The Taming of the Queen

That night at dinner I sit on one side of the king, Anne of Cleves on my right hand, honoured before the court as the king’s sister – as he chooses to call her. I make sure I am smiling as if I am without any care in the world, while beside me I hear him eat, grunt, belch, pant and eat again. I have become ridiculously sensitive to the noise of him dining; no music can drown it out, no conversation can distract me. I hear the snuffle that he makes when he is tipping a bowl to drink the juices of the meat, the crack of the bones of little birds in his strong jaws, and the loud sucking on sweetmeats and sugar. He makes another noise when he drinks his wine, great gulps and then a sort of pant into the bowl of the wineglass as he catches his breath, as if he is swimming and drinking the lake. I turn my head and speak to Anne of Cleves; I smile down the table at Princess Elizabeth. Catherine Brandon dips her head coquettishly as the king sends down a special dish to her, and Nan glances at me as if to ensure that I have noticed this. I look around the court, at all the people serving themselves onto their heaped plates, snapping their fingers for the servers to bring them more and more wine, and I think: this court has become a monster that is devouring itself, a dragon that eats its own tail for greed.

I am afraid of the cost of keeping this bloated household, the thousands of servants to run after the hundreds of lords, their ladies, their horses, their dogs. It is not that I am cautious – I was raised to run a noble household; I don’t like anything mean – but this is extravagance and luxury fuelled by the destruction of the churches. Only the wealth of a thousand years of the church could pay for this excess. It is as if the court is a great clockwork toy, with a gear and a great wheel that takes in holy wealth and throws out dross every hour, every minute, just as the king will feast now but will vomit later, or strain in pain on the close-stool, clinging to Anthony Denny’s extended hand and calling for Doctor Wendy to administer an enema to purge him.

I see that Edward Seymour has an empty place at his side, on his right hand, a seat of honour, and at once I am alert, wondering if he expects Thomas. The noise of the king spooning oyster broth from a golden bowl, and then dipping manchet bread and sucking it, dies away. I cannot even hear the rattle of the golden spoon as he bangs it against the golden dish to prompt the server to give him more. I am watching the door at the end of the hall and, almost as if I have summoned him, as if my desire has created a spectre, Thomas, in a dark blue cape, comes quietly into the room, swings the cape from his shoulders and gives it to his page, and comes forward to his brother’s table.

He is here. I look away at once. I cannot believe it. He is here.

Edward’s warm welcome is unfeigned. He jumps to his feet and hugs Thomas, holding him tightly. The two exchange rapid words, and then hug again. Then Thomas steps away from the Seymour table and approaches the dais where we are sitting. He bows to the king, then to me and to the prince beside his father, and to the princesses, then lastly to Anne of Cleves, whom he escorted to England to be queen. His dark eyes go over us all indifferently, and when the king beckons him forward he steps up to speak across the high table and stands at a slight angle, so his shoulder is towards me and I see his face only in profile, and he does not look at me.

I remember not to crane my head to listen to their conversation. There are some words about the ships and the winter quarters, and the king tells Thomas to take his seat and dine, and sends a dish of venison stew to the Seymour table at once, and some pastries and a pie and slices of a roast boar. Thomas bows, sits beside his brother and still does not look towards me. I know this only because when his eyes are on me I feel a heat in my face as if I had a slight fever. I don’t even have to see that he is looking at me for this to happen. It is as if my body knows, without my knowing, as if he can touch me without touching.

But tonight I am cool and I look straight ahead as he does, so our gazes go past each other and rest on indifferent objects, at opposite ends of the hall, as if we had never been eyes locked, hands-clasped, bodies entwined at all.

After dinner there is masquing in the new way, with the dancers taking partners from the court. I have said that I will not dance and I am glad to stand beside the king, my slim hand on his great shoulder, and avoid the danger of having to go hand-clasped with Thomas. I don’t think I could bear to be close to him. I am sure I could not dance. I don’t think that I could stand.