The Taming of the Queen

HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1545

We hold Christmas in the old way, with dancing and music and masquing, and sports and competitions, and huge amounts of food and wine. Every one of the twelve days of the feast the kitchen labours to bring out some new novelty, some great dish; and the king eats and eats as if to satisfy a growing insatiable hunger, as if he had a monstrous worm coiled and fat inside him.

He commands that we invite the former queen Anne of Cleves for Christmas, and she comes to court plumply good-humoured, as greedy as the king himself, and as merry and as sweet-tempered as any woman could be who has escaped danger with her life and come out with a royal title, a fortune and her freedom.

She is wealthy. She comes with a train of horsemen, bringing rich Christmas gifts, carefully chosen to please all of us. She is three years younger than me, fair-haired, dark-eyed, and with a calm untroubled smile. Her rounded prettiness draws admiring glances from people who have forgotten why the king rejected her. She was the Protestant princess and she fell with their leader, Cromwell, when the king turned against reform. She comes to court as if to remind me that there has been a queen before who worshipped in her own language, served God without pope or bishop, took bread and wine not body and blood – and lasted less than six months.

She smiles warmly at me, but she keeps her distance, as if there is no advantage in friendship with a wife. She knows everything there is to know about Tudor queens, and has concluded that there is no point in becoming my friend. They tell me that she was loving with Queen Katherine Howard: she bore no grudge when their roles were reversed, and the lady-in-waiting walked before her queen; but with me she behaves as if it is hardly worth getting to know me. Her cool glance tells me that she doubts I will make three years, perhaps I will not be here next Christmas.

Nan embraces her without hesitation, falling into her arms as if they are two survivors from a secret war that only they remember. Anne hugs her tightly and then holds my sister at arm’s length to read her face.

‘You are well?’ she asks. Her accent is still German, like the cawing of a crow, even after all these years in England.

‘I am well,’ Nan says mistily, as if moved by a kiss from this ghost. ‘And my sister is Queen of England!’

I can’t be the only person to think this rather awkward, given that this rounded, smiling woman was queen one reign before mine, and dismissed from the royal bed and the throne faster than anyone else has ever been. But Anne turns, still holding my sister close, and smiles at me. ‘God bless Your Majesty,’ she says sweetly. ‘And may your reign be long.’

Unlike yours, I hope; but I incline my head and smile back at her.

‘And is the king in good health?’ she asks, knowing that I have to lie, for it is illegal to suggest that he is ill.

‘He is in very good health,’ I say stoutly.

‘And inclining to the reform of religion?’ she asks hopefully.

Of course, she was raised a Lutheran, though who knows what she believes now? Certainly, she has never written anything of note.

‘The king is a great scholar of the Bible,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

‘We make progress,’ Nan assures her. ‘We really do.’

That night at dinner I sit on one side of the king, Anne of Cleves on my right hand, honoured before the court as the king’s sister – as he chooses to call her. I make sure I am smiling as if I am without any care in the world, while beside me I hear him eat, grunt, belch, pant and eat again. I have become ridiculously sensitive to the noise of him dining; no music can drown it out, no conversation can distract me. I hear the snuffle that he makes when he is tipping a bowl to drink the juices of the meat, the crack of the bones of little birds in his strong jaws, and the loud sucking on sweetmeats and sugar. He makes another noise when he drinks his wine, great gulps and then a sort of pant into the bowl of the wineglass as he catches his breath, as if he is swimming and drinking the lake. I turn my head and speak to Anne of Cleves; I smile down the table at Princess Elizabeth. Catherine Brandon dips her head coquettishly as the king sends down a special dish to her, and Nan glances at me as if to ensure that I have noticed this. I look around the court, at all the people serving themselves onto their heaped plates, snapping their fingers for the servers to bring them more and more wine, and I think: this court has become a monster that is devouring itself, a dragon that eats its own tail for greed.

I am afraid of the cost of keeping this bloated household, the thousands of servants to run after the hundreds of lords, their ladies, their horses, their dogs. It is not that I am cautious – I was raised to run a noble household; I don’t like anything mean – but this is extravagance and luxury fuelled by the destruction of the churches. Only the wealth of a thousand years of the church could pay for this excess. It is as if the court is a great clockwork toy, with a gear and a great wheel that takes in holy wealth and throws out dross every hour, every minute, just as the king will feast now but will vomit later, or strain in pain on the close-stool, clinging to Anthony Denny’s extended hand and calling for Doctor Wendy to administer an enema to purge him.

I see that Edward Seymour has an empty place at his side, on his right hand, a seat of honour, and at once I am alert, wondering if he expects Thomas. The noise of the king spooning oyster broth from a golden bowl, and then dipping manchet bread and sucking it, dies away. I cannot even hear the rattle of the golden spoon as he bangs it against the golden dish to prompt the server to give him more. I am watching the door at the end of the hall and, almost as if I have summoned him, as if my desire has created a spectre, Thomas, in a dark blue cape, comes quietly into the room, swings the cape from his shoulders and gives it to his page, and comes forward to his brother’s table.

He is here. I look away at once. I cannot believe it. He is here.

Edward’s warm welcome is unfeigned. He jumps to his feet and hugs Thomas, holding him tightly. The two exchange rapid words, and then hug again. Then Thomas steps away from the Seymour table and approaches the dais where we are sitting. He bows to the king, then to me and to the prince beside his father, and to the princesses, then lastly to Anne of Cleves, whom he escorted to England to be queen. His dark eyes go over us all indifferently, and when the king beckons him forward he steps up to speak across the high table and stands at a slight angle, so his shoulder is towards me and I see his face only in profile, and he does not look at me.

I remember not to crane my head to listen to their conversation. There are some words about the ships and the winter quarters, and the king tells Thomas to take his seat and dine, and sends a dish of venison stew to the Seymour table at once, and some pastries and a pie and slices of a roast boar. Thomas bows, sits beside his brother and still does not look towards me. I know this only because when his eyes are on me I feel a heat in my face as if I had a slight fever. I don’t even have to see that he is looking at me for this to happen. It is as if my body knows, without my knowing, as if he can touch me without touching.

But tonight I am cool and I look straight ahead as he does, so our gazes go past each other and rest on indifferent objects, at opposite ends of the hall, as if we had never been eyes locked, hands-clasped, bodies entwined at all.

After dinner there is masquing in the new way, with the dancers taking partners from the court. I have said that I will not dance and I am glad to stand beside the king, my slim hand on his great shoulder, and avoid the danger of having to go hand-clasped with Thomas. I don’t think I could bear to be close to him. I am sure I could not dance. I don’t think that I could stand.

The king watches the dancers, applauding one or another. He puts his hand around my waist, while I look fixedly at the windows where a pale winter sun is setting over the trees in the gardens. He slides his hand downwards to pat my buttocks. I make sure that I don’t flinch. I don’t look at Thomas, I look blindly out of the window, and when the king releases me and I can step aside, I see that Thomas has gone.