‘You have the best date for an advance on Paris?’ I ask him.
He bows again and produces a roll of manuscript from his sleeve. ‘The stars suggest the first week in September,’ he says. ‘I have drawn the alignments for you to study. I know that you take an interest in such work.’
‘I do.’ He puts the papers on the table at my side. ‘And what do you think when you see these princesses?’ I ask him. ‘You see them here with their little coronels on their heads, as Tudor princesses.’
‘I think they can have nothing but glory ahead of them,’ he says tactfully. He smiles at Elizabeth’s dazzled face. ‘Who can doubt but that you will both reign over a great country?’
Mary smiles; of course she hopes for an alliance with Spain. But Elizabeth has ambitions in her own right. She watches me command the Privy Council, she watches me take reports from all around England. She is learning that a woman can educate herself, follow her own determination, command others. ‘Will I?’ she whispers.
I wonder what he really thinks, what he can really see. I nod to Elizabeth and Mary, and they withdraw from the table as Nicholas Kratzer produces another roll from his satchel.
‘I have drawn up your chart,’ he says. ‘I am honoured that you show such a gracious interest in my poor work.’
I rise from my chair as he spreads the document on the table and anchors it, as before, with the little gold models of the planets. ‘These are pretty things,’ I say, as if I am not longing to see what he has drawn for me.
‘They are paperweights,’ he says. ‘Not charms, of course. But they please me.’
‘And what do you see for me?’ I ask him quietly. ‘Between the two of us, and speaking to no other – what do you see for me?’
He points to the sign for my house, the feathered helmet. ‘I see you were married as a young woman to a young man.’ He shows me the markings that indicate the early years of my life. ‘The stars say you were a child, as innocent as they.’
I smile. ‘Yes, it was like that, perhaps.’
‘Then before you were much more than twenty years old, you were married again, to a man old enough to be your father, and you faced great danger.’
‘The Pilgrimage of Grace,’ I confirm. ‘The rebels came to our castle and put it under siege. They took me and his children hostage.’
‘You must have known they would never hurt you,’ he says.
I knew it then. But the king justified his cruelty to the North on the basis of wild reports of savagery. ‘They were treasonous,’ I say, rather than answering him honestly. ‘At any rate, they were hanged for treason.’
‘You were married for nearly ten years,’ he says, showing me the barred lines on the chart. ‘And no child ever born to you.’
I bow my head. ‘It was a sorrow,’ I say. ‘But my lord had his heir and his daughter; he never reproached me.’
‘And then His Majesty honoured you with his favour.’
It is such a bleak story told like this that I feel a sudden rush of self-pitying tears and I turn away from the table and the papers before I start to weep, which would be sheer folly.
‘And now we see that your spiritual life begins,’ the old astronomer says gently. ‘Here we see the sign of Pallas – wisdom, and scholarship. You are studying and writing?’
I hide a gasp. ‘I am studying,’ I admit.
‘You will write,’ he says. ‘And your words will be of value. A woman writer – a novelty indeed. Nurture your talent, Your Majesty. It is rare. It is precious. Where you lead other women will follow, and that is a great thing. Perhaps your books will be your children, your legacy, your descendants.’
I nod. ‘Perhaps.’
‘But it is not just study for you,’ he says. ‘Here –’ he points to the recognisable symbol of Venus – ‘here is love.’
I look in silence. I dare not ask him what I want to know.
‘I think the love of your life will come home to you,’ he says.
I grip my hands tightly, and I make sure that my face is blank. ‘The love of my life?’
He nods. ‘I can’t say more.’
Indeed, I dare not ask more. ‘He will be safe?’
‘I think you will marry again,’ he says very softly. With his ivory pointer, like a wand, he shows the later years, my fourth decade. ‘Venus,’ he remarks quietly. ‘Love, and fertility, and death.’
‘You can see my death?’ I ask boldly.
Quickly he shakes his head. ‘No, no. It is forbidden. See your chart, it is just like the king’s, it goes on and on, it never ends.’
‘But you see love?’
‘I think that you will live with the love of your life. He will come home to you.’
‘Of course, you mean the king, home from the war,’ I say quickly.
‘He will come home safe from the war,’ he repeats. He does not say who.
The astronomer is accurate at least in his predictions about my studies. Archbishop Cranmer attends on me every day to discuss the work of the Privy Council and how I should respond to any requests or reports from the country, but as soon as the work of the world is done we turn to the world of the spirit. He is a most inspirational scholar and each day he brings a sermon or a pamphlet, sometimes written by hand, sometimes newly published, for me to consider; and the following day we discuss it together. My ladies listen, and often make a contribution. Princess Mary tends always to defend the traditional church but even she acknowledges the archbishop’s logic and his spirituality. My rooms become a centre of debate, a little university for women, as the archbishop brings his chaplains and invites preachers from London to come and share their vision of the church and its future. They are all great students of the Bible in Latin, Greek, and in the modern translations. We often find ourselves turning from one version to another to reach the true meaning of a word, and while I revel in my increasing understanding of Latin I know that I am going to have to learn Greek.
One morning Thomas Cranmer comes into my rooms, bows to me and whispers: ‘May I have a word with you, Majesty?’
I step to one side and to my surprise he tucks my hand under his arm and leads me out of the room to the long gallery where we are out of earshot. ‘I wanted to show you this,’ he says, his dark eyes twinkling under his grey eyebrows.
From his sleeve he produces a book bound in leather. Inside is the title page with the one-word title: it says Psalms. With a little start I see that he has my book, my first published book. ‘There is no author,’ Cranmer says, ‘but I recognised the voice at once.’
‘It is printed anonymously,’ I say quickly. ‘There is no acknowledged author.’
‘And that is wise. There are many people who would deny the right of common people to understand the Bible or the psalms, and there are many who would be quick to criticise a man brave enough to translate Bishop Fisher’s Latin psalms.’ He pauses, his smile warm. ‘I don’t think it would occur to anyone that a woman might have done it.’
‘It had better stay that way,’ I say.
‘I agree. I just wanted you to know that I received this little book from someone who had no idea of the author, but who thought that it was an exceptional translation; and I was glad to have it. Whoever the author, he should be proud of his work. It is very good, very good indeed.’
I find I am blushing furiously, like an embarrassed clerk. ‘You are kind . . .’
‘I give praise where it is due. This is the work of a linguist and a poet.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
Encouraged by the publication and the success of the book of psalms I suggest to the archbishop that I might dare to start a great project – the translation of the four gospels of the New Testament, the key documents of the life of Christ. I am afraid that he will say it is too great a task, but he is enthusiastic. We will start with the Latin translation of the scholar Erasmus, and try to render it into English, in beautiful but simple words that anyone can read.
And if they read of the life
of Christ in simple language and understand it, can they not follow Him? The more that I study, the more certain I am that men – and equally women – can take charge of their own souls, can work for their own salvation, and can pray directly to God.
Of course, once I think this, the more I come to believe that the tricks and trades and treats of the Church of Rome are a shameful battening on ignorant people. To sell a woman a pilgrim badge and tell her that it shows that she has been on pilgrimage and her sins are forgiven is surely a sin itself. To assure someone that if enough nuns sing enough Masses then her dead child will go to heaven is trickery as low as passing a false coin as good. To buy a pardon from the pope, to force the pope to annul a marriage, to make him set aside kinship laws, to watch as he fleeces his cardinals, who charge the bishops, who rent to the priests, who seek their tithes from the poor – all these abuses would have to fall away if we agreed that a soul can come to God without any intervention. The crucifixion is the work of God. The church is the work of man.
I think of the night when I prayed and I knew that God came to me. I heard him, I truly did. I think of the simplicity and beauty of the sacrifice of Christ, and I know in every way – from reading and from revelation – that the rituals of the old church must fall away and the people come to Christ one by one as He calls them. There shall be no blind obedience, there shall be no mumbling in a foreign tongue. The people will learn to read and will have a Bible so that they can learn their own way. This is what I believe now, and this is what I will achieve as Regent General and as queen. It is my holy duty. It is my calling.
In September the town of Boulogne falls to the English siege, and the king prepares to come home to a hero’s welcome. Indeed, he writes from France to command a hero’s welcome and it is my task to make sure that he has one. The king’s victory procession will march from Dover to London and the whole court will ride down to greet him at Leeds Castle, in Kent. I must commission the royal glazier to make special windows for the banqueting hall, bedrooms and chapel at Leeds Castle, and Master Glazier Hone comes to my rooms and shows me his design of the doomed castle of Boulogne and the king and his army before it.
‘The sun will stream through the glass and the walls of Boulogne will seem to glow with pride as they face the sunset for the last time before they fall into rubble,’ Galyon Hone tells me. ‘The glass is with the painters and the cutters now.’
‘It will be ready in time?’
‘We are working all day and into the night, and we can get the banqueting hall windows made in time for the feast. The others will follow later.’
‘You must get the chapel window finished too,’ I say. ‘The king will want it ready. We are to have a celebration Mass; the windows must be there. I have to insist, Master Glazier.’
He nods. He is a busy little man, his hands as rough as old leather from a lifetime of cuts. ‘Very well, Your Majesty, you are a hard taskmaster. But look at the designs! See how I have shown the king and his nobles before the walls of Boulogne!’ He shows me another drawing. ‘See, here is the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk Charles Brandon, Sir Thomas Seymour. See, Your Majesty, here is your noble brother.’
He has made quick clever sketches of the nobles of the court around the king; some are in armour, their standards flying. In the background, miniature horses wait loaded with armour, cannons recoil with little puffs of cloud above them.
My eyes rest on the clear profile of Thomas Seymour. ‘You have them to the life,’ I say unsteadily. ‘May I have a copy of this?’
‘It is a very good likeness of the king.’ He is pleased. ‘Take it, take this one, Your Majesty. I have another made fair for the glass cutter. And here is the moment when the walls fall. It’s a great moment. Like Jericho for Joshua.’
‘Yes,’ I say. I wonder if I am safe to keep the picture of Thomas. The king is at the very centre of the design, Thomas’s beloved profile half-hidden at the back. Nobody looking at the picture could guess that I wanted it for the tiny glimpse of him. I could keep it safely hidden away, with my study books, with the manuscript of the psalms that I have translated. I could keep it tucked inside my Bible. Nobody would know that I long to see his face when I open the page.
Hone shows me the other designs he has made. They will be a sequence, telling the story of the invasion of France, the alliance with Spain, and the triumphant siege. The window for the chapel is one of thanksgiving and celebration. An angel blesses the campaign, the king rides home under an arch of laurel leaves, angels look down on him.
‘I’ll have it ready for when the king arrives,’ he promises me. ‘I go to Kent tomorrow with the pieces of glass and we will lead them in place there, for fear of breakages. We will be ready. The lead will be cooling as he enters, but we will be ready.’
I let him gather up his papers and prepare to bow. I push back the portrait of Thomas Seymour with the other designs.
‘Did you not want this, Your Majesty? Shall I get it framed for you?’
‘It’s of no matter. I’ll wait till I can see the real thing in glass,’ I say indifferently. Katherine Howard went to the gallows on the evidence of one note that she wrote to Thomas Culpepper in her silly childish little hand, misspelled, with a tear blot, asking if he was well. I don’t dare to have anything that could ever be cited against me. I don’t even dare to keep a charcoal sketch of his profile half-hidden at the back of a crowd. Not even that.
LEEDS CASTLE, KENT, AUTUMN 1544
The king’s arrival at his castle is staged like a masque. It is all for show. The steward of his household and the master of horse have arranged all the details with my stewards and we have our places as precisely as if we were learning a dance. At eight o’clock the grateful people of Kent start to assemble on either side of the road leading to the castle and the first yeomen of the guard take their posts along the road to hold back the wildly excited crowd, or, in the case of their not being wildly excited, to lead the cheers and command applause.
The gardeners and builders have erected triumphal arches with boughs of bay and laurel, the trumpeters are positioned on the turrets of the castle and the musicians ready at the entrance. We can hear the hammering hooves of the outliers and then those in the first rank, and now I can see, from where I stand at the gateway of the castle with Mary and Elizabeth on one side, Edward on the other, the rippling standards of the royal party and the great flag of England coming on.
It is impossible to miss the king. He looks magnificent in his black Italian armour, his enormous warhorse in matching metal, the biggest horse in the rank, the rider towering above the rest: bigger, brighter, higher than any other on the road. People do cheer, quite spontaneously, and the king turns his head and smiles to one side and another, and behind him his almoner throws coins to encourage the enthusiasm.
I am nervous. The procession with ambassadors, noblemen, supporters and the cream of the army comes slowly forward, the beautiful horses tossing their heads and blowing, the archers with their bows across their backs, the infantry in newly clean jackets, some sporting battered helmets, and at the head of them, always drawing the eye, the great king.
He pulls up his horse and four men run to their appointed places to get him out of the saddle. A wheeled platform is brought to the side of the horse, he is helped down and steadied where he stands. He turns, and waves to me. The crowd cheer, the soldiers leading the applause, and then the four men guide him down the steps to the ground.
His squires come forward and unstrap his cuisses and the rerebrace from his arms, but he keeps on his breastplate and holds his helmet under his arm for the warlike look of it. I keep my eyes fixed adoringly on him. Somewhere, Thomas is on his horse, watching me.
One page gets one side of him and one the other, but he does not lean on them to walk. Even now, at the moment of our greeting I know that I must not approach him; he will come to me. He walks towards me and I see that the men are lined up so that they can see our greeting. The king comes closer and clo
ser, and I and all my household, sink into low deferential curtseys. His children bow almost to the ground. At once I feel his hand under my elbow, raising me up, and he turns and, in sight of everyone, kisses me passionately on the mouth.
I guard my expression. There must not be the smallest flinch from this stale wet kiss. The king turns his back to me to face his army. ‘I have led you out, and I have led you home!’ he bellows. ‘I have brought you back in honour. We have come back in triumph.’
There is a roar of approval from his men and, peeping around him, I find I am smiling at their excitement. It is impossible not to be caught up in their joy in their victory. It is a triumph, a great triumph, that they have reclaimed English lands in France; they have shown the power and might of our King Henry, and they have come home with a victory.
We sit, side by side, before the altar at Leeds Castle chapel in special low chairs which give the appearance of our devoutly kneeling. Behind us the children have their heads reverently bowed. The king prays earnestly for a few moments and then gently touches my hand to get my attention. ‘And Edward is well?’ he says.
Before us, the priest faces the altar and blesses the bread and the wine, the choir’s voices soar into their celebratory anthem. I turn my attention from my prayers to my husband; from the sacred to the profane. Not for the first time I wonder if Henry can really believe that a miracle is taking place: the wine becoming holy blood, the bread becoming the body of Christ, since he turns his head and talks to his friends while the sacred act is taking place. Does he really think that a true miracle happens before him every day? And if so, why would he ignore it?
‘As you see. He is well. And your daughters.’
‘You said there was plague?’
‘We went on progress and avoided all signs of it. It’s over now.’