Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (193 page)

“She is happy enough.”

“I don’t really care if she is happy or not. Does she show any sign of being with child?”

“No, none,” I say.

“How did she mistake before, in the first month of marriage? She had us all in hopes.”

“She can barely count,” I say irritably. “And she has no sense of how important it is. I watch her courses now; there will be no mistake again.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is the king even capable?” he asks very quietly.

I do not need to glance toward the door; I know it must be secure
or we would not be having this most dangerous conversation. “He can do the act in the end, though he labors overlong on it, and it exhausts him.”

“Then is she fertile?” he demands.

“She has regular courses. And she seems healthy and strong.”

“If she does not get with child, then he will look for a reason,” he warns me, as if there is anything I can do about the whims of a king. “If she is not with child by Easter at the latest, he will be asking why.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sometimes these things take time.”

“The last wife who took time died on the scaffold,” he says sharply.

“You need not remind me.” I am fired into defiance. “I do remember all of that, and what she did, and what she attempted, and the price she paid. And then the price we paid. And the price I had to pay.”

My outburst shocks him. I have shocked myself. I had promised myself I would never complain. I did my best. And so, in their terms, did they.

“All I am saying is that we should prevent the question coming into his mind,” he soothes me. “Clearly, it would be better for us all, for the family, Jane, for us Howards, if Katherine were to conceive a child before he has to wonder. Before a question even enters his head. This would be the safest course for us.”

“Bricks without straw,” I say coldly. I am still irritated. “If the king has no power to give her a child, then what can we do? He is an old man; he is a sick man. He has never been a fertile man, and what potency he has must be soured by his rotting leg and his locked-up bowels. What can any of us do?”

“We can assist him,” he suggests.

“How can we do more?” I demand. “Our girl already does every trick that a Smithfield whore might do. She works him as if he were a drunken captain in a brothel. She does everything a woman can do, and all he can do is lie on his back and moan: “Oh, Katherine, oh my rose!” There is no vigor left in him. I am not surprised there is no baby coming from him. What are we to do?”

“We could hire some,” he says, as sly as any pander.

“What?”

“We could hire some vigor,” he suggests.

“You mean?”

“I mean that if there were a young man, perhaps someone we know that we can trust, who would be glad of a discreet affair, we might allow him to meet her, we might encourage her to treat him kindly, they might give each other a little pleasure, and we might have a child to put into the Tudor cradle and no man any the wiser.”

I am horrified. “You would never do this again,” I say flatly.

His look is as cold as winter. “I have never done it before,” he specifies carefully. “Not I.”

“It is to put her head on the block.”

“Not if it is carefully done.”

“She would never be safe.”

“If she were carefully guided, and chaperoned. If you were to be with her, every step of the way, if you were ready to swear to her honor. Who would disbelieve you, who have been such a reliable witness for the king so many times?”

“Exactly. I have always borne witness for the king,” I say, my throat dry with fear. “I give evidence for the hangman. I am always on the winning side. I have never offered evidence for the defense.”

“You have always borne witness for our side,” he corrects me. “And you would still be on the winning side, in safety. And you would be kinswoman to the next King of England. A Howard-Tudor boy.”

“But the man?” I am almost panting with fear. “There is no one we could trust with such a secret.”

He nods. “Ah yes, the man. I think we would have to ensure that he was gone when he had done his duty, don’t you? An accident of some sort, or a sword fight? Or set upon by thieves? Certainly he would have to be removed. We could not risk another . . .” The duke pauses for the word. “Scandal.”

I close my eyes at the thought of it. For a moment, against the darkness of my eyelids I can see my husband’s face turned toward me, his expression quite incredulous as he saw me come into court and take my seat before the panel of judges. A moment of hope as he thought I was coming to save him. Then slowly, his dawning horror at what I was prepared to say.

I shake my head. “These are terrible thoughts,” I say. “And terrible thoughts to be shared by you with me. We, who have already seen such things and done such things—” I break off. I cannot speak for terror at what he will bring me to do.

“It is because you have looked at horror without flinching that I talk with you,” he says, and for the first time this evening there is a warmth in his voice; I almost think I hear affection. “Who would I trust better than you, with my ambitions for the family? Your courage and skill have brought us here. I don’t doubt but that you will take us forward. You must know a young man who would be glad of a chance at the queen. A young man who could easily meet with her, a dispensable young man who would be no loss later on. Perhaps one of the king’s favorites whom he encourages to hang around her.”

I am almost gagging with fear. “You don’t understand,” I say. “Please, my lord, hear me. You don’t understand. What I did then . . . I have put from my mind . . . I never speak of it; I never think of it. If anyone makes me think of it, I shall go mad. I loved George . . . Truly, don’t make me think of it; don’t make me remember it.”

He rises to his feet. He comes round from his side of the table, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. It would almost be a gentle gesture except that it feels as if he is holding me down in his chair. “You shall decide, my dear Lady Jane. You shall think about these matters and tell me what you think, on reflection. I trust you implicitly. I am certain that you will want to do what is best for our family. I have faith that you will always do what is best for yourself.”

Anne, Richmond Palace, February 1541

I am home, and it is such relief to be here, I could laugh at myself for being a dull old spinster, shying away from society. But it is not just the pleasure of coming home to my own rooms and my own view from my windows and my own cook—it is the pleasure of escaping from the court, that court of darkness. Good God, it is a poisonous place that they are making for themselves, I wonder that anyone can bear to be there. The king’s mood is more unreliable than ever. In one moment he is passionate to Kitty Howard, fondling her like a lecher before everyone so that she blushes red and he laughs to see her embarrassment, then half an hour later he is raging against one of his councillors, flinging his cap to the ground, lashing out at a page, or silent and withdrawn, in a mood of quiet hatred and suspicion, his eyes darting round, seeking someone to blame for his unhappiness. His temper, always indulged, has become a danger. He cannot control it himself; he cannot control his own fears. He sees plots in every corner and assassins at every turn. The court is becoming adept at diverting him and confusing him; everyone fears the sudden turning of his moods into darkness.

Katherine runs to him when he wants her, and she shies away when his temper is bad, as if she were one of his pretty greyhounds. But the strain must tell on her in time. And she has surrounded herself with the silliest and most vulgar girls who were ever allowed
in a gentleman’s house. Their dress is incredibly ostentatious with as much bare flesh and jewels as they can afford; their manners are bad. They are sober enough when the king is awake and in the court; they parade before him and bow to him as if he were a brooding idol. But the moment he is gone, they run wild like schoolgirls. Kitty does nothing to control them; indeed, when the doors of her rooms are shut, she is the ringleader. They have pages and young men of the court running in and out of her rooms all day, musicians playing, gambling, drinking, flirting. She herself is little more than a child, and it is a great joy to her to have a water fight in a priceless gown and then change into another. But the people about her are older and less innocent, and the court is becoming lax, perhaps worse. There is a great scurry into decorum when someone dashes in and says the king is coming, which Kitty adores, the schoolchild that she is; but this is now a court without discipline. It is becoming a court without morals.

It is hard to predict what will happen. She said she was with child in the first month of marriage, but she was mistaken; she seems to have no idea how grave a mistake this can be, and there have been no hopes since. As I came away the wound on the king’s leg was giving him terrible pain, and he had taken to his bed again, seeing nobody. Kitty tells me that she thinks he cannot give her a child, that he is with her as he was with me, incapable. She tells me that she works such tricks on him that he has some pleasure, and she assures him that he is potent and strong, but the reality of the matter is that he rarely manages the act.

“We pretend,” she told me miserably. “I sigh and groan and say it is such bliss for me, and he tries to thrust, but, truth be told, he cannot move, it is a pathetic mime he does, not the real thing.”

I told her that she should not speak of this to me. But she asked me, very trustingly, who should advise her? I shook my head. “You can trust no one,” I said. “They would have had me hanged for a witch if I had said half what you have told me. If you say the king
is impotent, or you predict his death, that is treason, Kitty. The sentence for treason is death. You must never speak of this to anyone, and if anyone asks me did you speak to me, I shall lie for you and say you did not.”

Her little face was white. “But what shall I do?” she asked me. “If I cannot ask for help, and I don’t know what to do? If it is a crime even to tell someone what is wrong? What can I do? Who can I go to?”

I gave her no answer for I had none. When I was in the same trouble and danger, I never found anyone who would help me.

Poor child, perhaps my lord duke has a plan for her, perhaps Lady Rochford knows what can be done. But when the king is tired of her—and he must tire of her, for what can she do to create a lasting love?—when he is tired of her, if she does not have a child, then why would he keep her? And if he has a mind to be rid of her, will he make as generous a settlement on her as he did for me, given that I was a duchess with powerful friends and she is a light, slight-witted girl with no defense? Or will he find some easier, quicker, and cheaper way to be rid of her?

Katherine, Hampton Court, March 1541

Let me see, what do I have?

My winter gowns are all completed, though I have some more for spring in the making, but they are of no use, for the season of Lent is coming and I cannot wear them.

I have my Christmas and New Year gifts from the king; that is, among other things that I have already forgotten or given away to my women, I have two pendants made of twenty-six table diamonds and twenty-seven ordinary diamonds, so heavy that I can hardly hold up my head when they are round my neck. I have a rope of pearls with two hundred pearls as big as strawberries. I have the lovely horse from my dear Anne. I call her Anne now, and she still calls me Kitty when we are alone. But the jewels make no difference for those, too, have to be put aside for Lent.

I have a choir of new singers and musicians, but they cannot play merry music for me to dance when Lent comes. Also, I will not be allowed to eat anything worth having during Lent. I may not play cards or hunt; I may not dance or play games. It is too cold to go out on the river, and even if it were not, it will be Lent soon. I will not even play jokes with my ladies or run around the apartments or play catch or bowls or bat and ball as soon as it is dreary, dreary Lent.

And the king, for some reason, is making Lent come early this year. Out of sheer ill humor he has taken to his rooms since February,
and now he doesn’t even come out to dine, and never sees me, and is never kind to me, and has not given me anything or called me pretty rose since Twelfth Night. They say he is ill, but since he is always lame and always costive and since his leg constantly rots from the wound, I can’t see what difference it makes. And besides, he is so cross with everyone, and there is no pleasing him. He has all but closed up the court, and everyone tiptoes around as if they were frightened to breathe. Indeed, half the families have gone home to their houses since the king is not here, and no business is being done by the Privy Council. The king won’t see anyone, so a lot of the young men have gone away, and there is no amusement at all.