The Taming of the Queen

‘Steady,’ she says, watching me, so she does not notice Thomas and he has the sense to step back, out of sight. I take a few dizzy steps, blinking. I cannot see him but I can feel his eyes on me, I can feel his presence in the little chapel, I can almost smell the haunting scent of his clean sweat. I feel as if the print of his naked chest is on my cheek like a brand. I feel as if anyone looking at me could know that I am his lover, I am his whore. One night I lay beneath him and begged him to swive me all night, as if I were his field and he a plough.

I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands as if I would draw blood. The king has commanded another page to help him and he has one on either side as we walk on. He jarred his leg and is fighting his pain and unsteadiness and not looking at me. No-one has observed my moment of faintness. People are watching him, remarking that he is stronger than he was but still needs help. Henry glowers from right to left. He does not want to hear anyone suggest that he is still not well enough to ride at the head of his own army.

He nods for me to come beside him. ‘Fools,’ he remarks.

I twist my face into a smile and I nod, but I don’t hear him.

The trumpets sound a great brassy shout as we come into the great hall and I remember the taste of Thomas’s mouth, the way he bites my lips in a kiss. I have a sudden memory, as sharp as if it were happening right now, of him taking my lower lip in his teeth and nibbling it till my knees go weak and he has to lift me to the bed. Henry and I walk in state through the bowing court to the raised dais. I can see nothing but Thomas’s face in candlelight. Two men come either side of the king to heave his great bulk up the two shallow steps and then seat him on his throne, his leg propped. I take my seat beside him and turn and look over the heads of the court, through the wide-open entrance door to the inner courtyard where the afternoon is shining rosy on the new red bricks.

I take a breath. I wait for the moment, which must come, which must be now, when Thomas Seymour comes forward to make his bow.

There is a movement at my side. Princess Mary takes her seat beside me. ‘Are you all right, Your Majesty?’ she asks me.

‘Why?’

‘You’re so white . . .’

‘Just a little gripe,’ I say. ‘You know.’

She nods. She is seldom free of pain herself and she knows that I cannot be excused from this feast or even show any discomfort. ‘I have a tincture of raspberry leaves in my room,’ she offers. ‘I can send someone to get it for you.’

‘Yes, yes, please,’ I say at random.

My gaze rakes the room. He has to step forward and greet the king before the servers come in with the endless parade of courses that make up the bridal feast. He has to come and bow and then take his seat at the table for the noble lords of the court. And everyone will watch him bow to the king, and then everyone will see him bow to me, and nobody must remark that I look pale. Nobody must know that my heart is pounding so fast that I think Princess Mary will hear it over the clatter of the court pulling up the benches and stools to the trestle tables and taking their seats.

I wonder if his nerve will fail. I wonder if his reckless laughing courage will fail him this once, and he won’t come in to dinner at all. Or is he outside now, nerving himself to walk forward? Perhaps he cannot greet me as a courteous acquaintance, perhaps he cannot bring himself to congratulate me on my wedding and my rise to greatness? But he knows that he will have to do it, so surely now would be better than later?

Just when I think he is taking so long that he must have given some excuse and gone away, I see him, weaving his way between the tables, ahead of the servers, a smile to one man at one side and a touch on the shoulder of another, moving through the crowd with people calling his name and greeting him.

He stands before the dais, and the king looks down at him. ‘Tom Seymour!’ he exclaims. ‘I’m very glad you’re back. You must have ridden hard. You had far to come.’

Thomas bows. He does not look at me. He smiles up at the king, his easy, familiar smile. ‘I rode like a horse-thief,’ he confesses. ‘I was so afraid that I would be too late and you would be armed and mounted and gone without me.’

‘You’re just in time,’ the king says. ‘For I will be armed and mounted and gone within the month.’

‘I knew it!’ Thomas exclaims. ‘I knew you would wait for nothing,’ and the king beams back at him. ‘Say I am to come with you?’

‘I’d have no-one else. You’re to be marshal of the army. I am trusting you, Tom. Your brother is away thrashing the Scots into peace. I am counting on you to bring glory to your name and defend your royal nephew’s inheritance in France.’

Thomas puts his hand on his heart and bows. ‘I would die rather than fail you,’ he says. He still has not looked at me.

‘And you may greet your queen,’ Henry says.