The Taming of the Queen

They hold her overnight, somewhere in this great rambling palace. As my maid dresses me for dinner I ask her where Anne Askew might be. She does not know. There are dozens of windowless cellar rooms and attic rooms and treasure rooms that can be locked from the outside. If they don’t care for her comfort or safety they could simply throw her in the guardhouse. I dare not send anyone to look for her. At dinner, Bishop Gardiner intones an interminable grace and I bow my head and listen to him mouthing the Latin words, knowing that half the room cannot understand him; and he does not care because he is completing his ritual, his private ritual, he does not care that they are as children asking for bread and receiving a stone. I have to wait for him to finish his sing-song skimble-skamble, raise my head and nod for the servers to enter. I have to smile and eat and command the room, laugh at Will Somers, send out dishes to William Paget and Thomas Wriothesley as if they are not plotting my downfall, bow to the Duke of Norfolk, who sits at the head of his family table, his face a bland mask of courtier charm, his reformer son still missing. I have to behave as if I have not a single care in all the world, while somewhere in the great palace, my friend Anne eats the cold leavings from the court’s dinner, and prays on her knees that God will keep her safe tomorrow.

‘They have summoned me to question her.’ My brother strolls up to my chair while the court is dancing. My ladies, their faces stiff with smiles, form up into sets and go through their steps.

‘Will you refuse?’

‘How can I? It’s a test. I am on trial here too, and if I fail they will move on to you. No, I will question her and hope I can guide her to a plea for forgiveness. I know she won’t recant her beliefs; but she might agree that she is ill-educated.’

‘She knows the Bible backwards and forwards,’ I say. ‘She knows the New Testament by heart. No-one can call her ill-educated.’

‘She can’t argue with Stephen Gardiner.’

‘I think you’ll find that she will.’

‘Then what am I to do?’ William exclaims in sudden impatience. At once he throws back his head and laughs, a courtier’s laugh, to suggest that he is telling me a funny story. I laugh with him, and I tap his hand, my comical brother.

Will Somers lopes past us with a grimace. ‘If you are ready to laugh at nothing you might laugh at me,’ he says.

I clap my hands. ‘We were laughing at an old jest, not worth repeating,’ I say.

‘They’re the only ones I have.’

We wait until he has gone by. ‘Try to give her a way out, without incriminating yourself,’ I say. ‘She is a young woman, full of life. She’s not seeking martyrdom. She’ll save herself if she can. Just give her a way. And I will try to see the king.’

‘What is he doing?’ my brother whispers. ‘What does he mean by this? Has he turned against us? Has he turned against you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. I look at my brother’s anxious face and I realise, coldly, that five women have sat here, in this very seat before me, and not known if the king had turned against them and, if he had, what he was planning to do.

When dinner is over I send Nan to the king’s rooms to ask if I may see him. She comes back surprised: I am to be admitted. She rushes me into my most flattering hood and we pull down the front of my gown, and pat oil of roses into my neck. She and Catherine attend me as far as the king’s bedroom and the guards open the door and I go in alone.

Sir Anthony Denny is there, and Bishop Gardiner. Doctor Wendy is at the back of the room with half a dozen grooms and servers standing around, waiting to move the king from chair to bed, as he wishes, to lift him onto his close-stool, or to help him into his wheeled chair so that he can go into his presence chamber and pass like a great statue paraded among his people.

‘My lord,’ I say, curtseying.

He smiles at me and beckons for me to come close. I bend down and kiss him, ignoring the stink. He puts his arm around my waist and squeezes me. ‘Ah, Kat. Did you and the court enjoy a good dinner?’

‘You were very much missed,’ I say, taking a chair beside him. ‘I hope you will be well enough to join us soon. It feels like a long time since we had the joy of your presence.’

‘I am sure of it,’ he says cheerfully. ‘This was just the quartain fever that I get from time to time. Doctor Wendy says I throw it off like a boy.’

I nod enthusiastically. ‘Your strength is remarkable.’

‘Well, the buzzards may hover but there is nothing for them to pick at yet.’ His gesture indicates Bishop Gardiner as a buzzard and I smile at the bishop’s cross face.

‘I am more of a lark that goes high to sing your praises,’ the bishop says with awkward humour.

‘A lark, my lord bishop?’ I put my head on one side as if to scrutinise his white surplice and black stole. ‘More like a swallow in your colouring.’