The Taming of the Queen

Thomas turns to me and bows very low, a Burgundy bow, the most graceful gesture in the world, one long-fingered hand sweeping the floor with his embroidered hat. ‘It is a joy to see Your Majesty,’ he says, his voice completely steady and cool.

‘You are welcome back to court, Sir Thomas,’ I say carefully. I can hear the words as if I were a little girl reciting them in a schoolroom, the correct way to greet a returning councillor: ‘You are welcome back to court, Sir Thomas.’

‘And he has done great work for us!’ Henry turns to me and pats my hand as it rests on the arm of my throne. He leaves his damp palm over mine, as if to show that he owns my hand, my arm, my body. ‘Sir Thomas has a treaty with the Netherlands that will keep us safe as we advance on France. He persuaded Queen Mary, the governor. He’s a charmer, this one. Did you find her very beautiful, Tom?’

I can tell from Thomas’s hesitation that this is an unkind jest against the queen’s plain looks. ‘She is a thoughtful and gracious lady,’ he says. ‘And she would prefer peace with France to war.’

‘An oddity on two counts!’ Will Somers bobs up to observe. ‘A thoughtful woman who wants peace. What will you tell us of next, Tom Seymour? An honest Frenchman? A witty German?’

The court breaks into laughter.

‘Well, you’re welcome home in time for war; the time for peace is over!’ Henry exclaims, and holds up his great goblet in a toast. Everyone stands and holds their tankards and their glasses and drinks to war. There is a clatter and scrape of the benches on the wooden floor as everyone sits again and Thomas bows and steps back to the table for the first noblemen of the court. He takes his seat, someone pours him wine and someone slaps him on the back. He still has not looked at me.

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

He does not look at me. He does not look at me, ever. When I am dancing in a circle and my gaze goes from one smiling face to another I never see him. He is talking with the king, or in a corner laughing with a friend, he is at a gaming table or looking out of the window. When the court goes hunting he is high on a big black horse, his face turned down, tightening the girth or patting its neck. When there is archery his dark narrowed gaze is directed only along the shaft of the arrow to the target; when he plays tennis, a white linen scarf around his neck, his shirt open at the throat, his attention is entirely on the game. When he comes to Mass in the morning, with the king’s hand resting on his shoulder, he does not look up to my gallery where the ladies and I are kneeling, heads bowed in prayer. During the long service, when I peep between my fingers I see that he is not praying with his eyes closed; he is gazing at the monstrance, his face illuminated by the light falling from the window above the altar, as beautiful as a carved saint himself. I close my eyes then and I whisper in my mind: ‘God help me, God take this desire from me, God make me as blind to him as he is to me.’

‘Thomas Seymour never says one word to me,’ I remark to Nan when we are alone before dinner one evening, to see if she has noticed.

‘Doesn’t he? He’s as vain as a puppy and always flirting with someone. But his brother never makes much of you, either. They’re a family who think very highly of themselves, and of course they won’t want a Parr stepmother to make people forget the Seymour mother of the prince. He is always perfectly polite to me.’

‘Sir Thomas speaks to you?’

‘In passing only. For politeness only. I don’t have much time for him.’

‘Does he ask you how I am?’

‘Why should he?’ she demands. ‘He can see how you are. He can ask you himself, if he has any interest.’

I shrug as if I don’t care. ‘It’s just that since he has come home from the Netherlands he seems to have no time for any of the ladies, whereas before he was such a flirt. Perhaps he has left his heart behind.’

‘Perhaps,’ she says. Something in my face makes her remind me: ‘Not that you care.’

‘I don’t care at all,’ I agree.

Seeing Thomas every day makes me stumble in my confident progress to love and respect the king, and throws me back into the feelings that I had before my wedding, as if the year between had never been. I am angry with myself: one year into a good marriage, and as breathless as a girl in love again. I have to get down on my knees once more and beg God to cool my blood, to keep my eyes off Thomas and my thoughts on my duty and my love for my husband. I have to remind myself that Thomas is not playing with me, nor is he torturing me; he is doing as we agreed – keeping as far from me as possible. I have to remember that before, when I loved him and revelled in the knowledge that he loved me, I was a widow and free. Now I am a wife, and it is a sin against my vows and against my husband to feel as I do.