The Taming of the Queen

‘It was Norfolk who named you as a disciple of Anne Askew,’ she says. ‘That was to call you a heretic, that’s an offence that carries the penalty of death. It was he who worked with Gardiner to turn the king against you, calling you a serpent. This is not a man who sticks at trifles.’

‘Trifles?’

‘The death of a woman is a trifle to a man like the duke. You know it was he who passed the death sentence on both his nieces? He plotted that they be queen and when it went wrong, he sent them to the scaffold to save himself.’

Women’s lives do not matter to anyone at this court. Before every queen stands her pretty successor, behind her a ghost.

‘So what is happening now?’

‘The king is taking advice from us Seymours,’ she says, unable to hide her rising pride. ‘Thomas and Edward are with the king now. I expect they will tell me what is happening when they come here before dinner, and then I will be able to tell you.’

‘I am sure the king will tell me himself,’ I say, to remind her that I am Queen of England and the king’s wife, newly restored to favour. Otherwise she will think of me as the Howards do, as the court does: a temporary occupant of the throne of queen, a woman who might be divorced or killed on a whim.

I dress with meticulous care, sending my gown back once and changing my sleeves. I think I will wear purple and then I see that though it is the colour of emperors it drains the flush from my cheeks and tonight I want to look young and lovely. So I wear my favourite red with a golden underskirt and red sleeves with gold slashes. I pull the neck of the gown down, so that my creamy skin is defined by the square cut and my auburn hair flames against the scarlet of the hood. I wear rubies in my ears and gold chains at my waist and looped around my wrists. I paint my lips with rouge and I rouge my cheeks.

‘You look beautiful,’ Nan says, a little surprised at the trouble I have taken.

‘I’m showing the Howard household that there is a queen already in place,’ I say staunchly, and Nan laughs.

‘I think we had a lucky escape,’ she says. ‘Thank God that they could not agree and Thomas Seymour never brought Mary Howard to court.’

‘Yes,’ I say, disregarding the fact that he was ready to marry her. ‘He saved us.’

‘It leaves him a bachelor, though,’ Nan points out. ‘No man will marry Mary with her father and brother in the Tower, and she giving evidence against them to save her own skin. Thomas Seymour rises up day after day. His family is the leading house in the kingdom and the king loves him. He could choose almost anyone.’

I nod. Of course he will marry Elizabeth if the king gives permission. Then he will be married to the third heir to the Tudor throne. Then I can dance at his wedding. Then I will have to think of him as my son-in-law.

‘Who knows?’ I say lightly. I nod to my ladies to open the doors and we walk from my bedroom into my privy chamber, and into my presence room, and there he is. He turns as he hears the doors open and I realise he has been waiting for me; and there he is.

When I see him a strange thing happens. It is as if I can see no-one else. I don’t even hear the usual noise of the room. It is almost like a dream, like a slip in time, as if all my clocks freeze and everyone has gone and there is nothing but him and me. He turns and sees me, and I am blind to everything but his dark eyes, and his smile, and his gaze upon me as if he too can see no-one else, and I think – ah, thank God, he loves me as I love him, for there could be no smile so warm, so directed, except from a man who loves the woman walking towards him, glowing, her hand outstretched.

‘Good evening, Sir Thomas,’ I say.

He takes my hand, he bows over it, he kisses my fingers. I feel the light touch of his moustache and the warmth of his breath on my hand and the slightest squeeze on my fingers as if to say ‘Beloved . . .’ and then he straightens up and lets me go.

‘Your Majesty,’ he says. ‘I am so happy to see you looking so well.’

As he says the ordinary words his dark gaze is searching my face and I know that he will know that I have put on my best gown and reddened my lips. He sees the shadows under my eyes; he will know that I am grieving for Anne Askew. And he will also know, as a lover always knows, that something very grievous, very bad has happened to me.

He offers me his arm and we walk together, through bowing courtiers, to the window where he gestures with one hand as if to indicate the setting sun and the rise of one penetrating bright star on the horizon.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asks simply. ‘Are you ill?’

‘I can’t tell you here and now,’ I say honestly. ‘But I am not hurt or ill.’

‘The king?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he do?’ His face darkens.

I pinch the inside of his sleeve, the inner part of his elbow. ‘Not here. Not now,’ I remind him. I smile up at him. ‘Is that the pole star? Is that the one that you steer by?’

‘Are you in danger now?’ he demands. ‘Not now,’ I say.

‘Edward says that you were within a hair’s breadth of arrest.’