‘Not merry?’ The king meets me in the gallery outside the chapel. He with his friends behind him – Queen Jane’s brother, Queen Anne’s uncle, Queen Katherine’s cousin – I with my ladies behind me. ‘Not merry on your wedding morning?’
At once I beam. ‘Very merry,’ I say determinedly. ‘And you, Your Majesty?’
‘You can call me “my lord husband”,’ he says, and takes my hand and crushes it between the curve of his thickly padded waistcoat and the embroidered sleeve. ‘Come with me to my privy chamber,’ he says informally. ‘I need to talk with you on our own.’
He releases me so that he can lean on a page and slowly limp forward. I follow him through his great waiting chamber, where there are hundreds of men and women gathered to see us pass, through the presence chamber, where scores more are waiting with petitions and requests, and into his privy chamber where only the court is admitted. At each doorway more people fall away, excluded from the room within, until it is just the king and Anthony Denny, a couple of clerks, his two pages, his Fool, Will Somers, two of my ladies and me. This is what he means by being alone with his wife.
They lower him into his great chair, which creaks a little under his weight, they put a footstool under his leg, then drape it with a cloth. He gestures that I may sit near him, and waves them all away. Denny goes to the back of the room and pretends to be talking to his wife, my lady-in-waiting Joan. I am sure that they are both ears-pricked, to hear every word.
‘So you are merry this morning?’ Henry confirms. ‘Though I was watching you in chapel and you seemed grave. I can see you through the lattice of my box, you know. I can keep you under watch and ward all the time. Be very sure that I am always mindful of you.’
‘I was praying, my lord.’
‘That’s good,’ he approves. ‘I like it that you are truly devout; but I want you to be happy. The Queen of England should be the happiest woman in Christendom as well as the most blessed. You must show the world that you are merry on your wedding morning.’
‘I am,’ I assure him. ‘I truly am.’
‘Visibly happy,’ he prompts me.
I show him my most dazzling smile.
He nods his approval. ‘And now you have work to do. And you must do everything that I say. I am your husband now, and you have promised obedience.’ His indulgent tone tells me that this is a joke.
I peep up at him. ‘I shall try to be a very good wife.’
He chuckles. ‘These are my commands: you have to order the tailors and the seamstresses to bring beautiful clothes and fabrics, and you have to order a great many gowns,’ he says. ‘I want to see you dressed like a queen, not like the poor widow Latimer.’
I give a little affected gasp and I press my hands together.
‘They tell me you like birds?’ he asks. ‘Colourful birds and singing birds.’
‘I do,’ I say. ‘But I could never afford to buy them.’
‘Well, now you can,’ he says. ‘I shall tell the captains of the ships that go far afield that they are to bring home little birds for you.’ He smiles. ‘It can be a new tax on shipping – little birds for the queen. And I have something for you now.’ He turns and snaps his fingers and Anthony Denny steps forward and puts a fat purse on the table and a small box. Henry passes me the box first. ‘Open it.’
It is a magnificent ruby, table-cut like a block, on a simple gold band. It is too big for my fingers, but the king slides it on my thumb and admires the red glow. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it.’
‘And there are more, of course. I have had them sent to your rooms.’
‘More?’
He warms to my naïvety. ‘More jewels, my dear. You are the queen. You have a treasury of jewels. You can pick out new ones to wear for every day of the year.’
I don’t have to feign my delight. ‘I do love pretty things.’
‘They’re a tribute to your own beauty,’ he says gently. ‘I have wanted you draped in the royal treasures ever since I first saw you.’
‘Thank you, husband. Thank you so much.’
He chuckles. ‘I am going to love giving you things. You blush like a little rose. This purse of gold is for you, too. Spend it on whatever you like and then come to me for another. You will have lands and rents and income of your own soon. Your steward will show you a list of all that you will own. You will be a wealthy woman in your own right. You will have all the queen consort lands and Baynard’s Castle in London. You will command a fortune in your own name. This is just to tide you over.’
‘I should like to be tided over,’ Will Somers observes. ‘For some reason it is low tide with me, all the time.’
The men laugh as, unobserved, I weigh the purse in my hand. It is heavy. If they are gold nobles, and I imagine that they are, this is a small fortune.
The king looks at his page. ‘Give me the list,’ he says.
The young man bows and hands him a rolled piece of paper. ‘These are men and women who want to serve in your household,’ the king says. ‘I have marked the ones that I wish you to take. But you can please yourself for most of the posts. I want you to be happy in your rooms and choose your own playmates.’
It is the right of the queen to choose her own ladies. They are with her night and day. It is only fair that they should be her friends, family and favourites. The king should not be making out the list.
‘I dare say I will approve your choices,’ he says. ‘I am sure there will be none that I do not approve. You have such beautiful taste, you are certain to choose ladies who will be an ornament to your court and to mine.’
I bow my head.
‘But they must be pretty,’ he specifies. ‘Make sure of that. I don’t want an eyesore.’
I say nothing to his plan that I should choose as my companions the women who will please him, and at once, he squeezes my hand. ‘Ah, Kate, we shall deal well together. We’ll go hunting this afternoon and you shall sit with me.’
‘I would love that,’ I say. I long to be on my horse and ride with the hunt. I want the sense of freedom of riding behind the hounds, following where the scent takes them, going fast and riding far from the great palace, but I know it will not be like this. I shall have to sit in the royal shelter beside the king and watch the deer driven towards us so that Henry can shoot his loaded bow from his seat. Before him the huntsmen will herd and chivy the deer forward. Behind him, a page will take the sharpened bolt and load it into the crossbow. The king will do nothing but point and shoot. He makes a hunt, with all the chance and hazard of field and woodland, into a farmyard killing, a butcher’s yard. The king’s hunt, which was once a pageant of excitement, has become a shambles where animals are driven and slaughtered. But this is all he can do now. The man that I remember as a centaur, as a huntsman, who rode three horses one after another in a single day till they foundered, is diminished to a murderer, slumped in a chair, defeated by old age and ill health, with a younger man loading his bow.
‘I shall be so happy to sit beside you,’ I lie.
‘And you shall learn to shoot,’ he promises me. ‘I will give you a little crossbow of your own. You must share in the sport. You must have the pleasure of the kill.’
He intends to be kind to me. ‘Thank you,’ I say again.
He nods that I am to leave. I rise to my feet and hesitate as he beckons me towards him and lifts up his big moon face. He is like a little child, trustingly offering a kiss. I put one hand on his massive shoulder and I bend down. His breath is terribly rank – it is like letting a hound pant in my face – but I don’t flinch. I kiss him on the mouth and I meet his eyes and smile.
‘Dearest,’ he says quietly. ‘You are my dearest. You will be my last and dearest wife.’