Page 71 of Boleyn Traitor
1540
INFEBRUARY, IFINDboxes in the Howard hall and my uncle’s travelling cape thrown over them.
‘You’re going away, my lord?’ I ask, curtseying to him.
‘To France,’ he says. ‘To persuade Francis of France that whoever our king marries, even if his bride is a Lutheran, we are still their friend – and a better friend than they’ll find in Spain.’
‘God speed,’ I say piously.
The duke takes my elbow in a hard grip. ‘You can tell your patron, Thomas Cromwell, that if I can turn the King of France back to our side, then we won’t need friendship with Cleves, nor with any paltry German princes, nor with any whining Lutherans. And if we’re not bound to them, we can be rid of the heretic queen and – more – we can say a fond farewell to the fool who made the marriage!’
I stand stock-still, and he releases me.
‘Not if she conceives a child,’ I say, to test his knowledge.
The scowl from under his craggy eyebrows tells me that he doesn’t know the king’s failure. Kitty Howard has not reported to our uncle; the queen’s secret is still safe. I rather like Kitty for this unexpected loyalty to her queen.
‘When pigs fly with their tails forward,’ he says; but he is bluffing.
‘He comes to her bed every night.’
‘He complains she’s not inviting,’ he says uncertainly.
‘A king doesn’t need invitation. No man in England is more potent than him.’
My husband died at the hands of this man, for questioning the king’s potency. ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘We all know that.’
KITTYHOWARD ANDI are supposed to be laying out the queen’s evening gown; but she is prancing about with a cape over her shoulders instead of spreading it out on the chest.
‘I’m glad you don’t tell your uncle all the secrets of the queen’s bedchamber,’ I remark. ‘Take that off, child.’
‘How d’you know that?’ she asks wonderingly. ‘Do you know everything that happens everywhere, your ladyship?’
‘Yes,’ I say, laughing. ‘I am the she-pope, all-seeing and all-knowing.’
‘But you are terribly clever, aren’t you?’ she asks engagingly. ‘I mean, you read all the time, and you can understand Latin and everything.’
‘You could understand Latin,’ I say. ‘I could teach you?’
She makes a pretty little pout. ‘I don’t need to know Latin,’ she says. ‘I have enough trouble reading and writing.’ She looks shyly at me. ‘But could you advise me about my money?’
None of the maids can resist buying ribbons and jewels with their salaries; they are always in debt. ‘I can try,’ I say.
‘I have a hundred pounds in coin, and I don’t know where to keep it safely,’ she says. ‘It’s not mine, or I’d just spend it. I’ve promised to keep it: but where?’
‘A hundred pounds? That’s a fortune. Where did you get it from?’
She looks both embarrassed and defiant. ‘My young man – a young man of my acquaintance – left England and gave it to me for safekeeping until he returns.’
‘Is it stolen?’
‘Oh no! Well, at least not a robbery?’
‘He’s cheated someone out of it?’ I hesitate. ‘It’s not counterfeit money, is it?’
‘No...’ She wriggles like a child at the question. ‘I don’t know for sure. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think. I think it may be... I think it is profit from his work.’
‘That’s very profitable work,’ I comment acidly. ‘And a lot of money for a young man to trust to a friend. Are you betrothed, that he should give you his life savings?’
