The Taming of the Queen

Almost at once, I am dreaming that I am Tryphine, married against my will to a dangerous man, trapped in his castle and going up and up the spiral staircase, one hand on the damp wall, one holding the bobbing light of the candle. There is a terrible smell coming from the door at the top of the stairs. I go to the heavy brass ring of the door latch and slowly turn it. The door creaks open, but I cannot bear to go into the room, into that miasma of stink. I am so afraid that I struggle in the dream and struggle in my sleep, turning in the bed, and waking myself up. Even though I am awake, fighting sleep and feeling the fear of the dream, the smell still floods over me as if it were pouring out of my dream into the waking world, and I choke and struggle for breath as I wake. The smell of the nightmare is in my bed, it is stifling me, it has come from the dark night into my own bedroom, it is real and I am gagging on it. The nightmare is here, now.

I cry out for help and then I am awake and I realise it is not a dream: it is real. The suppurating wound on his leg is leaking, and yellow and orange pus is oozing through the bandages, staining my gown as if he had pissed the fine linen sheets, making the best bedroom in England smell like a charnel house.

The room is dark but I know that he is awake. The rumbling bubbling snores have stopped. I can hear his stertorous breathing, but it does not fool me: I know that he is awake, listening and looking for me. I imagine his eyes, wide open in the dark, staring blindly towards me. I lie completely still, my breathing steady and slight, but I am afraid that he knows, like a wild beast always knows, that I am afraid of him. He knows by some animal cunning that I am awake, and afraid of him.

‘Are you awake, Kateryn?’ he says very softly.

I stretch and give a little false yawn. ‘Ah . . . yes, my lord. I am awake.’

‘And did you sleep well?’ The words are pleasant but there is an edge to his voice.

I sit up, tucking my hair under my nightcap, and turn towards him at once. ‘I did, my lord, thanks be to God. I hope that you slept well?’

‘I felt sick; I tasted vomit in my throat. I was not propped up high enough on the pillows. It’s terrible to feel like that in sleep. I could have choked. They have to prop me so that I am sitting up, or I choke on bile. They know that. You must make sure that they do that when I am in your bed as well as my own. There must have been something tainted in the dinner that made me sick. They have all but poisoned me. I shall send for the cooks in the morning and punish them. They must have used some bad meat. I need to vomit.’

At once I am out of the bed, my soiled gown slick against my legs, fetching a bowl from the cupboard, a flask of ale. ‘Will you take a drink of small ale now? Shall I send for the doctors?’

‘I shall see the doctor later. I was quite dizzy in the night.’

‘Ah, my dear,’ I say tenderly, as if I am a mother speaking to a sickly boy. ‘Perhaps you can take a drink of ale and sleep again?’

‘No, I can’t sleep,’ he complains peevishly. ‘I never sleep. The whole court sleeps, the whole country sleeps, but I am wakeful. I keep watch all night while lazy pages and slothful women sleep. I keep watch and ward over my country, over my church. D’you know how many men I will burn in Windsor next week?’

‘No,’ I say, shrinking.

‘Three,’ he says, pleased. ‘They’ll burn them in the marshes and their ashes will float away. For questioning my holy church. Good riddance.’

I think of Nan asking me to speak for them. ‘My lord husband . . .’

He has drained his cup of ale in three great gulps, and he gestures for more. I serve him again.

‘More,’ he says.

‘They left some pastries for us in the cupboard too, if you might want one,’ I offer doubtfully.

‘I think one might steady my stomach.’

I pass him the plate and watch as, absent-mindedly, he folds one after another over and over and posts them into his little mouth and they disappear. He licks his finger and dabs at the crumbs on the plate and passes it back to me. He smiles. He is soothed by the food and the attention. It is as if sugar can sweeten him.

‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘I was hungry after our pleasures.’

His mood is almost miraculously improved by ale and pastries. I think that he must carry a monstrous hunger with him all the time. He suffers with a hunger so great that he eats beyond nausea, a hunger so great that he mistakes it for nausea. I manage a smile.

‘Can’t you pardon those poor men?’ I ask very quietly.

‘No,’ he says. ‘What o’clock is it?’

I look around. I don’t know: there is no clock in the room. I cross to the window and pull back the hangings, open the windowpane inwards, crack open the shutter and swing it outward to see the sky.

‘Don’t let the night air in,’ he says crossly. ‘God knows what pestilence might be on it. Close the window! Close it tight!’