The Taming of the Queen

I think it is Thomas who has caught me up, and I cling to him, shuddering. I turn to his shoulder and press my face against his warm chest and throat. But it is the king holding me in his arms, and I recoil and cry out again for fear that I have said Thomas’s name in my nightmare and now I am in real danger indeed.

‘Hush, hush,’ he says. ‘Hush, my love. It was a dream. Nothing but a dream. You’re safe now.’ He holds me gently against his fleshy comforting side, soft as a pillow.

‘My God, what a dream! God help me, what a nightmare!’

‘Nothing, it was nothing.’

‘I was so afraid. I dreamed I was dead.’

‘You are safe with me. You are safe with me, beloved.’

‘Did I talk in my sleep?’ I whimper. I am so afraid that I said his name.

‘No, you said no words, you just wept, poor girl. I woke you at once.’

‘It was so terrible!’

‘Poor little love,’ Henry says tenderly, stroking my hair, my bare shoulder. ‘You are safe with me. Do you want something to eat?’

‘No, no,’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘Nothing to eat. Nothing more to eat.’

‘You should have something, for comfort.’

‘No, no, really. I couldn’t.’

‘You are awake now? You know yourself?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘Was it a dream of foretelling?’ he asks. ‘Did you dream of my ships?’

‘No,’ I say firmly. Two of this man’s wives were accused by him of witchcraft; I’m not going to claim any sort of second sight. ‘It was nothing, it meant nothing. Just a muddle of castle walls and feeling cold and afraid.’

He lies back on the pillows. ‘Can you sleep now?’

‘Yes, I can. Thank you for being so kind to me.’

‘I am your husband,’ he says with simple dignity. ‘Of course I guard your sleep and soothe your fears.’

In a moment he is breathing heavily, his mouth lolling open. I put my head against his bulky shoulder and close my eyes. I know that my dream was the dream of Tryphine, the maid who was married to a man who killed his wives. I know it was the smell of dead wife on my own fingers.

SOUTHSEA CASTLE, PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR, SUMMER 1545

It is a most delightful day, like a painting of a summer day, the sun bright on the blue waters of the Solent, the brisk wind scuffing little white caps on the waves. We have climbed to the top of one of the defensive towers overlooking the harbour and, now that they have hauled the king up the stone stairs and he can see everything, he is delighted with the world, standing astride at the sea wall, hands on his hips, as if he were an admiral on his own ship, the court around him abuzz with excitement and anxiety.

I cannot believe that everyone is joyous, as if we were about to watch a joust on a summer day, as if this were the legendary Field of the Cloth of Gold – a struggle between France and England to be the most glamorous, the most graceful, the most cultured and the most sporting. Surely everyone knows that it is nothing like that today? This is not playing at war but the hours before a real battle. There can be nothing to celebrate and everything to fear.

Looking behind me, over the open fields of Southsea Common, I see that though the court is putting a brave face on it, I am not the only one to be anxious. The yeomen of the guard are already prepared for the worst, their horses saddled and held on tight reins by their pages, ready for mounting and galloping away. The guardsmen are already in armour, with only their helmets to put on. Behind them, the great baggage train that always follows the royal court everywhere – petitioners, beggars, lawyers, thieves and fools – is slowly dragging itself away – the baggage train always knows which side will win – and the people of Portsmouth are fleeing their own town, some of them walking under a burden of household goods, some riding, and some loading up carts. If the French defeat our fleet they will sack Portsmouth and probably fire it as well. The king’s court seem to be the only ones who expect triumph and are looking forward to a battle.

The many bells of the town churches are tolling as our ships get ready to sail out of the harbour, the hundreds of noisy peals scaring the gulls, who circle and cry over the sea. There are about eighty ships, the greatest fleet England has ever assembled, some on the far side loading crew and weapons, some ready to go. I can see them unfurling their sails to our right, deeper in the harbour, the rowing boats and the galleys busy about them, taking ropes and preparing to haul them out of port to the sea.

‘The greatest navy ever mustered,’ the king declares to Anthony Browne at his side. ‘And ready to fight the French in the new way. It will be the greatest battle we have ever seen.’

‘Thank God we are here to see it!’ replies Sir Anthony. ‘What a great chance. I have commissioned a picture to show our victory.’