‘And now we are on the rise,’ Nan crows. ‘And reform will go on. We’ll get the Bible back into the churches, we will be allowed to read books on reform, we’ll get the Word of God to the people and the dogs of Rome can go back to hell.’
The king is planning a great Christmas feast. ‘Everyone will attend,’ he says exuberantly. The pain in his leg has eased, the wound is still open but it is not weeping so copiously. I think that it smells less. I mask the stink with pockets of perfumes and spices scattered around my rooms, even tucked into my bed, the scent of roses overlaying the haunting odour of decay. The summer of riding and travelling has rested him, he hunts every day, all day – even if he is only standing in a hide as they drive the beasts towards him. We have a lighter dinner than when he is in his great hall twice a day with twenty, thirty different dishes being brought in, and he is even drinking less wine.
‘Everyone,’ he says, ‘every ambassador in Christendom will come to Hampton Court. They all want to see my beautiful new wife.’
I smile and shake my head. ‘I shall be shy,’ I say. ‘I don’t like to feel that all eyes are on me.’
‘You have to endure it,’ he says. ‘Better still, learn to enjoy it. You are the greatest woman in the kingdom: learn to revel in it. There are plenty who would take it from you if they could.’
‘Oh, I’m not so shy that I would rather stand aside,’ I confess.
‘Good,’ he says, catching up my hand and kissing it. ‘For I am not disposed to let you go. I want no pretty new girl pushed into your place.’ He laughs. ‘They dangle papist poppets before me, did you know? All this summer on progress they have been introducing pretty daughters with crucifixes at their necks and rosaries at their belts and missals in Latin in their pockets. Did you not notice?’
I try to remember. Now that he points it out to me I do think there were a lot of noticeably devout young women among the many that we met on progress. I give a little giggle. ‘My lord husband, this is—’
‘Ridiculous,’ he finishes for me. ‘But they think I am old and restless. They think I am whimsical, and that I would change my wife and change my church in the morning and change it back again in the evening. But you know,’ he kisses my hand again, ‘you know better than anyone that I am faithful, to you and to the church that I am making.’
‘You will hold to your reforms,’ I confirm.
‘I will do what I think right,’ he says. ‘We shall have your family at court for Christmas. You must be pleased that I am going to honour them? I will give your uncle a title – he shall be Lord Parr – and I will make your brother an earl.’
‘I am so grateful, my lord. And I know they will serve you loyally in their new positions. I shall be so pleased to see them at court. And – dear husband – may the children come for Christmas, too?’
He is surprised at the suggestion. ‘My children?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘They usually stay at their own houses,’ he says uncertainly. ‘They always celebrate Christmas with their people.’
Will Somers, who is at the king’s side, cracks two walnuts together in his hands, picks out the shells and offers the nut to his royal master. ‘Who are their people – if not us?’ he demands. ‘Lord, Lord, King! See what a good woman will do to you? You’ve only been married for five months and already she is giving you three children! This is the most fertile wife of all! It’s like keeping a cony!’
I laugh. ‘Only if Your Majesty would wish it?’
Henry’s jowls are trembling with his emotion, his face flushes, his little eyes fill with tears. ‘Of course I wish it, and Will is right. You are a good woman and you are bringing my children home to me. You will make us into a family of England, a true family. Everyone shall see us together: the father – and the son that will come after him. And I shall have Christmas with my children around me. I’ve never done such a thing before.’
HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1543
The oars of the royal barge, muffled by the cold mist that lies in heavy ribbons on the river, dip in and out of the water with one splashy movement. The boat surges forward with each stroke and then seems to rest before going forward again as if it were breathing on a living river: leaping and then stilling. Coots and moorhens scurry away from us ahead of the barge, lifting out of the water with their long legs trailing. A broad-winged heron rises silently from the reeds at the river bank, flapping on huge slow wings; overhead the seagulls cry. To approach Hampton Court in the royal barge on the river, with the bright winter sunlight breaking through the swirls of cold mist, is to see a magical palace emerge, as if it, too, is floating on the cold water.
I snuggle deep into my thick furs. I have rich glossy black sables delivered from the wardrobe of my London house of Baynard’s Castle. I know these belonged to my predecessor, Katherine Howard. I don’t have to ask: I have become familiar with her perfume, a memorable musky smell – she must have drenched everything in it. The moment they bring me a new gown I can smell her, as if she is haunting me in scent as she haunts me in life. I cannot help but wonder if she was drowning out the stink of his rotting leg, as I do with rose oil. At least I refuse to wear her shoes. They brought me a pair with golden heels and velvet toes, fit for a tiny child. She must have been like a little girl beside my husband, more than thirty years younger than him. She must have looked like his granddaughter when she danced with the young people of the court and glanced around at his squires¸ seeking her boyish lover. I wear her gowns, which are so beautifully made and so richly embroidered, but I will not walk in her shoes. I order new ones, dozens and dozens of pairs, hundreds of them. I pray that I will not dream of her as I follow her footsteps into Hampton Court, wearing her furs, her – and all the others. I sail in Katherine of Aragon’s barge. I wrap Kitty Howard’s sables around me and think that the cold wind blowing down the river will blow away her presence, will blow all the ghosts away, and soon her furs, so soft and luxurious, will be my furs and, brushing constantly against my throat and shoulders, will pick up my perfume of orange blossom and rose.
‘Isn’t it beautiful? Nan asks me, looking ahead to where the palace shines in the morning sunlight. ‘Isn’t it the best of them all?’
All of Henry’s many houses are places of wonder. This palace he took from Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, who built it in deep rosy-red brick, with high ornamental chimneys, broad courtyards and exquisitely planned gardens. They have completed the changes that Henry promised me, and now there is a new queen’s side overlooking the gardens and away from the kitchens. These will be my rooms; no ghosts will walk the newly waxed floorboards. There is a broad stone quay that runs along the riverbank, and as our barge and all the accompanying ships come into sight, all the standards are unfurled at all the flagpoles, and there is a great roar of cannon fire to welcome the king home.
I jump at the noise and Nan laughs. ‘You should have heard it the day that we brought Anne of Cleves to London,’ she says. ‘They had barges on the river shooting off guns, and the sky was lit like a thunderstorm with the fireworks.’
The barge comes smoothly in to the stone pier and the rowers ship their oars. There is another bellow of ordnance and the gangplank is run ashore. The yeomen of the guard, in their green and white livery, hammer down the shallow stone stairs to line the quay. The trumpeters blast out a shout of sound, and all the royal servants come out before the doors of the palace and stand, stiffly, heads uncovered in the wintry air. The king, who was resting his leg on an embroidered footstool under an awning in the stern, hauls himself to his feet and goes first, as he needs a man on either side to support him on the gently rocking deck. I follow him, and when he is steady on the white marble paving stone of the quay he turns and takes my hand. The trumpeters are playing a processional anthem, the servants are bowing low, and the people held back from the quay are cheering Henry’s name – and my own. I realise that our marriage is popular not just in our court and the foreign courts, but here, in the countryside too. Who could believe that the king could marry again? Yet again? Who could believe that he would take a beautiful widow and restore her to wealth and happiness? Who could believe that he would take an English woman, a countrywoman, a woman from the despised and feared North of England, and put her in the very heart of the smart Southern court, and that she would outshine everyone? They cheer and shout my name, wave documents that they want me to see, requests that they want me to grant, and I smile and wave back. The steward of my household goes among them and gathers up their letters for me to read later.