The Taming of the Queen Read online

  ‘She is a beautiful girl and the Howards would propose their own grandmother to him if it suited their purpose,’ Nan says, paying no attention to my ill humour. ‘If you had seen them with Anne Boleyn, if you had seen them with all the other Howard beauties – for Kitty Howard was only one of many – you would be glad to see Mary Howard safely settled.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ I say coldly.

  Nan waits as the maid lays my sleeves of gold brocade in the scented chest under the window. ‘You don’t mind for him?’ she asks very quietly.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say clearly. ‘Not at all.’

  Thomas leaves court without speaking to me again and I don’t know if he goes directly to Portsmouth or travels to Suffolk to make arrangements for the wedding at Framlingham. I wait for someone to tell me that Thomas Seymour has caught himself an heiress and obliged the cause of reform by making an alliance between the Seymours and the Howards, which will make us all safer at court; to take the Howards from their alliance with Stephen Gardiner is to weaken his power. I wait for Anne Seymour to boast that the match is done and Tom Seymour wedded and bedded. But she says nothing, and I cannot ask. I so dread hearing that he is married that I don’t ask.

  Catherine Brandon taps on the door to my room when I am changing my gown to go to dinner, and dismisses the maids with a swift wave of her hand. Nan raises her eyebrows to me in the mirror. She is always alert for Catherine to show any sign that she is taking advantage of her growing favour with the king.

  ‘This is important,’ Catherine says tersely. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Tom Howard, the duke’s second son, has been summoned before the Privy Council. They’re questioning him. About religion.’

  I rise up a little from my seat and then I sit down again. ‘Religion,’ I say flatly.

  ‘It’s a full inquiry,’ she says. ‘I was leaving the king’s rooms and the door to the Privy Council chamber stood open. I heard them say that Tom was being brought to answer charges, and that Bishop Bonner would report from the Howard lands in Essex and Suffolk. He’s been down there gathering evidence against Tom.’

  ‘You’re sure it is Tom Howard?’ I ask, suddenly fearful for the man I love.

  ‘Yes, and they know he has listened to sermons and studied with us. Bishop Bonner has gone through all his books and papers at his home.’

  ‘Edmund Bonner Bishop of London?’ I name the man who interrogated Anne Askew, a powerful supporter of the old church, hand in glove with Bishop Gardiner, a dangerous man, a vindictive man, a driven man. My influence and power forced him to let Anne Askew go, but there are few who leave the bishop’s palace without pleading guilty to whatever crime he names. There are few who leave without bruises.

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘Did you hear what he had to report?’

  ‘No,’ she says. She claps her hands together in her frustration. ‘The king was watching me. I had to walk past the door; I couldn’t stop and listen. I only heard what I have told you. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Someone will know,’ I say. ‘Someone will tell us. Get Anne Seymour.’

  Catherine flits from the room and outside we hear the music of the lute suddenly break off as Anne Seymour puts the instrument aside and comes in, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Has your husband said anything about questioning young Tom Howard?’ Nan asks her bluntly.

  ‘Tom Howard?’ She shakes her head.

  ‘Well, get to your rooms and find out what the council think they are doing,’ Nan says furiously. ‘For Edmund Bonner is looking around Howard lands for heretics and the Privy Council is questioning Tom Howard for heresy, and everyone knows that he has been here listening to the sermons. And many people know that Edmund Bonner released Anne Askew because Her Majesty requested it. How does he now have the courage to question another of our friends? How is he so bold as to go to Howard lands and ask questions about the Howards themselves? Have we lost power without knowing it? Or has Gardiner turned against the Howards? What’s happening now?’

  Anne looks from my pale face to Nan’s furious one. ‘I’ll go and find out,’ she says. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I know. I may not be able to speak with him till dinner.’

  ‘Just go!’ Nan spits, and Anne, usually so careful of her own importance, so slow to obey, scurries out of the room.

  Nan rounds on me. ‘Your books,’ she says. ‘Your papers, the new book that you’re writing.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘We’ll have to pack them up and get them out of the palace.’

  ‘Nan, nobody is going to search my rooms for my papers. The king himself gave me these books. I am studying his own writings, his own commentaries. We just completed our work on the liturgy together. This is the king’s chosen area of study, not just mine. He is planning an alliance with the Lutheran princes against the Catholic kings. He is leading England away from the Roman Catholic church towards full reform—’

  ‘The liturgy, yes,’ she says, interrupting me, forgetting, in the grip of her fear, the respect that she should show. ‘You’re safe working on that, I suppose, as long as you agree completely with him. But what about Lamentation? What about that? Would the king think it conformed to The King’s Book? Is your secret work not heretical against his laws? Gardiner’s laws?’

  ‘But the law keeps changing!’ I exclaim. ‘Changing, and changing again!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It is the law. And your writing is outside it.’

  I am silent. ‘Where can I send my papers?’ I ask. ‘Where is safe? Shall I send them to someone in the City? To Thomas Cranmer?’

  ‘To our uncle,’ she rules. I see that she has already thought of this, that she has been fearful for some time. ‘He’ll keep them safe. He’ll hide them and have the courage to deny them. I’ll pack up while you’re at dinner.’

  ‘Not my notes on the sermons! Not the translation of the gospels! I need them. I am in the middle of—’

  ‘Everything,’ she says fiercely. ‘Everything. Every single thing but the king’s Bible and the king’s own writings.’

  ‘You won’t come to dinner?’

  ‘I’ve no appetite,’ she says. ‘I won’t come.’

  ‘You’re never going to miss dinner!’ I say, trying to be cheerful. ‘You’re always hungry.’

  ‘I never ate a single meal in Syon Abbey when I lived there with Kitty Howard under arrest. My belly was stuffed with fear. And I feel like that now.’

  The king dines in the great hall before his people, sending out the best dishes to his favourites, raising his cup to toast his best friends. The court is crowded, for the members of the Privy Council are all here, having worked up an appetite for their dinner with the questioning of Tom Howard. There are many who would be glad to see the younger son from such a great family take a tumble into the quietness of prison for a while and come out with the Howard pride humbled. Those who have been offended by the persistent rise of his father take a pleasure in humiliating the son. Those of the reformed faith are glad to see a Howard squirm. Those who are traditionalists direct their malice at the ardent young scholar. One swift glance tells me that young Tom is not at dinner: not on the table for the young friends and companions, not at the foot of the Howard table. Where can he be?

  His father, the Duke of Norfolk, is completely impassive at the head of his family table, rising to his feet to toast the king when he sends down a massive haunch of beef, bowing respectfully to me. There is no way of knowing what is going through the old man’s head. He is a great friend of the old church, devoted to the Mass; but he denied his own beliefs and rode against the Pilgrimage of Grace. Though his heart was with the pilgrims who had enlisted to defend the old church, and fought under the banner of the five wounds of Christ, the duke declared martial law, ignored their royal pardons and killed them one by one in their little villages. He hanged hundreds of innocent men, perhaps thousands, and refused to allow them to be buried in sanctified ground. Whatever his loyalties,