The Taming of the Queen

‘I believe that women should study,’ he says kindly. ‘It is not part of the duty of woman to remain ignorant. And you have a learned and scholarly husband; there is no chance of you outpacing me, after all!’ He laughs at the thought of it and I laugh with him.

I don’t even look at the Fool, though I know he is listening for my reply. ‘Whatever you think best, my lord,’ I say levelly. ‘I should enjoy to do the work and it would be an education for the princesses also. But you will judge how far it should go.’

‘It can go far,’ the king rules. ‘It can go as far as Cranmer can compose it. Because I will send my dog Gardiner after it to bring it back if it goes too far.’

‘Is it possible to find a middle way in this?’ I wonder aloud. ‘Cranmer either writes the prayers of the Mass in English and publishes in English or he does not.’

‘We’ll find my way,’ Henry replies. ‘My way is inspired by God Himself to me, His ruler on earth. He speaks to me. I hear Him.’

‘You see,’ Will suddenly bounds to the fireside and addresses the sleeping hound, lifting his big head and putting it on his knee, ‘if she said that, or I said that, they would beg us as a madwoman and a Fool. But if the king says that, everyone thinks it is nothing but true since he is descended from God, and has the holy oil on his chest so he can never be wrong.’

The king narrows his eyes at his favourite. ‘I can never be wrong for I am king,’ he says. ‘I can never be wrong because a king is above a mortal man, seated just below the angels. I can never be wrong because God speaks to me, in words that no-one else can hear. Just as you can never be wise for you are my Fool.’

He glances towards me. ‘And she can never have an opinion that is not mine, for she is my wife.’

I pray that night for discretion. All my life I have been an obedient wife, first to a young, fearful and foolish boy, then to a powerful, cold man. To both of them I showed complete obedience for that is the duty of a wife, laid down by God and taught to every woman. Now I am married to the King of England and owe him three sorts of duty: as a wife, as a subject, and as a member of the church over which he sits as Supreme Head. That I should read books that he would not like, and think of opinions that he does not hold is disloyalty, or worse. I should think as he does, morning and evening. But I cannot see that God would give me a brain and not want me to think for myself. The words ring in my head: I cannot see that God would give me a brain and not want me to think for myself. And with them comes the couplet: And God has given me a heart, He must want me to love. I know that the pairing of the two sentences is not the logic of a philosopher: but that of a poet. It comes from having a writer’s ear; it is the words that persuade me as well as the idea. God has given me a brain – He must want me to think. God has given me a heart – He must want me to love. I hear them in my mind. I don’t say them out loud, not even here, in the deserted chapel. But when I look up from my place at the chancel rail at the painting of the crucified Christ, all I see is Thomas Seymour’s dark smile.

Nan marches into my bird room where I am sitting in the window seat with a pair of yellow canaries on one hand pecking at a speck of manchet bread that I hold in the other. I am revelling in their bright little eyes, the cock of their heads, the brilliance of their colour, the intricate detail of feather upon feather and their warm, scratchy little feet. They are like a miracle of intense life, sitting in the palm of my hand. ‘Sshh,’ I say without raising my head.

‘You need to hear this,’ Nan says in a tone of muted fury. ‘Put the birds away.’

I glance up to refuse; but then I see her grim face. Behind her Catherine Brandon is pale. Beside her is Anne Seymour looking grave.

Gently, so as not to startle them, I put my hand into the pretty cage and the pair hop to their perches, and one of them begins to preen and tidy his feathers as if he was an important ambassador, returned from a visit, and must straighten his cloak.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the new Act of Succession,’ Nan says. ‘The king is naming his heirs before he goes to war with France. Charles Brandon and Edward Seymour were with him when he was taking advice, and Wriothesley – Wriothesley! – was there with the lawyers drawing it up.’

‘I know all about this,’ I say calmly. ‘He discussed it with me.’

‘Did he tell you that he is naming the heirs of your body to follow Prince Edward?’ she demands.

I wheel round and the little birds in the cage flutter at my sudden movement.

‘My heirs?’ I demand.

‘We have to take care what is said.’ Anne Seymour glances anxiously around as if the parrot might report to Bishop Gardiner any words of treason.