The Taming of the Queen

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, EARLY SUMMER 1545

The Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, who clung to the doomed cause of Princess Mary’s poor mother, Queen Katherine, who called Anne Boleyn ‘The Lady’ with such a sneer that everyone knew he meant ‘the whore’, has grown old in the service of Princess Mary and her mother and is going home to Spain. He is as lame as the king, crippled with gout, and can walk only if he leans on his sticks, his old face crumpled with pain. He comes to Whitehall Palace to say goodbye to the king on a fine day in early May, a day so warm, with winds carrying the scent of blossom from the apple orchards, that we go out into the garden to catch him before he goes in to his royal audience and I tell him that he should stay – England will be as hot as Spain come June.

He tries to bow and I gesture that he should sit in his chair.

‘I need the Spanish sun on my old bones, Your Majesty,’ he says. ‘It has been a long, long time since I saw my home. I want to sit in the sun and write my memoirs.’

‘You will write your memoirs?’

He sees my sudden attention. ‘Yes. I love to write. And I have so much that I recall so clearly.’

I clap my hands. ‘They will be worth reading, my lord! The things that you have seen! Whatever will you say?’

He does not laugh; his face is grave. ‘I will say that I have seen the birth of dark times,’ he says quietly.

I see Mary coming towards us, through the garden, her ladies behind her, and I can see by the way she holds the crucifix on the rosary at her belt that she is nerving herself to say goodbye to this man who has been like a father to her. Indeed, he has been more of a father than the king ever was. He loved and served her mother and he loved and served her. Perhaps she thought he would never leave.

‘I will let you say goodbye to the princess alone,’ I say gently. ‘She will be so sad to see you go. She has trusted you for good advice since she was a very little girl. You are one of the few . . .’ I mean to say that he is one of a very few faithful friends to her; but as I speak I am suddenly aware that she had many friends, and many of them have died. He is one of the few that has survived. Almost everyone who loved Mary was put to death by her father. There are tears in his dark eyes. ‘You are generous to let us be alone together,’ he says, his old voice trembling. ‘I have loved her since she was a little girl. It has been an honour to advise her. I wish I could have—’ He breaks off. ‘I could not serve her as I hoped,’ he says. ‘I did not keep her mother safe, nor her.’

‘They were difficult times,’ I say diplomatically. ‘But no-one could doubt your devotion.’

He hauls himself to his feet as Princess Mary comes near. ‘I shall pray for you, Your Majesty,’ he says quietly. ‘I shall pray for your safety.’

It is such a strange remark from the ambassador who could not save his own queen that I hesitate before beckoning Mary forward. ‘Oh, but I’m safe, thank you Ambassador,’ I say. ‘The king made me Regent General; he trusts me. You can have every confidence, Princess Mary is safe in my keeping. You can leave her without fear. I am Queen of England and her mother. I will keep her safe.’

Ambassador Chapuys looks at me as if he pities me. He has seen five queens take their place at the side of the king since his own Infanta from Spain. ‘It is you I am afraid for,’ he says shortly.

I give a little laugh. ‘I would do nothing to offend the king,’ I say. ‘And he loves me.’

He bows. ‘My queen, Katherine of Aragon, did nothing to offend him,’ he says gently. I realise that for him Henry has only ever really had one queen: the first and only Queen Katherine. ‘And he loved her deeply and truly. Until the moment that he stopped loving her. And then nothing would ease his discomfort but her death.’

Despite the sunshine in the garden I am suddenly cold. ‘But what could I do?’ I ask.

I mean – what does he imagine can go wrong, what could I possibly do that would offend the king so badly that he would put me aside, as he put Katherine of Aragon aside, imprisoned her in a cold distant castle and let her die of neglect? But the old man misunderstands me. He thinks I mean what could I do to escape, and his answer is chilling: ‘Majesty, when you lose his favour, when you get your first hint of it, I pray you leave the country at once,’ he says quietly. ‘He will not annul another marriage. He has outgrown that; he could not bear the shame of it. All of Christendom would laugh at him and he could not bear that. When he is tired of you he will end it with your death.’

‘Ambassador!’ I exclaim.

He nods his grey head. ‘These are the last words I will ever say to you, Your Majesty. They are a warning from an old man with nothing to lose. Death is the king’s preference now. He is not driven to it. I have known kings forced to execute their friends or loved ones; but he is not one of them.’ He pauses. ‘He likes finality. He likes to turn against someone and know they are dead the next day. He likes to know that he has that power. If you lose his favour, Your Majesty, please make sure you get away.’

I cannot reply.

He shakes his head. ‘My greatest regret, my greatest failure, was that we did not get my queen away,’ he says softly.

My ladies are watching me. I move my hand in a little gesture to invite Princess Mary to join us and I step aside to allow them time to speak together in private. By her suddenly guarded expression I think he is warning her, as he just warned me. This is a man who has observed the king for sixteen years, who has studied him and seen him grow in his power, observed the advisors who disagreed with him dragged to the Tower and executed, watched the wives who displeased him exiled from court or executed, known the innocent men of small rebellions hanged in their thousands in chains. I feel a shudder down my spine, as if my tingling skin knows of a danger that I cannot name, and I shake my head, and walk away.