The Taming of the Queen

I snuggle deep into my thick furs. I have rich glossy black sables delivered from the wardrobe of my London house of Baynard’s Castle. I know these belonged to my predecessor, Katherine Howard. I don’t have to ask: I have become familiar with her perfume, a memorable musky smell – she must have drenched everything in it. The moment they bring me a new gown I can smell her, as if she is haunting me in scent as she haunts me in life. I cannot help but wonder if she was drowning out the stink of his rotting leg, as I do with rose oil. At least I refuse to wear her shoes. They brought me a pair with golden heels and velvet toes, fit for a tiny child. She must have been like a little girl beside my husband, more than thirty years younger than him. She must have looked like his granddaughter when she danced with the young people of the court and glanced around at his squires¸ seeking her boyish lover. I wear her gowns, which are so beautifully made and so richly embroidered, but I will not walk in her shoes. I order new ones, dozens and dozens of pairs, hundreds of them. I pray that I will not dream of her as I follow her footsteps into Hampton Court, wearing her furs, her – and all the others. I sail in Katherine of Aragon’s barge. I wrap Kitty Howard’s sables around me and think that the cold wind blowing down the river will blow away her presence, will blow all the ghosts away, and soon her furs, so soft and luxurious, will be my furs and, brushing constantly against my throat and shoulders, will pick up my perfume of orange blossom and rose.

‘Isn’t it beautiful? Nan asks me, looking ahead to where the palace shines in the morning sunlight. ‘Isn’t it the best of them all?’

All of Henry’s many houses are places of wonder. This palace he took from Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, who built it in deep rosy-red brick, with high ornamental chimneys, broad courtyards and exquisitely planned gardens. They have completed the changes that Henry promised me, and now there is a new queen’s side overlooking the gardens and away from the kitchens. These will be my rooms; no ghosts will walk the newly waxed floorboards. There is a broad stone quay that runs along the riverbank, and as our barge and all the accompanying ships come into sight, all the standards are unfurled at all the flagpoles, and there is a great roar of cannon fire to welcome the king home.

I jump at the noise and Nan laughs. ‘You should have heard it the day that we brought Anne of Cleves to London,’ she says. ‘They had barges on the river shooting off guns, and the sky was lit like a thunderstorm with the fireworks.’

The barge comes smoothly in to the stone pier and the rowers ship their oars. There is another bellow of ordnance and the gangplank is run ashore. The yeomen of the guard, in their green and white livery, hammer down the shallow stone stairs to line the quay. The trumpeters blast out a shout of sound, and all the royal servants come out before the doors of the palace and stand, stiffly, heads uncovered in the wintry air. The king, who was resting his leg on an embroidered footstool under an awning in the stern, hauls himself to his feet and goes first, as he needs a man on either side to support him on the gently rocking deck. I follow him, and when he is steady on the white marble paving stone of the quay he turns and takes my hand. The trumpeters are playing a processional anthem, the servants are bowing low, and the people held back from the quay are cheering Henry’s name – and my own. I realise that our marriage is popular not just in our court and the foreign courts, but here, in the countryside too. Who could believe that the king could marry again? Yet again? Who could believe that he would take a beautiful widow and restore her to wealth and happiness? Who could believe that he would take an English woman, a countrywoman, a woman from the despised and feared North of England, and put her in the very heart of the smart Southern court, and that she would outshine everyone? They cheer and shout my name, wave documents that they want me to see, requests that they want me to grant, and I smile and wave back. The steward of my household goes among them and gathers up their letters for me to read later.

‘It’s good that you are looking well,’ Henry remarks shortly as we go slowly through the wide open doors. He gives a little grimace as each step pains him. ‘It is not enough to be a queen, you have to look like one. When the people come out to see us they want to see a couple set far above them, larger than life, grander than anything they have ever dreamed. They want to be awed. Seeing us should be like seeing beings far above them, like angels, like gods.’

‘I understand.’

‘I am the greatest man in the kingdom,’ Henry says simply. ‘Perhaps the greatest in the world. People have to see that the minute that they see me.’