Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 Read online

  The king cannot behave with grace; his selfishness and folly in this matter are too plain for everyone to see. The ambassadors of Spain and France must have laughed until they were sick over the excess of his wild vanity. Little Kitty Howard (Queen Katherine, I must, I will, remember to call her queen) cannot be expected to behave with grace. I might as well ask a puppy to be graceful. If he does not put her aside within the year, if she does not die in childbirth, then she may learn the grace of a queen … perhaps. But she doesn’t have it now. In truth, she wasn’t even a very good maid in waiting. Her manners were not fit for the queen’s rooms then; how will she ever suit the throne?

  It has to be me who shows a little grace, if the three of us are not to become a laughing stock of the entire country. I will have to enter my old rooms at this, my favourite palace, as an honoured guest. I will have to bend the knee to the girl who now sits in my chair, I will have to address her as Queen Katherine without laughing, or crying, either. I will have to be, as the king has said I may be: his sister and his dearest friend.

  That this gives me no protection from arrest and accusation at the whim of the king is as obvious to me as anyone else. He has arrested his own niece and imprisoned her in the old abbey of Syon. Clearly, kinship with the king gives no immunity from fear, friendship with the king gives no safety; as the man who built this very palace, Thomas Wolsey, could prove. But I, rowed steadily upriver, dressed in my best, looking a hundred times happier since the denial of my marriage, can perhaps survive these dangerous times, endure this dangerous proximity, and make a life for myself as a single woman in Henry’s kingdom which I plainly could not do as a wife.

  It is strange, this journey in my own barge with the pennant of Cleves over my head. Travelling alone, without the court following behind in their barges, and without a great reception ahead of me, reminds me, as every day reminds me, that the king has indeed done what he wanted to do – and I can still hardly believe it is possible. I was his wife; and now I am his sister. Is there another king in Christendom who could perform such a transmutation such as that? I was Queen of England and now there is another queen, and she was my maid in waiting and now I am to be hers. This is the philosopher’s stone, turning base metal to gold in the twinkling of an eye. The king has done what a thousand alchemists cannot do: turn base to gold. He has made that basest of maids, Katherine Howard, into a golden queen.

  We are coming ashore. The rowers ship their oars in one practised motion and shoulder them, so the oars stand upright in rows like an avenue for me to walk through, down the barge from my warm seat, huddled in furs at the stern, to where the pages and servants are running out the gangplank and lining the sides.

  And here’s an honour! The Duke of Norfolk himself is on the bank to greet me, and two or three from the Privy Council, most of them, I see, kinsmen or allies of the Howards. I am favoured by this reception, and I see by his ironic smile that he is as amused as me.

  Just as I foretold, the Howards are everywhere; the kingdom will be out of balance by the summer. The duke is not a man to let an opportunity slip by him; he will take advantage, as any battle-hardened veteran would do. Now he has occupied the heights, soon he will win the war. Then we shall see how long it is before tempers fray in the Seymour camp, in the Percy camp, among the Parrs and Culpeppers and Nevilles, among the reformist churchmen around Cranmer who were accustomed to power and influence and wealth and will not tolerate being excluded for long.

  I am handed ashore and the duke bows to me and says, ‘Welcome to Hampton Court, Your Grace,’ just as if I were still queen.

  ‘I thank you,’ I say. ‘I am glad to be here.’ Both of us will know that this is true for, God knows, there was a day, several days, when I never expected to see Hampton Court again. The watergate of the Tower of London where they bring in traitors by night – yes. But Hampton Court for the Christmas feast? No.

  ‘You must have had a cold journey,’ he remarks.

  I take his arm and we walk together up the great path to the river frontage of the palace as if we were dear friends.

  ‘I don’t mind the cold,’ I say.

  ‘Queen Katherine is expecting you in her rooms.’

  ‘Her Majesty is generous,’ I say. There; the words are said. I have called the silliest of all my maids in waiting ‘Her Majesty’ as if she were a goddess; and that to her uncle.

  ‘The queen is eager to see you,’ he says. ‘We have all missed you.’

  I smile and look down. This is not modesty, it is to prevent me from laughing out loud. This man missed me so much that he was gathering evidence to prove that I had emasculated the king through witchcraft, an accusation that would have taken me to the scaffold before anyone could have saved me.

  I look up. ‘I am very grateful for your friendship,’ I say dryly.

  We go in through the garden door and there are half a dozen pages and young lords who used to be in my household loitering between the door and the queen’s rooms to bow and greet me. I am more moved than I dare to show, but when one young page dashes up to me, kneels and kisses my hand, I have to swallow down the tears and keep my head up. I was their mistress for such a short time, just six months, it is touching to me to think that they care for me still, even though another girl lives in my rooms and takes their service.

  The duke grimaces but says nothing. I am far too cautious to comment, so the two of us behave as if all the people on the stairs and in the halls and the whispered blessings are absolutely normal. He leads the way to the queen’s rooms and the soldiers at the double doors throw them open at his nod and bellow, ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Cleves,’ and I go in.

  The throne is empty. This is my first bemused impression and I almost think, for one mad moment, that it has all been a joke, one of the famous English jokes, and the duke is about to turn to me and say, ‘Of course you are queen, take your place again!’ and we will all laugh and everything will be as it was.

  But then I see that the throne is empty because the queen is on the floor playing with a ball of wool and a kitten, and her ladies are rising to their feet, very dignified and bowing, with immaculate care to the right depth for royalty, but only minor royalty, and at last that child Kitty Howard looks up and sees me and cries out, ‘Your Grace!’ and dashes towards me.

  One glance from her uncle tells me how unwelcome would be any sign of intimacy or affection. Down I go into a curtsey as deep as I would show to the king himself.

  ‘Queen Katherine,’ I say firmly.

  My tone steadies her, and my curtsey reminds her that we have to play this out before many spies, and she halts in her run and wavers into a small curtsey to me. ‘Duchess,’ she says faintly.

  I rise up. I so want to tell her that it is all right, that we can be as we were, something like sisters, something like friends, but we have to wait until the chamber door is shut. It must be secret.

  ‘I am honoured by your invitation, Your Grace,’ I say solemnly. ‘And I am very glad to share the Christmas feast with you and your husband, His Majesty the king, God bless him.’

  She gives a little uncertain laugh and then, when I look promptingly at her, she glances at her uncle and replies: ‘We are delighted to have you at our court. My husband the king embraces you as his sister and so do I.’

  Then she steps towards me, as clearly she has been told to do only it had flown out of her head the moment she saw me, and offers me her royal cheek to kiss.

  The duke observes this and announces: ‘His Majesty the king tells me that he will dine here with you two ladies this evening.’

  ‘Then we must make him welcome,’ Katherine says. She turns to Lady Rochford and says: ‘The duchess and I will sit in my privy chamber while the room is being readied for dinner. We will sit alone,’ and then she sails towards my – her – privy chamber as if she had owned it all her life and I find myself following in her wake.

  As soon as the door is shut behind us she rounds on me. ‘I think that was all right, w