The Taming of the Queen

The king gets worse and it makes him miserable. He agrees that the court shall move to Hampton Court, away from the unbearable heat of the city and the danger of illness, but he does not come out to the garden, or to boat on the river, or even to Mass in the beautiful palace chapel. They tell me that he wants to rest quietly in his rooms, to talk with his advisors. He will not come for dinner, he does not want to visit me in my rooms, I need not come to his. He has shut himself away, excluding me just as he excluded Kitty Howard, when they assured her that he was ill; but in fact he was locked inside his rooms, here, in this very palace, at Hampton Court, brooding on her failings, on the trial he would rig, and the execution that he would order.

But, just like Anne Boleyn, who attended jousts and dinners and May Day celebrations while knowing that something was wrong, I have to appear before the court. I cannot withdraw like him. I am in my aviary rooms, feeding my birds, watching their thoughtless chatter and their little busyness as they tidy their feathers, when my clerk, William Harper, taps on the door.

‘You can come in,’ I say. ‘Come in and shut the door. I have two of them flying free and I don’t want them to get out.’

He ducks as a canary swoops over his head and comes to my outstretched hand.

‘What is it, William?’ I ask absently, breaking off seed cake and giving it to the pretty little bird. ‘Speak up. I have to leave this little beauty and go and dress for dinner.’

He glances towards Nan and Anne Seymour, who are sitting in the window seat, side by side, both of them unmoved by my lovely little birds. ‘May I speak to you alone?’

‘What for?’ Nan says flatly. ‘Her Majesty has to go to dinner. You can tell me what it is.’

He shakes his head; he looks imploringly at me.

‘Oh, go on, and pick out my jewels and a hood,’ I say impatiently. ‘I’ll come in a moment.’

My clerk and I wait for the door to close behind them, and I turn to him. He is a thoughtful man, monastery trained and with a great love for the old ways. He must have regarded half of the books in my closet with pious horror; he has no admiration for the new learning. I employ him because he is a great scholar, he can translate beautifully and he has a fine hand in writing. When I want to send out a letter in Latin he can translate and transcribe in one draft with a beautiful flowing copperplate script. He has never disagreed with anything the preachers have said in my rooms but I have once or twice seen him bend his head and whisper a silent prayer, like a shocked monk in a worldly school.

‘There! No-one to hear but me and the birds, and they say nothing – except the parrot, who is a terrible blasphemer, but only in Spanish. What is it, William?’

‘I have to warn you, Your Majesty,’ he says gravely. ‘I fear that your enemies are speaking against you.’

‘I know that,’ I say shortly. ‘Thank you for your concern, William, but this, I know already.’

‘Bishop Gardiner’s man came to me and asked me to search your closet for papers,’ he says in a whispered rush. ‘He said I would be rewarded if I would secretly copy anything and bring it to him. Your Majesty, I think he is assembling a case against you.’ The little bird tickles my palm as it shifts its feet and pecks at the crumbs. I did not expect this warning from William. I did not think that they would dare to go this far. I see my shocked expression is mirrored in his troubled face.

‘Are you sure it was the bishop’s man?’

‘Yes. He told me it was to take to the bishop. I could not be mistaken.’

I turn away from him and go to the window, the yellow-winged canary clinging to my outstretched finger. It is a beautiful summer day, the sun just dipping below the high red-brick chimneys, the swifts and swallows swirling around. If Bishop Gardiner is prepared to take such a risk in approaching one of my servants to steal my papers then he must be very confident that he can make a case against me to the king. He must be very sure that a complaint from me to the king will not bring down a storm on his head. He must be certain that he will find something to prove my guilt. Or, even worse, perhaps he has already made a case against me and this is the last stage of a secret enquiry, finding the paperwork to back up the lies.

‘It was to take to the bishop? You are sure of that? Not to the king?’

His face is pale with fear. ‘That he didn’t tell me, Your Majesty. But he was bold as brass: that I was to go through all your papers and bring him whatever I could find. He said to copy down the titles of books also, and to search for a New Testament. He said that he knew you had several.’

‘There’s nothing here,’ I say shortly.