The Taming of the Queen

‘I quite agree,’ I say. ‘That is why Your Majesty was so gracious when you gave them a Bible in English, and they so wish they could have it back again. Then they can quietly read and learn. Then they have a chance of understanding. They don’t have to gather to have one recite and another explain.’

He turns his big face towards me. His neck is so thick and his cheeks are so fat that his face is quite square from the white embroidered collar at the neck of his jacket to the sparse fringe of his hair at the top of his forehead. It is like being glared at by a block of stone. ‘No. You misunderstand me,’ he says coldly. ‘I didn’t give them the Bible for that. I don’t think that a farm girl from Lincoln should be reading and learning. I don’t think she should be studying and thinking. I have no desire to advance her understanding. And I am very sure she should not be preaching.’

I swallow a sip of wine. I see that my hand is steady on the glass. On the other side of the king I notice the small downturned face of Stephen Gardiner, ibbling at his dinner and straining his ears to listen.

‘You gave the people the Bible,’I persist. ‘Whether you wish them to keep it in the churches for everyone to read, or whether you want it to be read only reverently and quietly in the better sort of houses, must be your decision. It is your gift, you shall decide where it goes. But there are preachers who have read the words and learned them and understand them better than some of the greatest men in the church. And why is that? For they did not go to college to chop logic, and invent ritual, and pride themselves on their learning; they went to the Bible, to nowhere else and nothing else. It is beautiful. Your Majesty, the piety of simple people is beautiful. And their loyalty to you and their love of you is beautiful as well.’

He is a little mollified. ‘They are loyal? They don’t question me along with the teachings of the church?’

‘They know their father,’ I say firmly. ‘They were brought up in your England, they know that you make the laws that keep them safe, they know that you lead the armies that protect their country, that you plan and direct the ships that keep the seas for them. Of course they love you as their holy father.’

He snorts with laughter. ‘A Holy Father? Like a pope?’

‘Like a pope,’ I say steadily. ‘The pope is nothing more than the Bishop of Rome. He leads the church in Italy. What are you but the greatest of the churchmen in England? You are the Supreme Head of the church, are you not? You sit above every other churchman, do you not? You lead the church in England.’

Henry turns to Gardiner the bishop. ‘Her Majesty has a point,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think?’

Gardiner finds a thin smile. ‘Your Majesty is blessed in a wife who loves scholarly discussion,’ he says. ‘Who would have thought that a woman could reason so? And to a husband who was such a lion of learning? Surely she has tamed you!’

The king commands that I sit with him after dinner and I take this as a mark of his favour. Doctor Wendy prepares a sleeping draught for him as the court stands around him, his great bandaged leg sticking out into the concerned circle. Stephen Gardiner and old Thomas Howard stand on one side, and my ladies and I are opposite, as if we would forcibly drag his chair from one side to the other. For a moment I look at the faces around my husband, the set smiles of the courtiers, the self-conscious charm of everyone, and I realise that everyone is anxious as I, everyone is weary as I am. We are all waiting for the king to put an end to this evening, to release us all for the night. In truth, some of us are waiting for a more lasting peace. Some are waiting for him to die.

Whoever wins the battle for the king’s wavering attention now, will win the next reign. Whoever he favours now, will inherit a prime place when Edward comes to the throne. My husband has described these people to me as dogs waiting for his favour, but for the first time I see it for myself, and know that I am one of them. My future depends on his favour just as theirs does, and tonight I cannot be sure that I have it.

‘Is the pain very bad?’ Doctor Wendy asks him quietly.

‘It is unbearable!’ the king snaps. ‘Doctor Butts would never have let it get this bad.’

‘This should help,’ Doctor Wendy says humbly, and proffers a glass.

Sulkily, the king takes it and drinks it down. He turns to a page. ‘Sweetmeats,’ he says abruptly. The lad dashes to the cupboard and brings out a tray of candied fruits, sugared plums, toffee apples, marchpane and pastries. The king takes a handful and crushes them against his rotting teeth.

‘God knows it was merrier in England before every village had a preacher,’ Thomas Howard says, continuing one of his slow thoughts.