She gives me a little sad smile. ‘I have to be here,’ she says. ‘I have no choice. But I thank Your Majesty for your kindness.’
‘Do you miss your husband?’ I ask curiously.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘He was like a father to me.’
‘I think the king misses him.’
‘He must do. They were always together. But I don’t expect him to show it.’
‘Why not? Why should the king not show his grief for the loss of his friend?’
She looks at me as if I am asking her a question to which everyone must know the answer. ‘Because the king cannot bear grief,’ she says simply. ‘He cannot tolerate it. It makes him angry. He will never forgive Charles for leaving him. If I want to stay in favour, if I want my sons to have their inheritance, I will have to conceal the fact that Charles has deserted him. I cannot show him my grief as it reminds him of his own.’
‘But he died!’ I say impatiently to the man’s widow. ‘He didn’t leave the king on purpose, he just died!’
She gives me a slow sad smile. ‘I suppose if you are King of England, you think that everyone’s life is dedicated to you. And those that die have let you down.’
I don’t want to hear Nan’s bleak warnings, I prefer to see the gloze of Catherine’s false smile as the court is at peace among itself with no quarrels or dogfights, and God’s goodness to England shines out in the sunshine and the golden leaves of the trees in the meadows that run beside the river. The country is at peace, the news from France is that they plan nothing against us, the battle season is coming to a close and Thomas has survived another year. It is a blissful end of summer. Every day starts bright and every evening ends in a warm glow. The walls of the palace are golden in the sunset reflected in the river. Henry enjoys a return to good health. His servers haul him onto his horse every morning and we hunt every day, easy runs, through the water meadows alongside the river, and it is like being married to a man of my own age when his huge hunter outpaces mine and he goes past, yelling like a boy.
The wound on his leg is bound tight, and he can manage a limping walk without support, needing help only up and down the stairs that lead from the great hall to his rooms, where I visit him every other night.
‘We are happy,’ he tells me, as if it were an official announcement, as I take my seat on the other side of the fireside from his strengthened throne and his new footstool. Surprised by his formality, I giggle.
‘When you have been as troubled as I by unhappiness, you too will take note of a good day, a good season,’ he says. ‘I swear to you, my sweetheart, that I have never loved a wife more than I love you, and never known contentment as I do now.’
So much for your dark warnings, Nan, I think. ‘Lord husband, I am glad,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘If I can please you then I am the happiest woman in England. But I have heard some rumours.’
‘Of what?’ he demands as his sandy brows twitch together.
‘Some say that you might want a new queen,’ I say, taking the risk of speaking Nan’s warning out loud.
He chuckles and waves a dismissive hand. ‘There will always be rumours,’ he says. ‘While men have ambitious daughters, there will always be rumours.’
‘I am glad they mean nothing.’
‘Of course they mean nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing but people talking about their betters, and plain women envying your beauty.’
‘Then I am happy,’ I tell him.
‘And the children are well and thriving,’ he says, continuing to list his blessings. ‘And the country is at peace, though all but bankrupt. And for once I have some quiet in my court for my rival bishops have taken the summer off from their wrangling.’
‘God smiles on the righteous,’ I say.
‘I have seen your studies,’ he says in the same smug tone of congratulation. ‘I was pleased, Kate. You have done well to study, anyone can see how I have influenced your learning and your spiritual growth.’
I am sick with sudden fear. ‘My studies?’ I repeat.
‘Your book of prayers,’ he says. ‘That’s right, it is dutiful and pleasing to have a wife who spends her time on prayers.’
‘Your Majesty honours me with your attention.’ I say feebly.
‘I glanced at them,’ he says. ‘And I asked Cranmer what he thought. And he praised them. For a woman they are scholarly work. He accused me of helping you, but I said – no, no, they are all her own. I am glad to see your name on the cover, Kate. We should credit them to a royal author. What other king in Christendom has a scholarly wife? Francis of France has a queen who is neither wife nor scholar!’
‘I only put my name on the page as a sign of my gratitude to you,’ I say carefully.
‘You do that,’ he says, comfortable. ‘I am a lucky man. I have only two things that trouble me, and neither of them overmuch.’ He eases himself back in his chair, and I stand at once and move a little table laden with sweet cakes and wine closer to his hand.
‘What are they?’
‘Boulogne,’ he says heavily. ‘After all our courage in taking it, the council want me to return it to the French. I never will. I sent Henry Howard out there in place of his father just so that he will persuade everyone that we can keep it.’
‘And does he convince them?’
‘Oh, he swears he will never leave it, says he is dishonoured by the very suggestion.’ Henry chuckles. ‘And his father whispers to me that he is a boy who should come home and live at his father’s say-so. I love it when a father and son disagree. It makes my life so much easier if they are dancing to different tunes, but both of them played by me.’
I try to smile. ‘But how do you know which to believe?’
He taps the side of his nose with his hand to indicate his cunning. ‘I don’t know. That’s the secret. I listen to one, I listen to the other, I encourage each to think he has my ear. I weigh them as they bicker, and I choose.’
‘But it puts father against son,’ I point out. ‘And sets your chief commander in France against your Privy Council, and makes a deep division in the country.’
‘All the better, for then they cannot conspire against me. Anyway, I cannot return Boulogne to the French, whatever the Privy Council wants, for Charles of Spain insists that I keep it, insists that we don’t make peace with France. I have to play Spain and France like two dogs in a fight as well. I have to match them against each other like a dog-master.’
‘And your other worry?’ I ask gently.
‘God be praised, it’s just a little worry. It’s nothing. Just a plague at Portsmouth.’
‘Plague?
‘Ripping through my navy, God help them. Of course they will take it hard. The sailors sleep on the ships or in the worst of lodgings in that poor little town, the captains and the bo’suns little better. They’re all crammed on top of one another and the marshes are pestilential. The soldiers in my new castles will die like flies when it goes through them.’
‘But your admirals must be safe?’
‘No, for I insist they stay with the fleet,’ he says, as if the life of Thomas Seymour is an afterthought. ‘They have to take their chances.’
‘Can’t they go to their homes while the plague is in Portsmouth?’ I suggest. ‘It must make sense that the captains and commanders are not lost to the plague. You will need them in battle. You must want to keep them safe.’
‘God will watch over those who serve me,’ he says comfortably. ‘God would not raise his hand against me and mine. I am His chosen king, Kateryn. Never forget it.’
He sends me away at midnight – he wants to be alone – but instead of going to my bed I go to the beautiful chapel, kneel before the altar and whisper to myself: ‘Thomas, Thomas, God bless you, God keep you, my love, my only love. God keep you from the sea, God keep you from the plague, God keep you from sin and sorrow and send you safe home. I don’t even pray that you come home to me. I love you so dearly that I would have you safe, anywhere.’