‘Is it so, sweetheart?’ he demands.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ I say.
‘And you had no worse end?’
‘Never.’
‘Then come and kiss me, Kate, for we are perfect friends as ever before.’
I step towards him and he drags me onto his good leg so I am practically sitting in his lap and he nuzzles my neck. My smile never wavers, as Will bounds to his feet.
‘You can all leave us,’ Henry says quietly, and his lords bow and take their leave as the pages come in to prepare the room for the night. The candles are new in the candlesticks, spaced around his bedroom so they show a soft and flickering light, the fire is banked up for the night, there is a pleasing smell of cinnamon and ginger.
Nan comes close as if to tidy my hair. ‘Do what you have to,’ she remarks. ‘I’ll wait.’ She curtseys and leaves me.
Behind me the pages have prepared the king’s bed with the usual ritual of plunging a sword into the mattress and rolling on it to detect any hidden murderer, sliding a warming pan over the fresh sheets, and then finally positioning themselves either side of the king to heave him in. They leave a tray of pastries within his reach and a decanter of wine for me to pour.
I straighten my beautifully embroidered night robe of dark silk, and take a seat at the fireside until he invites me to approach his enormous bed. I think, nervously, that it is like my wedding night when I was so dreading his touch. Now I have become accustomed, he can do nothing that would shock me. I will have to accept his damp caresses; I know I will have to kiss him and not flinch from his fetid saliva. I think that he is in too much pain from his leg and too drugged to expect me to mount him so I will have to do nothing worse than smile and seem ardent. I can do that. I can do that for my own safety and for the safety of all who depend on this tyrant for their freedom. I can rack my pride. I can dislocate my shame.
‘So we are friends,’ he says, putting his head on one side to admire my dark blue silk robe and the glimmer of white linen beneath it. ‘But I think you have been a naughty girl. I think that you have been reading books that were banned and listening to sermons that were not allowed.’
Being addressed as a child for my work as a scholar – this too I can endure. I bow my head. ‘I am sorry if I have done anything wrong.’
‘Do you know what I do with naughty girls?’ he asks, roguishly.
I can feel my thoughts whirling. I have never heard him speak like this before, diminishing me, and being a fool himself. But I must not challenge him. ‘I don’t think I have been naughty, my lord.’
‘Very naughty indeed! And do you know what I do to naughty girls?’ he asks again.
I shake my head. I think he has slipped into his dotage. I have to endure this too.
He beckons me to the side of the bed. ‘Come a little closer.’
I rise from my chair and go to the bed. I move gracefully, like a woman. I take the few steps with my head held high, like the queen that I am. I think, surely he cannot maintain this game that I am a child for scolding, but then it seems that he can. He takes my hand and pulls me a little closer to the bed. ‘I think that you have read books that Stephen Gardiner would say are heretical, you bad child.’
I open my eyes wide as if to assure him of my innocence. ‘I would never go against Your Majesty’s wishes. Stephen Gardiner has never accused me, and he has no evidence.’
‘Oh, he has accused you,’ he says, chuckling as if this is funny. ‘Be sure of that! And he accused your friends, and the girl preacher, and indeed he had all the evidence that he needed to prove to me – or even to a jury, a jury, Kate! – that you are, alas, a very naughty little girl.’
I try to smile. ‘But I have explained . . .’
I see the gleam of his irritation. ‘Never mind all that. I say you are a naughty girl and I think you have to be punished.’
At once I think of the Tower and the scaffold that they can build on the green. I think of my ladies and the preachers who have spoken before me. I think of Anne, waiting in the Tower for release from her agony. ‘Punished?’
He reaches across his huge barrel of a body and extends his left hand to me. I take it and he tugs me roughly, as if he would pull me across the bed.
I yield. ‘Your Majesty?’
‘Kneel on the bed,’ he says. ‘This is your punishment.’ He sees my aghast face and he laughs so much that he coughs, and tears come into his piggy little eyes. ‘Oh! Were you thinking that I would behead you? Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What fools women are! But kneel to me.’
I gather the skirts of my gown in my free hand and kneel up on the bed beside him. He lets go of my hand now I am positioned where he wants me, kneeling beside him, the stench from his wounded leg wafting up into my face. I put my hands together as if to swear fealty.
‘No, not that,’ he says impatiently. ‘I don’t want you to beg for pardon. Go on your hands and knees. Like a dog.’
I shoot one disbelieving look into his face and I see that he is flushed and intent. He means it. As I hesitate I see his eyes harden. ‘I’ve told you once,’ he says quietly. ‘There are guards outside and my barge will take you to the Tower tonight if I say just one word.’
‘I know . . .’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what you want me to do, my lord husband. I would do anything for you, you know that. I have promised to love. . .’
‘I’ve told you what to do,’ he points out, reasonably enough. ‘Go on your hands and knees like a dog.’
My face is burning with the heat of my shame. I go on my hands and knees on the bed and I drop my head down so that I don’t have to see the bright triumph in his face.
‘Lift your gown.’
This is too much. ‘I can’t,’ I say; but he is smiling.
‘Up over your buttocks,’ he says. ‘Lift your gown right up, your linen too, so your arse is as bare as a Smithfield whore.’
‘Your Majesty . . .’
He raises his right hand as if to warn me to be completely silent. I look back at him, I wonder if I dare to defy him.
‘My barge. . .’ he whispers. ‘It is waiting for you.’
Slowly, I pull my gown up to my waist, the silk cool in my fingers. It folds around my waist, leaving me naked from the waist down, on my hands and knees on the king’s bed.
He fumbles in the bedclothes and for a horrible moment I think that he is fondling himself, aroused by my nakedness, and that there will be worse for me to do. But he brings out a whip, a short horse’s whip, and shows it to me, bringing it to my burning face.
‘D’you see?’ he asks quietly. ‘It is no thicker than my little finger. The laws of the land, my laws, say that a husband may beat his wife if the stick is no thicker than his finger. D’you see that this is a thin little whip that I may legally use on you? Are we agreed?’
‘Your Majesty would not—’
‘It is the law, Kateryn. Like the law of heresy, like the law of treason. Do you understand that I am the lawgiver and the law enforcer and that nothing happens in England without my will?’
My legs and buttocks are cold. I bend my head to the stinking covers of the bed. ‘I understand,’ I say, though I can hardly speak.
He brings the whip closer, then thrusts it in my face. ‘Look!’ he says.
I raise my head and look at it.
‘Kiss it,’ he says.
I can’t stop myself from flinching. ‘What?’
‘Kiss the rod. As a sign that you accept your punishment. Like a good child. Kiss the rod.’
I look at him blankly for a moment as if I wonder if I can disobey him. He returns my gaze, completely calm. Only his scarlet colour and his rapid breathing reveal that he is aroused. He holds the whip a little closer to my lips. ‘Go on,’ he says.
I purse my lips. He puts the leather plaited thong to my mouth. I kiss it. He puts the thicker leather stem to my face. I kiss it. He puts his clenched hand holding the handle before my mouth, and I kiss his fat fingers too. Then without changing his expression he raises the whip behind me, and brings it down hard on my buttocks.