The Taming of the Queen Read online

‘Tragic,’ I say softly.

  There is a knock at the door and the grooms of the servery come in with a table groaning with food. They place it at the side of the bed and heap a plate for the king as he points to one dish after another.

  ‘Eat!’ he commands me, his mouth full. ‘I can’t dine alone.’

  I take a small plate and let them serve me. I sit by the fireside on my chair and nibble on a few pieces of pastry. The king is served wine. I take a glass of small ale. I cannot believe that I will see Thomas Seymour within the week.

  It is a long two hours before the king has finished with the food and he is sweating and breathing heavily by the time he has eaten several slices of pie, some meats, and half of a lemon pudding.

  ‘Take it away, I am weary,’ he announces.

  Quickly and efficiently they load the table and carry it out of the room.

  ‘Come to bed,’ he says thickly. ‘I will sleep here with you.’

  He tips his head back and belches loudly. I go to my side of the bed and climb in. Before I have the covers spread over us he has let out a loud snore and is fast asleep.

  I think I will be wakeful but I lie in the darkness and feel such joy as I think of Thomas. Perhaps he is in Portsmouth, perhaps sleeping on board his ship in his low-ceilinged wooden admiral’s cabin, with the candles rocking gently on their gimbals on the walls. I will see him next week, I think. I may not speak to him, I must not look for him, but at least I will see him, and he will see me.

  The dream is so like my waking life that I do not know I am dreaming. I am in my bed and the king is sleeping beside me, snoring, and there is a terrible smell, the smell of his rotting leg, in my bed, and in my room. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and the smell is worse than ever. I think, I must get out of the room, I cannot breathe, I must find the apothecary and get some perfume, I must send the girls out to the garden to pick some herbs. I go as quietly as I can towards the door to the private galleries between his room and mine.

  I open the little door and step out, but instead of the wooden floor and scattered rushes and the stone walls of the gallery I am at once on the narrow landing of a stone staircase, a circular staircase, perilously steep. I put one hand on the central column and start to climb upwards. I must get away from this terrible smell of death, but instead it is getting worse, as if there is a corpse or some rotting horror just around the curve of the stair above me.

  I put a hand over my mouth and nose to shield me from the smell and then I give a little choke as I realise that it is my hand that smells. It is me that is rotting; and it is my own stink that I am trying to escape. I smell like a dead woman, left to rot. I pause on the stair as I think that all I can do is to fling myself downstairs, headfirst down the stairs, so that this decayed body can complete the task of dying and I am not locked in with death, twinned with death, mated with death, decay in my own body at my fingertips.

  I am crying now, raging at the fate that has brought me to this, but as the tears run down my cheeks they are like dust. They are dry as sand when they run into my lips and they taste like dried blood. In my desperation and with all the courage I can find, I turn on the step and face down the steep stone stairs. Then I give one despairing scream as I dive downwards, down the stone staircase, headfirst.

  ‘Hush, hush, you’re safe!’

  I think it is Thomas who has caught me up, and I cling to him, shuddering. I turn to his shoulder and press my face against his warm chest and throat. But it is the king holding me in his arms, and I recoil and cry out again for fear that I have said Thomas’s name in my nightmare and now I am in real danger indeed.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ he says. ‘Hush, my love. It was a dream. Nothing but a dream. You’re safe now.’ He holds me gently against his fleshy comforting side, soft as a pillow.

  ‘My God, what a dream! God help me, what a nightmare!’

  ‘Nothing, it was nothing.’

  ‘I was so afraid. I dreamed I was dead.’

  ‘You are safe with me. You are safe with me, beloved.’

  ‘Did I talk in my sleep?’ I whimper. I am so afraid that I said his name.

  ‘No, you said no words, you just wept, poor girl. I woke you at once.’

  ‘It was so terrible!’

  ‘Poor little love,’ Henry says tenderly, stroking my hair, my bare shoulder. ‘You are safe with me. Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘No, no,’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘Nothing to eat. Nothing more to eat.’

  ‘You should have something, for comfort.’

  ‘No, no, really. I couldn’t.’

  ‘You are awake now? You know yourself?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

  ‘Was it a dream of foretelling?’ he asks. ‘Did you dream of my ships?’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. Two of this man’s wives were accused by him of witchcraft; I’m not going to claim any sort of second sight. ‘It was nothing, it meant nothing. Just a muddle of castle walls and feeling cold and afraid.’

  He lies back on the pillows. ‘Can you sleep now?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Thank you for being so kind to me.’

  ‘I am your husband,’ he says with simple dignity. ‘Of course I guard your sleep and soothe your fears.’

  In a moment he is breathing heavily, his mouth lolling open. I put my head against his bulky shoulder and close my eyes. I know that my dream was the dream of Tryphine, the maid who was married to a man who killed his wives. I know it was the smell of dead wife on my own fingers.

  SOUTHSEA CASTLE, PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR, SUMMER 1545

  It is a most delightful day, like a painting of a summer day, the sun bright on the blue waters of the Solent, the brisk wind scuffing little white caps on the waves. We have climbed to the top of one of the defensive towers overlooking the harbour and, now that they have hauled the king up the stone stairs and he can see everything, he is delighted with the world, standing astride at the sea wall, hands on his hips, as if he were an admiral on his own ship, the court around him abuzz with excitement and anxiety.

  I cannot believe that everyone is joyous, as if we were about to watch a joust on a summer day, as if this were the legendary Field of the Cloth of Gold – a struggle between France and England to be the most glamorous, the most graceful, the most cultured and the most sporting. Surely everyone knows that it is nothing like that today? This is not playing at war but the hours before a real battle. There can be nothing to celebrate and everything to fear.

  Looking behind me, over the open fields of Southsea Common, I see that though the court is putting a brave face on it, I am not the only one to be anxious. The yeomen of the guard are already prepared for the worst, their horses saddled and held on tight reins by their pages, ready for mounting and galloping away. The guardsmen are already in armour, with only their helmets to put on. Behind them, the great baggage train that always follows the royal court everywhere – petitioners, beggars, lawyers, thieves and fools – is slowly dragging itself away – the baggage train always knows which side will win – and the people of Portsmouth are fleeing their own town, some of them walking under a burden of household goods, some riding, and some loading up carts. If the French defeat our fleet they will sack Portsmouth and probably fire it as well. The king’s court seem to be the only ones who expect triumph and are looking forward to a battle.

  The many bells of the town churches are tolling as our ships get ready to sail out of the harbour, the hundreds of noisy peals scaring the gulls, who circle and cry over the sea. There are about eighty ships, the greatest fleet England has ever assembled, some on the far side loading crew and weapons, some ready to go. I can see them unfurling their sails to our right, deeper in the harbour, the rowing boats and the galleys busy about them, taking ropes and preparing to haul them out of port to the sea.

  ‘The greatest navy ever mustered,’ the king declares to Anthony Browne at his side. ‘And ready to fight the French in the new way. It will be the greatest battle we have ever seen.’