Some days I wake in the morning certain that today they will come for me, and I will go in my royal barge, my new royal barge, which has given me such foolish pleasure, upriver to the Tower. I will enter through the watergate on the swelling tide, and they will take me, not to the royal rooms, but to the ones that overlook the green, where the prisoners are held. A few days later and I will watch from the barred window as they build a wooden scaffold and know that it is for me. A confessor will come in and tell me that I must prepare myself for death.
On these days I don’t know how to get out of bed. Nan and the maids dress me as if I were a cold doll with a set face. I go through the motions of queenship, attending chapel, dining before the court, walking by the river and throwing a ball for little Rig, watching the court at play, but my face is stiff and my eyes are glassy. I think that if the day comes that there is a knock on my door I will shame myself. I will never find the courage to climb the ladder to the scaffold. I will never be able to speak as Anne Boleyn spoke. My legs will fail and they will have to push me up the steps, as they did to Kitty Howard. I will not fight for my life like Margaret Pole. I will not go cheerfully in my best coat like Bishop Fisher. I am as inadequate to this task as I am to my marriage. I will fail at my death as I have failed as queen.
Other days I wake cheerfully, certain that the king is doing what he himself told me is the best way to rule: favour one side and then the other, keep your thoughts a secret from everyone, be the master in the dogfight and let the curs fight it out before you. I assure myself that he is just tormenting me, as he torments everyone. He will get better and send for me, praise my beauty and remind me that I am no scholar, give me diamonds reset from a broken pectoral cross, tell me that I am the sweetest wife a man ever had and dress me in someone else’s gown.
‘George Blagge has been arrested,’ Nan tells me quietly as we walk to chapel one morning. She grips my hand as I stumble. ‘They came for him last night.’
George Blagge is a fat plain adventurer, a favourite of the king because of his round ugly face and his terrible habit of snorting with laughter at a bawdy joke. People compose jokes just to hear Blagge snuffling with laughter, blushing rosy red and then finally unable to contain his great snorting bellow. The king calls him ‘his beloved pig’ and Will Somers does a fine impression of Blagge hearing a joke that is almost as funny as the real thing. But he will not be doing that trick again.
‘What has he done?’ I ask.
George Blagge is no fool, for all that he has a laugh like a farrowing sow. In serious mood he has come to my rooms and listened to the sermons. He says little, and thinks a lot. I cannot believe that he would ever have said anything that might offend the king; to the king he is a playmate, not a philosopher.
‘They say he spoke disrespectfully about the Mass, and then he snorted with laughter,’ Nan whispers.
‘Snorted with laughter?’ I look blankly at her. ‘But that’s what he does; that amuses the king.’
‘Now it’s disrespect,’ she says. ‘And now he’s charged with heresy.’
‘For snorting?’
She nods.
John Dudley Lord Lisle, the rising man and a believer in religious reform, now comes home from France with a peace treaty in his pocket. All the while that Stephen Gardiner was treating with the emperor, aiming for a peace with Spain, selling the reformers to their death in exchange for a renewed loving alliance with the pope, John Dudley was secretly meeting with the French admiral and hammering out an agreement where we keep Boulogne for decades to come and the French pay us a handsome fee. This should be the moment of triumph for John Dudley, for the Seymours, and for all of us who share the reform faith. We have won the race to peace, we have made peace with the French and not with the papist Spanish.
He comes to my rooms to receive my congratulations. The Princess Mary is at my side, putting a brave face on the turn of events that remove England from alliance with her mother’s family.
‘But, my lord, if we have peace with the French, then I suppose that the king is unlikely to make his new alliance with the German princes and the Elector Palatine?’
The studied blankness of poor Mary’s face tells me how anxiously she is awaiting his response.
‘Indeed, His Majesty will not need the friendship of the German princes,’ John Dudley replies. ‘We have a lasting alliance with France, we need no other.’
‘Perhaps no betrothal,’ I whisper to Mary and watch the colour flood into her face. I make a little gesture to give her permission to stand aside and she goes to the window bay to compose herself.
As soon as her back is turned, the smile disappears from John Dudley’s face. ‘Your Majesty, what in God’s name is happening here?’
‘The king is arresting those in favour of reform,’ I say quietly. ‘People are disappearing from court, and from the London churches. There’s no sense in it. One day someone is at dinner the next they are gone.’
‘I hear that Nicholas Shaxton has been summoned to London to answer charges of heresy. I couldn’t believe it. He was Bishop of Salisbury! They can’t arrest a former bishop.’
I didn’t know this. He can see the shock in my face. For one of the king’s own bishops to be arrested like this is to return to the dark days of the martyred churchmen, and John Fisher walking to the scaffold. The king had sworn he would never allow such cruelty again.
‘Hugh Latimer, who preached before me in the Lent season, has been summoned to explain to the Privy Council what topics he chose,’ I tell John Dudley.
‘The Privy Council are theologians now? They are going to debate with Latimer? I wish them the best with that.’
‘Stephen Gardiner will certainly debate with him. He is defending the Six Articles,’ I say. ‘And that is an easy side to take for there is a new law that nobody may speak against them.’
‘But the Six Articles are halfway to popery!’ he exclaims. ‘The king himself said—’
‘Now, they are the king’s express opinion,’ I interrupt.
‘His opinion for now!’
I bow and say nothing.
‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ John Dudley recovers himself. ‘It’s just that I feel as if the Seymours and Cranmer and I are away from court for five minutes and the old churchmen get hold of the king, and when we return we find all the gains we have made and everything we believe are set back. Can’t you do anything?’
‘I can’t even see him,’ I say. ‘I can’t ask for mercy for the others because I never see him. I am afraid of what they say about me.’
He nods. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he says. ‘But perhaps you should limit your studies.’
‘My books are gone,’ I say bitterly. ‘See the empty shelves? My papers, too.’
I had hoped he would say that there was no need for me to destroy my library. But he simply asks: ‘And have you stopped your sermons and talks?’
‘We listen only to the king’s chaplains, and their sermons are as dull as they can make them.’
‘What subjects?’
‘Wifely obedience,’ I say drily, but not even that makes him smile.
Hugh Latimer, ordered to appear as a suspect before the Privy Council where he had once spoken as an authority, admits that he preached a series of sermons before me – undeniable – since half the Privy Council’s wives, and some of the Privy Council themselves, attended. He does not agree that he said anything heretical, nor anything tending to reform. He says that he preached on the Word of God, and stayed inside the current teaching of the church. They release him; but the next day they arrest another preacher from my afternoon studies, Doctor Edward Crome, and they accuse him of denying the existence of purgatory.
This, he has to admit. Of course he denies the existence of purgatory. If they asked me, or indeed anyone with any sense, no-one could say that there is any evidence for such a place. Heaven, yes – Our Lord speaks of it Himself – hell, yes – He harrows it for sinners. But nowhere does the Bible suggest that
there is some ridiculous place where souls must wait and can be bought out of their suffering by a donation to the church or the bawling of Masses in paid chantries. There is simply no reference for this, there is no scholarship to support it. So where has this story come from? The authorship is clear: it is an invention by the church as a way of getting a great income from the suffering of bereaved families, and the fears of dying sinners. The king himself has abolished chantries – how can purgatory exist?
But it is the king who authorises these arrests, the king who has authorised all of them since the spring herding of scholars and preachers and people related to me. The Privy Council will make inquiries, name names, demand explanations, but the king alone decides who shall be arrested. Either he signs his name, the signature scrawled carelessly, the warrant held on the sheets of his sickbed, or he tells the men he trusts in his chamber, Anthony Denny, and John Gates, to use the dry stamp of his signature, and ink it in later. But either way, the warrant is brought to him for his personal express approval. He may be groaning in pain, he may be half asleep, drugged with painkillers and strong wine, but he knows. This is not a plot by papists at his court moving against my beliefs and my friends without the king’s knowledge, taking advantage of his sickness and fatigue. It is a plot by the king himself, against my beliefs and against my friends – perhaps even against me. This is the king setting the dogs to fight, but this time favouring one side against the other, putting a fortune on the outcome. Favouring my enemies against me, putting me, his wife, into the dog-pit.
‘She’s here. Anne Askew is here, right here! Now!’ Joan Denny rushes in to my rooms and kneels before me, as if her legs cannot hold her up.
‘She has come to see me?’ I cannot believe that she would take such a risk, knowing that her teachers and mentors are in the Tower. ‘She cannot come in. Tell her I am sorry but—’
‘No! No! Arrested! Summoned to see the Privy Council. They are questioning her now.’
‘Who told you?’
‘My husband. He says he will do what he can for her.’
I take a breath. I want to tell her that Anthony Denny must make sure that my name is not mentioned, or at any rate, not repeated to the king. But I am so afraid, and so ashamed of my fear, that I cannot speak. I am so afraid of what Anne might say, what she might tell the Privy Council. What if she says that she preached heresy to us, and that we listened? What if she tells them that I am writing my own book, filled with forbidden knowledge? But I cannot tell Joan, who has listened with me, who studies with me, who prays beside me, that my first thought is to save my own fearful skin. I am afraid and ashamed of my fear.
‘God keep her safe,’ is all I say out loud.
‘Amen.’
They hold her overnight, somewhere in this great rambling palace. As my maid dresses me for dinner I ask her where Anne Askew might be. She does not know. There are dozens of windowless cellar rooms and attic rooms and treasure rooms that can be locked from the outside. If they don’t care for her comfort or safety they could simply throw her in the guardhouse. I dare not send anyone to look for her. At dinner, Bishop Gardiner intones an interminable grace and I bow my head and listen to him mouthing the Latin words, knowing that half the room cannot understand him; and he does not care because he is completing his ritual, his private ritual, he does not care that they are as children asking for bread and receiving a stone. I have to wait for him to finish his sing-song skimble-skamble, raise my head and nod for the servers to enter. I have to smile and eat and command the room, laugh at Will Somers, send out dishes to William Paget and Thomas Wriothesley as if they are not plotting my downfall, bow to the Duke of Norfolk, who sits at the head of his family table, his face a bland mask of courtier charm, his reformer son still missing. I have to behave as if I have not a single care in all the world, while somewhere in the great palace, my friend Anne eats the cold leavings from the court’s dinner, and prays on her knees that God will keep her safe tomorrow.
‘They have summoned me to question her.’ My brother strolls up to my chair while the court is dancing. My ladies, their faces stiff with smiles, form up into sets and go through their steps.
‘Will you refuse?’
‘How can I? It’s a test. I am on trial here too, and if I fail they will move on to you. No, I will question her and hope I can guide her to a plea for forgiveness. I know she won’t recant her beliefs; but she might agree that she is ill-educated.’
‘She knows the Bible backwards and forwards,’ I say. ‘She knows the New Testament by heart. No-one can call her ill-educated.’
‘She can’t argue with Stephen Gardiner.’
‘I think you’ll find that she will.’
‘Then what am I to do?’ William exclaims in sudden impatience. At once he throws back his head and laughs, a courtier’s laugh, to suggest that he is telling me a funny story. I laugh with him, and I tap his hand, my comical brother.
Will Somers lopes past us with a grimace. ‘If you are ready to laugh at nothing you might laugh at me,’ he says.
I clap my hands. ‘We were laughing at an old jest, not worth repeating,’ I say.
‘They’re the only ones I have.’
We wait until he has gone by. ‘Try to give her a way out, without incriminating yourself,’ I say. ‘She is a young woman, full of life. She’s not seeking martyrdom. She’ll save herself if she can. Just give her a way. And I will try to see the king.’
‘What is he doing?’ my brother whispers. ‘What does he mean by this? Has he turned against us? Has he turned against you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. I look at my brother’s anxious face and I realise, coldly, that five women have sat here, in this very seat before me, and not known if the king had turned against them and, if he had, what he was planning to do.
When dinner is over I send Nan to the king’s rooms to ask if I may see him. She comes back surprised: I am to be admitted. She rushes me into my most flattering hood and we pull down the front of my gown, and pat oil of roses into my neck. She and Catherine attend me as far as the king’s bedroom and the guards open the door and I go in alone.
Sir Anthony Denny is there, and Bishop Gardiner. Doctor Wendy is at the back of the room with half a dozen grooms and servers standing around, waiting to move the king from chair to bed, as he wishes, to lift him onto his close-stool, or to help him into his wheeled chair so that he can go into his presence chamber and pass like a great statue paraded among his people.
‘My lord,’ I say, curtseying.
He smiles at me and beckons for me to come close. I bend down and kiss him, ignoring the stink. He puts his arm around my waist and squeezes me. ‘Ah, Kat. Did you and the court enjoy a good dinner?’
‘You were very much missed,’ I say, taking a chair beside him. ‘I hope you will be well enough to join us soon. It feels like a long time since we had the joy of your presence.’
‘I am sure of it,’ he says cheerfully. ‘This was just the quartain fever that I get from time to time. Doctor Wendy says I throw it off like a boy.’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘Your strength is remarkable.’
‘Well, the buzzards may hover but there is nothing for them to pick at yet.’ His gesture indicates Bishop Gardiner as a buzzard and I smile at the bishop’s cross face.
‘I am more of a lark that goes high to sing your praises,’ the bishop says with awkward humour.
‘A lark, my lord bishop?’ I put my head on one side as if to scrutinise his white surplice and black stole. ‘More like a swallow in your colouring.’
‘You see Stephen as a swallow?’ Henry prompts me, amused. ‘He arrives and suddenly it is summer,’ I say. ‘He is a harbinger. When the bishop is here it is high summer for the Privy Council to make an inquiry. Time for all the old churchmen to nest and twitter under the eaves. It is their season.’
‘Are they not here to stay?’
‘The cold winds of truth will blow them away, I think, lord husband.’
> The king laughs. Stephen Gardiner is quietly furious.
‘Would you have him dress any differently?’ the king asks me. I am daring, encouraged by his laughter. I turn my head and whisper in his ear, ‘Don’t you think his lordship would suit the colour red?’
Red is the colour of a cardinal’s robes. If Gardiner could bring the country back to Rome the pope would give him a cardinal’s hat in a moment. Henry laughs aloud. ‘Kateryn, you have a sharper wit than Will! What d’you say, Stephen? Do you long for a red hat?’
Stephen Gardiner’s mouth is pursed. ‘These are grave matters,’ he manages to say. ‘Not fit for a jest. Not fit for ladies. Not fit for wives.’
‘He’s right.’ The king is suddenly weary. ‘We must let our good friend defend our church against heresy and mockery, Kat. It is my church, not a subject for debate or humour. These are serious matters, not for foolish mockery. There is nothing more important.’
‘Of course,’ I say gently. ‘Of course, my lord. All I would ask is that the good bishop questions people who speak against your reforms. The reforms themselves should not be questioned. The bishop cannot want us to step backwards, away from your understanding, back to the old days before you were head of the church.’
‘He won’t do that,’ the king says shortly.
‘The chantries . . .’
‘Not now, Kateryn. I am weary.’
‘Your Majesty must rest,’ I say quickly, getting up from the chair and kissing his forehead, which is damp with sweat. ‘Will you sleep now?’
‘I will,’ he says. ‘You can all go.’ He retains my cool fingers in his hot grip. ‘Come back later,’ he says to me.
I make sure I don’t shoot a triumphant glance at Stephen Gardiner. I have won this round, at least.
It is no victory, my whorish triumph. The king is feverish and sleepless, impotent and irritated at his failing. Though I do everything he asks of me, let down my hair, take off my robe, even stand, burning with humiliation, while he passes his hands all over me, nothing can stir him. He sends me away so that he can sleep alone and I sit up all night by the fire in my room and wonder where Anne Askew is in the palace, sleepless as I am sleepless, afraid as I am afraid, and if she even has a bed tonight.