Page 109 of Boleyn Traitor
‘Of course – we all love the king,’ I say repressively, and I slide the note into his hand as the dance takes me away from him to another partner.
SLOWLY, THE LUMBERINGbaggage train and army of guards wind their way northwards. We rest for a few days at the home of the king’s grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, where the king becomes maudlin with grief and speaks of her devotion, without observing that he has destroyed her church. I think that he can only love people who have died. Only then is he released from envious comparing.
From Collyweston Palace, we go to stay with Catherine Brandon in her castle of Grimsthorpe. Of course, it is her husband the duke’s castle now. The duke is excited to show off the prize he has won; but he is careful how much he boasts: this is a king capable of taking his host’s property as a forced gift. Brandon has learned the courtier’s trick of boasting with humility.
Catherine Brandon welcomes us into her castle. Everything is very fine and rebuilt with her money. As the maids make the rooms ready for the queen, I go to my own bedchamber. At once, Catherine Tilney taps on the door and says the queen wants to know if I have got the thing, a special thing that she wants. Tilney is bubbling with laughter, and I guess that Kitty has told her she is passing notes to Culpeper. The girl is bound in loyalty to the queen as a kinswoman and a fellow boarder at the dowager duchess’ house at Lambeth; but Kitty is foolish to be indiscreet, especially with our uncle the Duke of Norfolk expected at any moment.
‘Oh God, spare me my uncle!’ Kitty says, although there are several courtiers in earshot.
‘Amen,’ Catherine Brandon whispers.
Thomas Howard arrives in a sour mood, to a scant welcome from the king, who is distracted by Charles Brandon and flirting with the young duchess.
‘You all seem very merry,’ my uncle says irritably when we meet in the queen’s rooms before dinner.
‘Yes, my lord,’ I say pleasantly. ‘Their Majesties are enjoying the progress.’
‘And is he...’ He need say no more. It is the only thing he ever asks me.
‘Yes, my lord, as I say. We are enjoying the progress.’
He wants to know more; he wants guarantees that a man who everyone thought would die in Lent will have a son by next May.
‘It is God’s will,’ I say repressively.
He puts a hand upon my arm, but he does not painfully grip as he sometimes does. I could almost think he was asking for help. ‘Jane, if God does not favour us, then no one else will,’ he says softly. The tip of his head towards the king makes it clear who he means. ‘The king says he’ll name Lady Mary as heir after Prince Edward. Our Lady Elizabeth is dropped.’
He lowers his voice. ‘He’s brought Lady Mary on progress to show that they are reconciled. He could give her the north – her own council in the north. What if he acknowledges it’s a divided kingdom: north and south, Papist and Protestant? What will become of us if she has a council of the north and the Seymours a regency in the south?’
I shift, but he does not release me.
‘D’you think he’s standing up to the travel? If I can get my daughter Mary married to Thomas Seymour within a year – will that be soon enough? Or d’you think he might—’ he does not dare say the word ‘die’.
‘He seems better,’ I say carefully. ‘Praise God.’
‘Amen. But our future depends on Kitty getting with child and being crowned before he... before then! Does she use no potions or spells or witchcraft?’ he asks, as if he hopes the answer is ‘yes’. ‘Can you do nothing more?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, do what you can,’ he says. ‘Do whatever you can, Jane. You only have to look at him to see we don’t have long.’
THEGREATNORTHRoad is in a terrible state and cannot bear the weight of our progress. If the king ever again needs an army in the north of England, they will never get there in time. I ride beside Kitty, following the mounted guards, avoiding the impassable road, going cross-country across fields and common land, planning our grand entry to Lincoln.
‘And what am I to wear?’ she asks.
‘Cloth of silver, and the king is in cloth of gold.’
She giggles. ‘We’ll look like fairings,’ she says.
‘You’ll look royal,’ I say severely.
But she has already forgotten her costume. ‘He says that if he can get away, he will come and see me at night,’ she whispers.
‘He can’t,’ I say flatly. I have already opened this twist of paper and read this promise, and I will insist it is refused. ‘You said your notes would be safe to deliver – that you would just say how you were. You can’t make secret meetings.’
‘Just one,’ she pleads. ‘Just once, Jane. I have to see him alone, just once.’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
