Page 107 of Boleyn Traitor
‘Mary of Guise! Great mistake!’ the king exults, but Kitty and Culpeper do not remember the many women that the king considered for his fourth wife. The king smiles at me, knowing that I will understand his joy.
‘What’s she got to show for it now?’ he demands beaming at me. ‘Married to a madman and two sons in the grave! She must be breaking her heart this morning. She must be crying her lovely grey eyes out!’
I curtsey. I imagine she is breaking her heart, but it will be for the loss of her two baby sons, not because she refused this selfish old man.
‘You hear that, sweetheart?’ The king, halfway to the door, pauses and turns back to bellow at Kitty.
She nods, her head bobbing like a doll.
‘A great lady could ‘ave been in your place; but she married another king,’ he tells her. ‘And now she’s got nothing, because God did not bless the marriage. You get a son – you hear? And you will triumph over her as soon as you do, as I triumph over her now!’
Kitty nods. I know that she has no idea what he is talking about, but it doesn’t matter. He is so delighted with himself, with the world, this morning, that he won’t wait for a reply. The three of them – Thomas Culpeper, the king, and the page – their arms interlinked, stagger past me like drunks, followed by Sir Anthony and a few other young courtiers. Only the king is looking around, smiling. The rest look at their boots, as shamed as Kitty, who sits in bed in a crumpled nightgown, nodding and nodding while a crimson blush rises from her collar bones to her forehead.
‘We’ll go on progress,’ the king decides at the threshold, bringing everyone to a stumbling halt. ‘North. Triumphant progress. And we’ll meet James of Scotland on the border. I’ll commiserate with him for his loss, and we’ll set a peace. He’ll want a peaceful kingdom, now that he doesn’t have a son. He can’t risk his life fighting us, if he doesn’t have an heir. But I do! I’ll remind him that I do. This summer – we’ll go this summer.’
THE GROOMS OFthe household try to plan a route without Thomas Cromwell’s expertise or his maps and eye for detail, then change it as the king demands different halts and visits on the way north. I, too, plan a progress which will show Kitty to the people of the northern lands, as a bringer of peace. I pick out coronets for her to wear to remind everyone that she is a king’s wife now, blue gowns to remind everyone of the Holy Mother, dark-purple gowns to remind them she will be the king’s widow. She will be dowager queen and – with luck – queen regent.
‘You must visit the royal nurseries before we go,’ I tell her. ‘Establish yourself as stepmother to the prince and Lady Elizabeth.’
She makes a little grimace. ‘Must I? Why do I have to?’
‘It makes you stronger... If people see you as the prince’s stepmother, taking an interest in his upbringing, being a mother to him – if the king sees you as mother to the prince, he’ll crown you queen.’
‘The Seymours are never going to let me near their precious boy. And besides, I don’t like little children.’
‘They will. I have agreed it. And when you see him, you must pet him, make much of him, put into his head that you’re his new mother. He’ll be king one day; and then your title will be in his gift – your pension, too.’
Kitty is never lazy when it comes to her own interests. Raised as the daughter of a poor relation in an ambitious house, she knows all about positioning in the family, at court, in the world.
‘And Lady Elizabeth. Yes, her too,’ I insist over her protest. ‘You have to be stepmother to all of them. You’ve got to get on good terms with Lady Mary as well. You can’t have her opposing you as regent.’
‘I can’t be her mother! She’s years older than me! And she hates me!’ Kitty protests.
‘She’s coming on progress with us,’ I warn her. ‘You’ll ride before her as her stepmother. She’ll be respectful to you, and you must look loving and kind to her. You have to look sure of yourself. You have to act like a queen crowned.’
‘And if I do, will he crown me at York? He was going to crown Jane Seymour at York, wasn’t he?’
‘I think he will.’ I cannot keep my own excitement from my voice. ‘Especially now that it would be such a snub to James of Scotland and an insult to Mary of Guise who have lost both their sons. Yes. I think he will.’
Holy Cross, Waltham, Essex, May
1541
KITTY’S VISITS TOLady Elizabeth and little Prince Edward are a triumph. The king is mawkish about the motherless three-year-old boy and weeps over him. Kitty is horrified by his tears, and the stilted wariness of the child. I put a firm hand in her back and push her towards the little boy. The king gives a gulping sob, and Kitty puts out a tentative hand, and the child bows. Realising how pretty they would look together, Kitty puts her arm around his shoulders and bends down to put her bronze head against his, her cheek to his round face. The child’s staring eyes widen, but still he says nothing but the formal greeting that has been drilled into him. When I take him back to his nurse, I realise he has wet himself with fear.
Lady Elizabeth is presented to her father and has a poem to recite which she has translated from Latin. The king shows little interest in her, though she tries hard to gain his attention. I watch her dark eyes flick from him to Kitty, as she takes the measure of this new stepmother.
‘My little kinswoman!’ Kitty coos, stretching out her arms, and the seven-year-old girl curtseys and steps forward for a kiss, as if she does not much value the Howard connection or put much faith in a third stepmother.
Lady Mary is also visiting the royal nursery, and although Kitty makes a gallant attempt to be charming – the young woman is too experienced a courtier to show anything but false respectful affection. We meet in what were once Lady Mary’s own rooms in a wealthy devout abbey, ruled by the king and queen, her mother and father. Not by a flicker of expression does she indicate that this rich centre of holiness is now an echoing shell, shrill with worldly ambition, where she visits occasionally, as an unwelcome guest.
‘And where is Master Culpeper?’ Kitty asks me, with an air of complete indifference. ‘He wasn’t at dinner last night?’
One of the pages of the king’s chamber tells me that Master Culpeper is in bed.
‘Ill?’ Kitty asks the young man. ‘Seriously ill?’
‘Ill or injured, Your Grace. I just know he’s taken to his bed.’
