‘You shall go as far as you wish,’ the astronomer says cleverly. ‘A general such as yourself, who has fought over this very ground before, shall be the best one to judge what should be attempted when you see the opposition, the ground, the weather, the temper of your men. I would advise that you don’t overreach what your army can do. But what might a king such as you do with them? Not even the stars can answer that.’
The king is pleased. He nods to his page, who gives Master Kratzer a heavy purse. Everyone tries not to look at it and estimate its worth.
‘And what of Venus?’ the king asks with heavy humour. ‘What of my love for the queen?’
I am so glad that Thomas is not in the room, hearing this. Whatever he thinks of me now I would not have him see the king rest his heavy hand on my shoulder, and stroke my neck as if I am his mare, his hound. I would not want Thomas Seymour to see the king lick his little lips and my tolerant smile.
‘The queen was born for happiness,’ Kratzer states.
I turn to him in surprise. I’ve never thought such a thing. I was raised to assist my family to greatness, perhaps God has called me to help England stay true to the reformed faith, but I never thought I was born for happiness. My life was never planned with my happiness as its goal. ‘D’you think so?’
He nods. ‘I looked at the stars at the time of your birth,’ he says. ‘And it was clear to me that you would marry several times and find happiness at the end.’
‘You saw that?’
‘He saw true happiness in your third marriage,’ the king explains.
I show him my prettiest smile. ‘Anyone can see happiness in it.’
‘Again,’ Will intones wearily from under the table, ‘I could have predicted all of this, and then I could have had that heavy purse. Are we now to observe that the divine Katerina is happy?’
‘Kick him,’ Henry advises me, and the court laughs when I pretend to swing a foot and Will bounds out, howling like a dog and holding his buttocks.
‘The queen was destined to marry for love,’ Kratzer says as Will limps to the side of the room. ‘In spirit, and in person, she is formed and destined to love deeply and well.’ He looks solemn. ‘And alas, I think she will pay a great price for her love.’
‘You mean that she has had to take great office, she has to undertake great duties for her love?’ the king asks gently.
The astronomer frowns slightly. ‘I am afraid that love may lead her into grave danger.’
‘She is Queen of England for love of her husband,’ Henry says. ‘That is the greatest and the most dangerous place for any woman in the country. Everyone envies her, and our enemies would see her humbled. But my love for her, and my power, will defend her.’
There is a silence as many people are genuinely moved by the king’s words of devotion. He takes my hand to his mouth and kisses it and I too am deeply touched that he should love me, and declare it so publicly. Then some sycophantic courtier exclaims, ‘Hurrah!’ and the moment is broken. The king opens his arms to me and I step into his warm embrace, and as his big fat head comes down I press my lips to his damp cheek. He lets me go and I turn away from the table and the astronomer. Nan is at my side.
‘Ask the king’s astronomer to draw my chart and bring it when I send for him,’ I say to her. ‘Tell him to keep it private and discuss it with no-one but me.’
‘Are you interested in the love or the danger?’ she asks sharply.
I look at her blandly. ‘Oh, in both, I suppose.’
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544
The astronomer’s predictions convince the king that he should start for France while Mars is high in his chart. The physicians strap up his wound and give him drugs that ease the pain and keep him as elated as a young man drunk at his first joust. The Privy Council surrenders to the king’s enthusiasm and comes to Whitehall Palace to see him set sail in the royal barge to go down-river to Gravesend, and from there to ride to Dover. He will cross the Narrow Seas to meet the Spanish emperor and decide on the pincer attack of their two armies on Paris.
The king’s rooms at Whitehall are filled with maps and lists of equipment that need to be assembled and the goods that must be sent out after him. Already, the army in France is complaining that they have not enough powder and shot; already we are robbing the Scots border forces to supply the invasion of France. Once a day, every day without fail, the king remarks that the only man who could organise a war was Cardinal Wolsey and that the people who tormented that great almoner should go down to hell themselves for robbing England of such a treasure. Sometimes he stumbles on the name and curses everyone for robbing him of Thomas Cromwell. It makes us all oddly uneasy, as if the red-robed cardinal might be summoned from the grave by his old master’s need, the fur-robed councillor come quietly behind him; as if the king can recall the beheaded and press them into service once again.
My ladies and I are all sewing standards and rolling strips of linen for bandages. I am embroidering the king’s thick jacket with Tudor roses and gold fleurs-de-lys when the door opens and half a dozen noblemen walk in with Thomas Seymour at their head, his handsome face quite impassive.
I realise that I am staring at him completely aghast, my needle suspended. He has not looked at me since we parted as lovers, at dawn more than a year ago, and we swore then that we would never again speak to each other, nor seek each other out. My sense of being called by God has failed to dilute my passion for him though I prayed that it would. I never enter a room without searching for his face. I never see him dance with one of my ladies without hating her for his hand on her waist, for the attentive tilt of his head, for her sluttish flushed face. I never look for him at dinner but somehow he is always at the corner of my eye. Outwardly I am pale and grave; inside, I burn up for him. I wait to see him every day, at Mass, at breakfast, at the hunt. I make sure that no-one ever sees me notice him. No-one can ever tell that I am acutely, passionately aware when he is in the room, bowing to me, or walking across the chamber, or that he has thrown himself casually onto a bench at the window and is talking quietly with Mary Howard. Morning and evening, breakfast and dinner, I keep my face completely impassive as my eyes glide over his dark head and then I look away as if I have not seen him at all.
And now, suddenly, he is here, walking into my rooms as if he could ever be an invited guest, bowing to me, and to the princesses, his hand on his heart, his dark eyes veiled and secretive, as if I have summoned him with the passionate thudding of my pulses, as if he can feel the heat of my skin burning his own, as if I had shouted aloud that he must come to me, that I will die if he does not come to me.
‘I have come, Your Majesty, at the command of the king, who asked me to bring you to him, through the privy garden, on your own.’
I am already on my feet, the precious royal jacket fallen to the floor, the thread whipping out of the needle’s eye as I walk away from it, the needle still in my hand.
‘I’ll bring the princesses,’ I say. I can hardly speak. I cannot breathe.
‘His Majesty said you were to come alone,’ he replies. The tone is courteous, his mouth smiles, but his eyes are cold. ‘I think he has a surprise for you.’
‘I’ll come at once then,’ I say.
I can hardly see the smiling faces of my ladies as Nan silently takes the needle from my hand, Thomas Seymour presents his arm to me, and I put my hand on his and let him draw me from the room and down the broad stone stairs to where the doors to the sunlit gardens stand open.