The Taming of the Queen

‘And Thomas Cranmer will hold an inquiry into all the people who thought they were going to arrest and execute him, and if there are letters that reveal treason or heresy they will find themselves in the Tower waiting for the scaffold, in his place.’

‘And now we are on the rise,’ Nan crows. ‘And reform will go on. We’ll get the Bible back into the churches, we will be allowed to read books on reform, we’ll get the Word of God to the people and the dogs of Rome can go back to hell.’

The king is planning a great Christmas feast. ‘Everyone will attend,’ he says exuberantly. The pain in his leg has eased, the wound is still open but it is not weeping so copiously. I think that it smells less. I mask the stink with pockets of perfumes and spices scattered around my rooms, even tucked into my bed, the scent of roses overlaying the haunting odour of decay. The summer of riding and travelling has rested him, he hunts every day, all day – even if he is only standing in a hide as they drive the beasts towards him. We have a lighter dinner than when he is in his great hall twice a day with twenty, thirty different dishes being brought in, and he is even drinking less wine.

‘Everyone,’ he says, ‘every ambassador in Christendom will come to Hampton Court. They all want to see my beautiful new wife.’

I smile and shake my head. ‘I shall be shy,’ I say. ‘I don’t like to feel that all eyes are on me.’

‘You have to endure it,’ he says. ‘Better still, learn to enjoy it. You are the greatest woman in the kingdom: learn to revel in it. There are plenty who would take it from you if they could.’

‘Oh, I’m not so shy that I would rather stand aside,’ I confess.

‘Good,’ he says, catching up my hand and kissing it. ‘For I am not disposed to let you go. I want no pretty new girl pushed into your place.’ He laughs. ‘They dangle papist poppets before me, did you know? All this summer on progress they have been introducing pretty daughters with crucifixes at their necks and rosaries at their belts and missals in Latin in their pockets. Did you not notice?’

I try to remember. Now that he points it out to me I do think there were a lot of noticeably devout young women among the many that we met on progress. I give a little giggle. ‘My lord husband, this is—’

‘Ridiculous,’ he finishes for me. ‘But they think I am old and restless. They think I am whimsical, and that I would change my wife and change my church in the morning and change it back again in the evening. But you know,’ he kisses my hand again, ‘you know better than anyone that I am faithful, to you and to the church that I am making.’

‘You will hold to your reforms,’ I confirm.

‘I will do what I think right,’ he says. ‘We shall have your family at court for Christmas. You must be pleased that I am going to honour them? I will give your uncle a title – he shall be Lord Parr – and I will make your brother an earl.’

‘I am so grateful, my lord. And I know they will serve you loyally in their new positions. I shall be so pleased to see them at court. And – dear husband – may the children come for Christmas, too?’

He is surprised at the suggestion. ‘My children?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘They usually stay at their own houses,’ he says uncertainly. ‘They always celebrate Christmas with their people.’

Will Somers, who is at the king’s side, cracks two walnuts together in his hands, picks out the shells and offers the nut to his royal master. ‘Who are their people – if not us?’ he demands. ‘Lord, Lord, King! See what a good woman will do to you? You’ve only been married for five months and already she is giving you three children! This is the most fertile wife of all! It’s like keeping a cony!’

I laugh. ‘Only if Your Majesty would wish it?’

Henry’s jowls are trembling with his emotion, his face flushes, his little eyes fill with tears. ‘Of course I wish it, and Will is right. You are a good woman and you are bringing my children home to me. You will make us into a family of England, a true family. Everyone shall see us together: the father – and the son that will come after him. And I shall have Christmas with my children around me. I’ve never done such a thing before.’

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1543

The oars of the royal barge, muffled by the cold mist that lies in heavy ribbons on the river, dip in and out of the water with one splashy movement. The boat surges forward with each stroke and then seems to rest before going forward again as if it were breathing on a living river: leaping and then stilling. Coots and moorhens scurry away from us ahead of the barge, lifting out of the water with their long legs trailing. A broad-winged heron rises silently from the reeds at the river bank, flapping on huge slow wings; overhead the seagulls cry. To approach Hampton Court in the royal barge on the river, with the bright winter sunlight breaking through the swirls of cold mist, is to see a magical palace emerge, as if it, too, is floating on the cold water.