The Taming of the Queen

‘Now?’ I ask. I am reading a book, as simple as a child’s primer, that explains the mystery of the Mass, the reality of purgatory. It is a book approved by the Privy Council and it is written in exactly their pompous tone of certainty. I close it, and wonder how it is that men, even thoughtful men, can sound as if they never consider anything but always simply know.

‘Yes, now,’ she says. ‘The painter is here; everyone is gathering.’

‘Is the king coming?’

‘His Majesty is resting,’ she says. ‘His leg is bad. He says he will see it later.’

I get to my feet. ‘I’ll come,’ I say. I see Elizabeth’s bright face bob up. She is such a vain child, she longs to see what the painter will have made of her. She sat for him in her best gown, in the hope that in the final design she will be placed centre stage, close to her father’s hand, an acknowledged Tudor princess. Princess Mary and I exchange a wry look over Elizabeth’s head. We may not be excited like a girl at the thought of this portrait, but we are both glad to be publicly acclaimed. This picture will hang in Whitehall Palace for years, perhaps for centuries. People will copy it and have the copies in pride of place in their own homes. It will show the royal children with their father, and me: seated at his side. It will mark my achievement – a great achievement – of bringing the royal children to their father. I may not give him a child as Jane Seymour did, I will not be his wife for twenty-three years like Katherine of Aragon, but I have done something that no wife has managed to do before – I have put the children at the heart of the royal family. The two girls and the precious heir are in the same portrait as their father. It is a picture of a royal family and I am there as their acknowledged mother. I am queen, I am regent, I am their mother, and the portrait will show my children around me, my husband beside me; and those who doubt my influence and think that they can conspire against me can look at this portrait and see the woman at the heart of the royal family.

‘We’ll come at once,’ I say.

I am eager to see how I look. After trying many colours I chose to wear my red undergown, with an extravagant overgown of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine. The painter himself selected it from the royal wardrobe. He said that he wanted the colours of the picture to be all red and gold, to show our wealth, to show our unity, to show our grandeur in royal colours. I did not say that red is my favourite, but of course I know that it sets off my white skin and my auburn hair. He asked me to change my headdress, from my favourite French hood, a semi-circular frame that I wear set back on my hair, to the more old-fashioned gable type. Nan brought his choice from the royal treasury and set it on my head. ‘Jane Seymour’s,’ she said briefly. ‘Gold leaf.’

‘I would never wear this!’ I exclaim, but he pushed it gently back so that my hair showed a little, so that it framed my face.

‘It is a privilege to paint a beautiful woman,’ he said quietly, and he showed me how he wanted me to sit, perched on the edge of a chair, my gold gown a pool around my feet.

Now I smile at Princess Mary. ‘I am gripped with vanity,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to see it.’

‘Me too,’ she says. She takes Elizabeth’s hand and I lead the way, with Edward Seymour at my side and the women of my chamber following behind. We get to the great hall, and the men of the court, even some of the Privy Council, are already there, curious to see this great picture that has cost so much to commission and taken so long to produce. No-one has seen it assembled. We all posed individually, the painter mostly working from earlier portraits of the king, so this will be a surprise for us all. I see Nicholas de Vent, the artist, looking anxious, as well he might.

‘Is His Majesty not coming?’ he asks as he bows to me.

I am about to say ‘no’, when the great doors to the king’s presence chamber open and his wheeled chair comes out, with the king half sitting, half lying in it, his great leg sticking out before him, his face red and swollen stiff in a grimace of pain.

The artist gives a little exclamation of surprise. He has not seen the king since we first discussed the portrait and then de Vent copied the king’s likeness from the great portraits by Hans Holbein, which the king prefers above any other. I imagine that the painting behind the screens will show a handsome man of about forty years with his wife and young family around him. He will have two well-shaped legs in ivory hose with the usual blue garter tied under the knee to show off the strong calf. He will not be sprawled like a ship wrecked in dry dock, sweating with the effort of raising his enormous head.

I go to him, curtsey and kiss his hot cheek. ‘What a pleasure to see Your Majesty,’ I say. ‘And you’re looking so well.’

‘I wanted to see what he had made of us,’ he says shortly. He nods at de Vent. ‘Unveil it.’