomas Seymour, of the promise from Lady Mary’s supporters and the Spanish party to support Kitty, of the Howard army that is quietly mustering more men, and I know I am prepared. I really doubt that the king will get through Christmas. Kitty will be widowed in the new year.
Hampton Court, Autumn
1541
WHEN WE HEAR of the death of the king’s sister, Margaret Tudor the Dowager Queen of Scotland, I think it is an omen for her brother, our king. Margaret was his senior by only two years, the nearest in age of the family of four, the one most like him in her impulsive defiance and relentless optimism. Now, he is the only one left of the four Tudor children – the last living child of Henry Tudor, the self-made king.
Surely, he must feel this! He must have a sense of his generation passing, of his own mortality. But he does not even order the court into mourning; we do not wear black for the last Tudor princess of her generation. He hugs his anger to himself and denies death, as he always does. He cannot forgive her son’s snub at York, or that she kept Scotland proud and independent when she was queen regent. He blames her for dying – for bringing the thought of death into his mind where even to speak of his death is illegal. In life, he envied her as a rival Tudor. In death, she is immediately forgotten. Nobody even remarks on the loss of Princess Margaret Queen of Scotland; except her daughter, poor Lady Margaret Douglas, trapped at the court of a vindictive uncle, still unmarried, still courting Charles Howard in secret in hidden corners.
