Page 115 of Boleyn Traitor
‘You have upset the gentlemen of the queen’s household,’ I accusehim, quietly. ‘We had an agreement – Master Dereham – that you would keep to your place. You are not at Norfolk House now.’
‘I know it,’ he says, with a bow to Kitty and a sugary smile to me. ‘We were merry company there. But here Master Johns and Sir Edward are such pompous old—’
‘Their place is above you,’ I interrupt. ‘You may not even comment. You were told to keep to your place and show respect. In the circumstances I have no choice...’
‘I think you do have a choice,’ he interrupts me. ‘I won my place as an old friend of the queen. I’ve never failed in my friendship to her, even though certain honourable promises were made that were not honourably kept.’
‘Oh, Francis, stop it!’ Kitty says irritably. ‘I can’t have you being rude to Master Johns, and you know very well you can’t say anything about old friendships. Grandmother gave you back your money – and you probably stole it from her in the first place. Here—’ She pushes a little purse into his hands. ‘Take that, and stop causing trouble.’
I am horrified that she is bribing him. He weighs it in his hand as if he might ask for more. He bows to us both; he looks as if he is biting his cheek to keep from laughing in our faces. ‘Why, Your Majesty, Lady Rochford, I thank you for this charming gift. You’ll have no more trouble from me, I promise you.’ He goes to the door, opens it himself, and steps out. ‘Unless I need more money!’ he laughs, popping his head back in, and then he is gone.
‘Why give him money?’ I demand. ‘We were going to dismiss him, and the moment he said—’
‘I’m queen, aren’t I?’ she returns. ‘I’m the richest woman in England, aren’t I?’
‘Well, not really...’
‘I’m rich enough to buy a fool like Francis Dereham a hundred times over,’ she says irritably. ‘And neither you nor anyone else can tell me what to do with my money.’
St Mary’s, York, Autumn
1541
WE ENTERYORKas a punitive force in September. The journey north from Pontefract is erratic – constantly stopping for gentry and local people to come and prostrate themselves before the king to atone for their part in the Pilgrimage of Grace. In some villages, the bodies of fathers and brothers are still rotting in metal cages hanging from roadside gallows. Their sons and brothers kneel at the crossroads for forgiveness as we go by.
When we enter the city of York, the archbishop himself, with three hundred priests, kneels to the king and offers a treasure chest of money, asking pardon. Lady Mary watches the king harangue them, knowing they were trusting her to come to their aid, knowing they hoped to put her and Reginald Pole on the throne in place of her father. She sits completely still on her horse, her face as blank as a painted saint on a plastered wall; her guilt and grief only shows in convulsive swallowing as she fights the desire to vomit.
We stay at the empty abbey of St Mary, half of the buildings tumbled down by the storm of destruction which is called the king’s reformation. But the abbot’s house has been repaired in a hurry for this visit, and there is a great stone-floored hall where most of the court can be seated to dine; the queen has the rooms for honoured guests, and the king has the abbot’s rooms. There is a charming little parlour room on the ground floor where the abbess used to speak to visitors through a grille. Thomas can enter, unnoticed, from a courtyard and Kitty can slip down a private stair from the abbess’ bedroom when the court has closed for the night.
I go with her, in case there is any trouble, and sit at the back of the room while the two of them playPyramusandThisbespeaking through the grille for the first hour, until their lips come closer andcloser to the metal lattice, and then Kitty opens the little door, and she is in his arms.
‘You’re hot,’ she leans back to look into his face.
‘I have a slight fever,’ he smiles. ‘My heart beats faster when you are against it.’
She puts her hand on his forehead. ‘Thomas, you must take a draught and go to bed. I am sure you’re feverish, and how shall I see you, if you’re ill?’
‘I’m not ill.’ He takes her hand from his forehead and kisses it. ‘Dying of love, of course.’
‘Jane!’ She summons me. ‘Feel his forehead – isn’t he hot?’
He certainly has a fever. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks flushed; his forehead is burning hot and dry.
‘You’d better put yourself to bed and let the queen go,’ I tell him.
It would be disastrous for her to be ill now, when her coronation might be announced any day. All the king’s pleasure in his pretty bride will not keep him in the same palace if she has sweating sickness. He is more afraid of illness than anything in the world.
Reluctantly, Culpeper releases her.
‘But who will look after you?’ she asks him, as I draw her away.
‘I’ve got good servants,’ he assures her. ‘And the king will send Dr Butts if he thinks I’m ill.’
‘Don’t say a word about us,’ she reminds him. ‘Not to the doctor. Don’t say about late nights and no sleep.’
‘Never,’ he says simply. ‘Never. You know I would die rather than betray you.’
She looks aghast. ‘Don’t say die! Don’t speak of it. If you... if you...’
