Page 120 of Boleyn Traitor
‘Next spring?’ They think as I do that winters are hard on old men; the king nearly died last Lent, and he is heavier and sicker now than he was last year. He can’t live for much longer, and then Kitty will be free – we will all be free of him.
‘Next spring.’ She nods. She taps the wooden headboard of the bed; it makes a hollow knocking sound, as if on a coffin lid. At once, she looks aghast. ‘I meant to touch wood for good luck,’ she says, ‘only good luck.’
‘We won’t speak of this,’ I say. ‘But I wish us good luck, too.’
She holds out her hands. ‘And you’ll stay with me, Jane? When I am dowager queen? And then... when... I remarry?’
I think: yes, I will stay with the dowager queen. If we could get the prince into our keeping, we could have a household which was a royal court. Who could be a better governess for the young prince than me? Who in this court is better read? Where might this life take me? Dear to the dowager queen, the keeper of her secrets, andshe the stepmother of the next King of England. My face does not show my leap of excitement, my soaring ambition.
‘I will stay with you,’ I say sweetly. ‘I will stay with you always.’
Chenies Manor, Buckinghamshire, Autumn
1541
OUR ROUTE HOMEtakes us to the country house of Lord Russell – a firm favourite of the king, one of the old lords who has served the Tudors since their arrival, one of the old lords who has taken my Lord Cromwell’s fall as his own advantage. He was made a baron at the last round of ennoblements, and he is Lord High Admiral.
His house, Chenies Manor, is much changed from when I was here before. Then, I was with my sister-in-law Anne, on the progress we made to celebrate the arrest of Sir Thomas More, when Anne was at her greatest peak of success. If I believed in ghosts, I would be haunted by my younger self and by Anne and George – all three of us supremely confident in our looks, our charm, our wit, and our future. Now, a fifth queen and I ride under the great red-brick archway to the inner courtyard, and there is no Queen Anne waiting for me on the great stone steps before the open double doors, but Lady Russell, beaming with pride, richly dressed waiting to welcome us.
She is rightly proud of her house, built in the modern fashion with soaring gables and high chimneys. I take it that Lord Russell has been given a brickyard among his other rewards, for the house is a palace with great gable ends of red-brick triangles without windows, like a fairytale castle. She takes us to the beautiful pavilion in the garden, where we have views over the parkland, newly enclosed for huntingand stuffed with deer, should the king choose to shoot at them as they are driven towards him. While the king rests in his rooms and complains to Lord Russell about the Scots king, who is poisoning his mind as his ulcer poisons his body, Lady Russell has wine and sugarplums served to Kitty and tells us the gossip from London.
The Ottoman army has reached Budapest, and I think this must be a benefit to England, as the Christian princes will want England to join a war against the infidel at the very gates of Christendom. An appeal from Spain and France will take the king’s mind off the insult from the Scots. But I have no one to discuss this with, my thinking hobbled by the company of ladies whose only concern is what this invasion will do to the price of soaps and silks. The only other person who might think strategically – Lady Mary – will not hear a word of criticism against Spain. She greets Lady Russell with particular affection. Her ladyship was in her Lady Mary’s household when she was a princess, before it was diminished. They are both extremely careful to show the greatest respect to Kitty.
Lady Russell takes us up to our rooms, and I see that the royal guest rooms have a picture gallery running between the king’s side and the queen’s rooms, where the lovers might meet. We dine in the great hall, and there is music after dinner, conversation and singing; but the king orders there is to be no dancing. He sits with his leg propped on a stool, and even from a distance, we can smell the oozing ulcer, which has opened up again. He is a man rotting before he is in the grave, and when he calls for more wine and more pastries, I think he is a man knowingly destroying his own body, as he destroys everything around him.
Lord Russell makes the mistake of telling the king that thieves have been caught at Windsor Castle. The king bursts out in an extraordinary fury that the two poor men must be charged with treason and hanged for treason, because stealing from a king is an attack on his greatness. This is not thieving, this is treason, high treason, the men must be hanged, cut down while they are alive, their bellies slit and their guts drawn out. Lord Russell – who has sat on morethan one treason trial, including the death of my husband – is not a squeamish man; but even he murmurs that since the king was at York at the time of the burglary, it was no attack on him personally, nor on His Majesty.
‘Don’t speak to me of York!’ the king screams. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me of York! It’s treason, too! That’s treason to say it!’
All the musicians fall silent; the chorister warbles a note and then waits, open-mouthed. For a moment, I think: this is it! He has gone full-moon mad, and what are we going to do? We cannot overthrow him; we cannot disobey him. We have raised him all-powerful, and now he is beyond restraint, and none of us are safe. If you make a madman a despot, what are you to do when he goes insane?
‘Your Majesty...’ Lord Russell says helplessly.
The king waves furiously at Thomas Culpeper and Thomas Seymour, and they rush to his side, haul him to his feet and, half-dragging, half-lifting, get him out of the room.
Lord Russell, white with shock, turns to Kitty. ‘I am so sorry, I did not mean to offend...’ he starts.
Kitty is as frightened as a choirboy; she is open-mouthed like him.
‘No offence was intended,’ Lady Russell intervenes, smiling at the queen and at Lady Mary. ‘No doubt the king is weary from his long ride. Shall we all take our leave, Your Majesty? Shall we say goodnight? And I shall see that the king has a late supper; some good food and wine will restore him.’
‘Yes...’ Kitty stammers. ‘Goodnight, Lady Russell, Lord Russell. Thank you for your hospitality.’
WE THINK THATThomas will not be able to get away, that the king will gorge himself in his bedroom and want Thomas as a bedfellow to listen to his ranting before he sleeps. But at midnight, there is a light tap on the door from the gallery, and Thomas slips into the room.
He looks grim, and she is pale and strained. They cling togetherlike children escaping a terrifying ordeal. They say nothing for long moments, and then he pulls back and looks at her face.
‘Is he asleep?’ she asks.
‘Dead drunk,’ he replies.
They do not speak another word. He leads her to the bed, and I turn my chair so that the high back shields them and I am facing the locked bedroom door. They are quiet, a few whispered words and warm kisses; I hear her sigh with pleasure and the susurration of her nightgown being raised. I hear him make a little wordless exclamation of longing and then delight, and then I hear him sigh. They don’t swive so much as melt together, and I find that I am breathless as they are, my cheeks burning, my body yearning. It is five years since I felt a man’s touch, since I heard the quiet whisper of words of love breathed against naked skin. Five years, but even before then, I was never touched as Thomas Culpeper silently touches Kitty, and I never sighed as she does, against his shoulder, muffling a cry – just one – as she finds ecstasy.
In silence, I wait for the chime of midnight from the clock on the red-brick tower before I whisper, without rising from my chair: ‘It’s time to go.’
I hear them breathe together, as if awakened from dreaming, and when I turn my chair around they are like creatures entranced; she is tying the cords of his cape, he has his hands on her waist, drawing her to him. Her hair is tumbled down, her nightgown pulled from her shoulders, her neck rosy with the flush of desire, her eyes green as a cat’s.
‘He has to go,’ I remind them.
