The Taming of the Queen

‘The lady’s preference, apparently.’ The king turns to the duke. ‘Did she refuse? I’m surprised you allow a daughter such freedoms.’ The duke bows, smiling. ‘I am afraid to say that she is not an admirer of Thomas Seymour,’ he says. I grit my teeth in irritation at his sneering tone. ‘I think she is not confident of his beliefs.’

This is to imply he is a heretic. ‘Your Majesty . . .’ I start.

The duke dares to speak over me. I break off as I realise that he thinks he can interrupt me – the Queen of England – and that no-one has challenged him.

‘The Seymours are all famously in favour of reforming the church,’ Norfolk says, hissing the ‘s’ through his missing front tooth like the snake that he is. ‘From Lady Anne in the queen’s rooms, to his lordship Edward. They’re all very intent on their scholarship and their reading. They think they can instruct us all. I’m sure we should be grateful, but my daughter is more traditional. She likes to worship in the church that Your Majesty has established. She seeks no change except as you command.’ He pauses. His dark eyes flicker downwards as if he might manage to squeeze out a tear in memory of his son-in-law. ‘And she loved Henry Fitzroy with a true heart – we all did. She cannot bear another man in his place.’

The mention of his bastard son trips the king into sentimental memory. ‘Ah, don’t speak of him,’ he says. ‘I can’t bear to think of my loss. The most beautiful boy!’

‘I can’t see Thomas Seymour taking our beloved Fitzroy’s place,’ the duke says scathingly. ‘It would be a mockery.’

With mounting rage I hear the old man insult Thomas, and I see that no-one says a word to defend him.

‘No, he’s not the man our boy would have been,’ the king agrees. ‘Nobody could be.’

Nicholas Throckmorton, my cousin, comes back from Newgate with good news of Anne Askew. She has many supporters in the City of London, and warm clothes, books and money have been arriving hourly to her little room. She is certain to be released. The importance of her late father and the wealth of her husband count in her favour. She has preached before some of the greatest citizens of London and the City fathers, and she herself has done nothing worse than say what thousands of other people think. There is a general belief that the king has acted only to frighten the more vocal supporters of reform into silence, and that they will all, like Tom Howard, like George Blagge, be quietly released over the next few days.

‘Can you talk to the king?’ Nicholas asks me. ‘Ask for a pardon for her?’

‘He’s in a difficult mood,’ I confess. ‘And the churchmen are always with him.’

‘But he has definitely turned to our side?’

‘All his recent decisions are in favour of reform but he is equally irritable with everyone.’

‘Can you not advise him as you used to do?’

‘I will try,’ I promise. ‘But the conversation in his rooms is not easy as it used to be. Sometimes when I speak I feel that he is impatient with me, and sometimes he is clearly not listening.’

‘You have to keep reform in his mind,’ he says anxiously. ‘You are the only one at court now. Doctor Butts is dead, God keep him. Edward Seymour is away, Thomas, his brother, at sea, Cranmer at his palace. You are the only one left at court who can remind the king of what he passionately believed only a few months ago. I know he is changeable; but our view is his, and you are the only one who can keep him constant. It is a burden, but you are the only one at court who will defend reform. We are all looking to you.’

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1546

It is midsummer, too hot for being in London. We should be on progress, going down the long green valley of the Thames, staying in the beautiful riverside palaces, or heading to the south coast, perhaps going to Portsmouth, where I might see Thomas. But this year the king does not fear the plague, does not fear the heat in the city. This year he fears that death is stalking him by another route, coming closer and closer like a constant companion.

He is too tired to go far, even in flight from disease. Poor old man, he can no longer ride, he can no longer walk. He is ashamed to be seen by the people who used to line the roadsides and doff their caps and cheer as he went by. He used to be the most handsome prince in Christendom. Now he knows that nobody can look at him without feeling pity for the wreck that he has made of his bloated body, and for the moon-like face.

So, because the king is self-pitying and filled with dread, we all have to stay in the heat of the city, where the narrow streets stink with filth from the central gutters and the pigs and cows nose through the rubbish that is heaped in the streets. I remark that the Lord Mayor should be more active, should get the streets cleaned and fine the offenders; but the king looks at me coldly, and says, ‘Would you be the Lord Mayor of London as well as queen?’