Page 90 of Boleyn Traitor
‘Was that a proper curtsey?’ Kitty demands of me, in a hissed whisper behind her hand.
‘Perfectly proper,’ I say, admiring the hollow show of deference.
I lead Lady Mary to the queen. They exchange kisses, both of them kissing the air on either side of the other’s cheek, both cheeks barely touching, cold as eels.
Katheryn rushes to sit before Lady Mary sinks into the window seat, hurrying to claim precedence, and then she has nothing to say.
‘You are welcome to court, Lady Mary.’ I fill the awkward silence. ‘My father sends you his best wishes. I know he has sent you his translation of Cardinal Torquemada’s psalms this year.’
Lady Mary turns her head from the rigid little queen. ‘Please send him my thanks. I am always so interested in his work.’
Still the queen says nothing. She sighs as if exhausted by boredom and looks out of the window to the garden. It is sleeting down on the formal garden; the different coloured squares of gravel divided by little hedges of herbs are all slowly going grey and white. The gaily painted wooden statues of heraldic beasts are growing crowns of melting snow; the river beyond gleams silver in the cold air. Kitty gazes out of the window, as blank as snow clouds.
In the queen’s silence, Lady Mary and I go from a comment on the weather to the many words in English for rain.
‘The dialect of Venice has a word for the reflection of light from water on the ceiling of a room,’ I tell her. ‘Gibigiana. Reflected light.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Katheryn demands abruptly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! What are you going on about?’
I could blush for her rudeness. Everyone in the room stops their low-voiced conversations and looks from the queen to Lady Mary.
‘We were speaking of an Italian word, Your Grace,’ Lady Mary explains politely. ‘A word that means both reflection of light and – interestingly – a gaudy or glittery woman.’
I keep my face perfectly still at this unexpected, unwanted demonstration of Lady Mary’s scholarship.
Katheryn, dazzling as a magpie in Lady Mary’s mother’s jewels, goes white but for two spots of red, as if someone has slapped both cheeks. ‘Lady Rochford,’ she squeaks. ‘A word, if you please?’
I rise at once and go behind the queen’s chair to lean over her shoulder so she can hiss a hysterical complaint.
‘She insulted me!’
‘She meant nothing.’
‘She should be talking to me, not you!’
‘You’ve said nothing to her.’
‘She didn’t call me “Majesty”.’
‘She called you “Your Grace” which is quite adequate since you’re not crowned yet.’
‘I won’t have her at court.’
I steal a quick glance at the princess. Now, she is talking easily, in a ripple of low-voiced Spanish, to Catherine Brandon, the half-Spanish daughter of Katherine of Aragon’s most beloved lady-in-waiting. This visit is getting worse and worse.
‘You’ve got to welcome her for the season,’ I say flatly. ‘The king has ordered it; you’re her stepmother.’
‘You tell her: I want respect. She was respectful to Jane Seymour, wasn’t she? And to Anne of Cleves?’
‘My dear, she was as respectful to them as she is to you. Believe me, there is nothing to make a quarrel about. And you’ll make yourself look foolish.’
‘I’m not foolish!’ She gives a little scream.
‘You’ll look foolish if you quarrel with the king’s daughter over nothing.’ I gamble on Kitty’s love of appearance.
Her restless glance goes past me to Lady Mary’s entourage. ‘And how many ladies-in-waiting has she brought with her? She’s only allowed two. I know it. She’s only allowed two.’
I follow her gaze. Four ladies are talking pleasantly to old friends.
