Page 23 of Boleyn Traitor
‘To the king and to other poets: Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard. To my husband George and to Henry Norris.’
‘In Venice, a woman with half a dozen men would be called a courtesan?’
I flush with irritation at his crassness. ‘It’s a game,’ I say. ‘As I think you know well enough, Master Cromwell. It’s the game of courtly love, and nobody takes it seriously. All the ladies are in love with the king, all the noblemen are in love with the queen.’
He shakes his head. ‘Far beyond a simple lawyer like me. Do you have a lover, Lady Rochford?’
I turn my head from his dark-eyed scrutiny. ‘I’ve been at court too long,’ I say quietly. ‘I came as a little girl, and I’ve seen too much.’ I resist the temptation to confess that I am tired of the constant play of courtly love and more and more afraid that there is no real love at all.
For a moment, his calculating gaze softens. ‘I should think you have seen too much, poor child. Does the queen favour anyone?’
‘Henry Norris, I suppose. And Francis. Thomas Wyatt has been devoted to her since she was a girl.’
‘Weston or Bryan?’
‘What?’
‘Her favourite: Francis Weston or Francis Bryan?’
I give my false courtier laugh to hide my discomfort. ‘Oh, both of them! That’s what I am saying. This is a court of flirtation!’
‘And do they advise her? These lovers? Do they talk of the dowager princess, of the alliance with France? Do they talk of the pope and the need for the reform of the Church? She reads forbidden books, doesn’t she? Does she read with them? With her brother? They’re both keen reformers? He is her chief advisor? What do they speak of?’
‘Of course, George has the full confidence of both the king and queen—’
He makes a noise, an irritated littletsk. ‘Lady Rochford, do you not trust me?’
‘Of course I do! I said I am so grateful—’
‘Please do trust me. Half of what you tell me, I know already. I know, for instance, that the queen has forbidden books in her privatelibrary and that half of them have been given her by her brother. That they are both so determined on the reform of the Church that they swear there will be no monastery standing in ten years—’
‘Only those that are corrupt—’
‘And who d’you think inspects them for corruption? Me! I’m on your side, Lady Rochford. We’re all on the same side. I’m for reform, and for the queen, and for her son and for a Tudor England at peace.’
‘George advises Anne,’ I volunteer. ‘And all of our inner circle are for reform, enemies of the Spanish party and of Spain, and the old queen.’
‘And what d’you think of Jane Seymour?’ he says casually. ‘Does she put herself forward?’
He changes the subject so quickly that he surprises me into honesty. ‘Jane Seymour? She’s a nothing! She has her place as a favour to her brothers. I’m surprised she came back to Anne’s court. She was so fond of the que... of the dowager princess.’
‘She, too, has a train of admirers?’
I smile at his shot in the dark. ‘You can’t know everything if you think that, Master Secretary. She is famously modest; she is notoriously modest; she’s embarrassingly modest. She doesn’t encourage anyone.’
He pats my hand. ‘Please notice her in future, Lady Rochford. And tell me what you think of her. She certainly has great friends at court – important friends, if not admirers.’
‘I’ve never seen her talking with anyone,’ I warn him. ‘But then, she rarely speaks. She’ll never attract the king that way.’
His smile widens. ‘Just as I thought! You are a scholar of the court, Lady Rochford. When we next meet, you must tell me: what is the meaning of Jane Seymour – and who has taught her silence?’
OUR HARVEST DANCEwith Anne asCeresturns into the sort of romp the king loves, which Anne used to stage for him every other night during their courtship, when herglittering rooms at Whitehall rivalled and outshone the dignified grace of the old queen at Westminster. It is as if those times have come again when the master of ceremonies announces that the dance of the ladies bringing in the harvest must be interrupted because some strange country men have demanded the return of their wheat sheaves. All the gentlemen come in, dressed in homespun like rustics. The king, head and shoulders above everyone else, fatter than anyone else, and with a halting stride, is easily spotted; but the rest of them are hidden in baggy smocks, with hats pulled down over their eyes. Mary Shelton screams in delicious alarm, and our dance breaks up in confusion. The king’s choristers march in, dressed as peasants, singing harvest songs and leaping around us, and we all snatch up the sheaves of wheat and pile them around Anne’s throne like a little makeshift castle, and swear to defend the harvest against this raid.
Anne laughs with apparent delight as the king lunges for Mary Shelton, who screams and ducks, holding tight to her sheaf of wheat. Jane Seymour runs away altogether, as if it is too rowdy for her, but her brother Edward, a handsome, fair-haired man of about thirty-five, sweeps me off my feet by lifting me bodily from the ground, and as I gasp, his brother, Thomas, snatches the sheaf of wheat from me and throws it across the room. It’s caught in a high leap by the king’s fool – who gives me a merry wave and runs towards Anne to return it to her, the queen of the harvest.
Edward Seymour yells at the fool for betraying the cause of the peasant men, and the fool pretends to be confused by the shouting, flees towards the king, and flings himself under his feet. The king nearly falls over him and snatches up a sheaf and gives it back to me as a gesture of chivalry. I run with it to Anne and am greeted by her most insincere peal of laughter.
We are all tumbled and tousled and breathless and laughing; Elizabeth Somerset is holding a torn sleeve that shows her naked shoulder, Margaret Shelton has disappeared altogether with someone; Anne Parr is tussling over a sheaf with William Herbert, whenthe master of ceremonies announces that the harvest has made it home and the lady harvesters have won. Anne, asCeres, holds out the crown for the harvester who was first to get her sheaf of wheat home, and her gracious smile never wavers as Mary Shelton emerges, rumpled, from a dark corner, curtseys and bows her dark head for the crown of woven corn.
