Nan has the purse of dried rue. With her back to the room she takes up the mulling poker from the red embers of the fire, seethes a mug of small ale and stirs in the herb. Nobody notices as I drink it down. I turn my face away so no-one can see my grimace.
I go with her to my prie-dieu and the two of us face the crucifix and kneel side by side so closely that no-one can hear a word but will think that we are muttering our prayers in Latin.
‘Is he potent?’
The question alone is a capital offence. Anne Boleyn’s brother was beheaded for asking this very thing.
‘Just about,’ I tell her tersely.
She puts a hand over mine. ‘He didn’t hurt you?’
I shake my head. ‘He can hardly move. I’m in no danger from him.’
‘Was it . . .?’ She breaks off. A well-loved wife herself, she cannot imagine my revulsion.
‘It was no worse than I thought it would be,’ I say, my head bowed over my beads. ‘And now I have some pity for him.’ I glance up at the crucifix. ‘I’m not the only one suffering. These are hard years for him. Think of what he was, and what he is now.’
She closes her eyes in a silent prayer. ‘My husband, Herbert, says that God’s hand is over you,’ she says.
‘You must perfume my room,’ I decide. ‘Send to the apothecary for some dried herbs and perfume. Rose oil, lavender, strong perfumes. I can’t stand the smell. The one thing I cannot stand is the smell. I really can’t sleep with it. You’ve got to get this done. It’s the only thing I really can’t bear.’
She nods. ‘Is it his leg?’
‘His leg and his wind,’ I say. ‘My bed smells of death and shit.’ She looks at me, as if I have surprised her. ‘Of death?’
‘Of the corruption of the body. Of a corrupting body. Of the plague. I dream of death,’ I say shortly.
‘Of course, the queen died here.’
I cry out in horror, and as my ladies turn to look, I try to turn it into a cough. At once someone brings me a glass of small ale to sip. When they have stepped back I turn on Nan. ‘Which queen?’ I demand, thinking wildly of the child Katherine Howard. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Queen Jane, of course,’ she says.
I knew that she died after giving birth to the prince, but I had not thought it was in these rooms, in my rooms. ‘Not here?’
‘Of course,’ she says simply. ‘In this bedroom.’ When she sees my aghast face she adds: ‘In this bed.’
I shrink back, clutching my rosary. ‘In my bed? That bed? Where we slept last night?’
‘But, Kateryn, there’s no need to take on. It was over five years ago.’
I shiver and find that I cannot stop. ‘Nan, I can’t do this. I can’t sleep in his dead wife’s bed.’
‘Dead wives,’ she corrects me. ‘Katherine Howard slept here. It was her bed too.’
I don’t cry out this time. ‘I can’t bear it.’
She takes hold of my shaking hands. ‘Be steady. It is God’s will,’ she says. ‘God’s calling. You have to do this, you can do this. I will help you and God will bear you up.’
‘I can’t sleep in the dead queen’s bed and mount her husband.’
‘You have to. God will help you. I pray to Him, I pray every day God help and guide my sister.’
I nod convulsively: ‘Amen, amen. God keep me, amen.’
It is time for me to be dressed. I turn to let them take the night robe from my shoulders and wash me with the scented oils and pat me dry, and then I step into my beautifully embroidered linen shift. I stand like a doll while they tie the ribbons at my throat and at my shoulders. The ladies-in-waiting bring gowns and a choice of sleeves and hoods, and hold them before me in attentive silence. I choose a gown in dark green, sleeves of black and a hood of black.
‘Very modest,’ my sister remarks critically. ‘You’re out of black now. You’re a bride, not a widow. You should wear gowns of brighter colours. We’ll order some for you to choose.’
I love fine clothes, she knows that.
‘And shoes,’ she says temptingly. ‘We’ll have the cobblers come to you. You can have all the shoes you want now.’ She sees my face and she laughs. ‘Now, you have much to do. You’ll have to arrange your household. I have half of England wanting to send their daughters to serve you. I’ve got a list of names. We can go through them after Mass.’
One of my ladies steps forward. ‘If you will forgive me, I have a favour to ask. If I may.’
‘We’ll look at all the requests together, after chapel,’ my sister rules.
I step into the gown and stand still while they tie the skirt, the bodice, and then hold the sleeves in place and thread the laces through the holes.
‘I’ll send for our brother, William,’ I say quietly to Nan. ‘I’ll want him here. And our uncle Parr.’
‘Apparently we have family we never knew before. From all over England. Everyone wants to claim kinship to the new Queen of England.’
‘I don’t have to give them all places, do I?’ I ask.
‘You’ll need people who depend on you around you,’ she says. ‘Of course you would reward your own family. And I assume you’ll send for the Latimer girl, your stepdaughter?’
‘Margaret is very dear to me,’ I say, suddenly hopeful. ‘Can I have her with me? And Elizabeth my stepdaughter? And Lucy Somerset, my stepson’s betrothed? And my Brough cousin, Elizabeth Tyrwhit?’
‘Of course, and I thought you’d appoint Uncle Parr to something in your household, and his wife, Aunt Mary, will come too, and our cousin Lane.’
‘Oh, yes!’ I exclaim. ‘I would want Maud with me.’
Nan smiles. ‘You can have whoever you want. Whatever you want. You should ask for everything you want now, in the early days, when everything will be granted you. You need people who are yours, heart and soul, around you to guard you.’
‘Against what?’ I challenge her as they put my hood on my head, as heavy as a crown.
‘Against all the other families,’ she whispers as she smooths my auburn hair in the golden net. ‘Against all the previous families who enjoyed their kinswoman’s patronage, and don’t want to be excluded now by a new queen: families like the Howards and Seymours. And you will need protection against the king’s new advisors, men like William Paget and Richard Rich and Thomas Wriothesley, men who have risen from nowhere and don’t want a new queen advising the king instead of them.’
Nan nods towards Catherine Brandon, who comes into the room carrying my small chest of jewels for me to make my choice. She lowers her voice. ‘And against women like her, wives of his friends, and any pretty lady-in-waiting who might be the next favourite.’
‘Not now!’ I exclaim. ‘We were married only yesterday!’
She nods. ‘He’s greedy,’ she says simply, as if it were a question of numbers of dishes at dinner. ‘He always wants more. He always needs more. He cannot get enough admiration.’
‘But he married me!’ I exclaim. ‘He insisted on marrying me.’
She shrugs. He married all my predecessors; it didn’t stop him wanting the next one.
At chapel, on the second storey, in the queen’s box, looking down at the priest going about God’s work, creating the miracle of the Mass and turning his back on the congregation as if they are not fit even to see it, I pray for God’s help in this marriage. I think of the other queens who have knelt here, on this footstool embroidered with the royal coat of arms and the pied rose, and prayed here, too. Some of them will have prayed with increasing anguish for live Tudor sons, some of them will have mourned the loss of their previous lives, some will have been homesick for their childhood home and the family who loved them for themselves, not for what they could provide. One, at least, had a heartache like mine, had to wake each day and put away the thought of the man she loved. I can almost feel them around me as I rest my face in my hands. I can almost smell their fear in the wood of the book rest. I imagine that if I licked the polished grain I would taste the salt of their tears.