The Taming of the Queen

‘He is going to establish two colleges, just as he promised Her Majesty,’ Catherine says, smiling at me. ‘One at Oxford and one at Cambridge. This is learned work, just as Her Majesty asked him to do. They will teach the new learning and they will preach in English.’

‘He’s planning to send my husband, Edward, to Boulogne to replace that fool young Henry Howard,’ Anne says anxiously. ‘The Howards are in disgrace for Henry’s rashness and incompetence – which is all to our good – but with my husband away from court, who is going to keep us Seymours in the king’s remembrance? How shall we stay in favour? How can we be influential?’

‘Ah, the Seymours,’ Catherine says sweetly. ‘The Seymours! The Seymours! Just when we thought we were talking of the friends that we could trust to bring the king and the church closer to God, I find that we are actually talking about the rise of the Seymours, once more. Again.’

‘We don’t need to rise,’ Anne replies irritably. ‘We are high in favour. We Seymours are kin to the only Tudor heir, and Prince Edward loves his uncles.’

‘But it is the queen who is named as regent,’ Catherine reminds her silkily. ‘And the king prefers her company, and even mine, to yours. And if Edward is sent to Boulogne, and Thomas is always at sea, who will keep the king in mind of the Seymours indeed? Do you have any friends at all?’

‘Peace,’ I say quietly. But it is not their wrangling that disturbs me. It is that I cannot bear to hear his name. I cannot bear to think that while I am trapped in a court that seems smaller and more confining every day, he is always, always far away.

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1545

We hold Christmas in the old way, with dancing and music and masquing, and sports and competitions, and huge amounts of food and wine. Every one of the twelve days of the feast the kitchen labours to bring out some new novelty, some great dish; and the king eats and eats as if to satisfy a growing insatiable hunger, as if he had a monstrous worm coiled and fat inside him.

He commands that we invite the former queen Anne of Cleves for Christmas, and she comes to court plumply good-humoured, as greedy as the king himself, and as merry and as sweet-tempered as any woman could be who has escaped danger with her life and come out with a royal title, a fortune and her freedom.

She is wealthy. She comes with a train of horsemen, bringing rich Christmas gifts, carefully chosen to please all of us. She is three years younger than me, fair-haired, dark-eyed, and with a calm untroubled smile. Her rounded prettiness draws admiring glances from people who have forgotten why the king rejected her. She was the Protestant princess and she fell with their leader, Cromwell, when the king turned against reform. She comes to court as if to remind me that there has been a queen before who worshipped in her own language, served God without pope or bishop, took bread and wine not body and blood – and lasted less than six months.

She smiles warmly at me, but she keeps her distance, as if there is no advantage in friendship with a wife. She knows everything there is to know about Tudor queens, and has concluded that there is no point in becoming my friend. They tell me that she was loving with Queen Katherine Howard: she bore no grudge when their roles were reversed, and the lady-in-waiting walked before her queen; but with me she behaves as if it is hardly worth getting to know me. Her cool glance tells me that she doubts I will make three years, perhaps I will not be here next Christmas.

Nan embraces her without hesitation, falling into her arms as if they are two survivors from a secret war that only they remember. Anne hugs her tightly and then holds my sister at arm’s length to read her face.

‘You are well?’ she asks. Her accent is still German, like the cawing of a crow, even after all these years in England.

‘I am well,’ Nan says mistily, as if moved by a kiss from this ghost. ‘And my sister is Queen of England!’

I can’t be the only person to think this rather awkward, given that this rounded, smiling woman was queen one reign before mine, and dismissed from the royal bed and the throne faster than anyone else has ever been. But Anne turns, still holding my sister close, and smiles at me. ‘God bless Your Majesty,’ she says sweetly. ‘And may your reign be long.’

Unlike yours, I hope; but I incline my head and smile back at her.

‘And is the king in good health?’ she asks, knowing that I have to lie, for it is illegal to suggest that he is ill.

‘He is in very good health,’ I say stoutly.

‘And inclining to the reform of religion?’ she asks hopefully.

Of course, she was raised a Lutheran, though who knows what she believes now? Certainly, she has never written anything of note.

‘The king is a great scholar of the Bible,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

‘We make progress,’ Nan assures her. ‘We really do.’