A rumbled jest from Brandon: ‘Perchance Essex died on the way?’
The king pretends not to have heard. He is dignified as a bridegroom must be; they never hear the sly asides of their companions, who hint that they will be happy when it is dark. Over his glittering gown the king wears a coat of indigo satin, furred. Light glints and slides from his many surfaces. His lips move, as if in prayer.
When Anne appears, she wears a gown strewn with flowers, like the king: hers are not silver, but pearl. Her blonde hair is loose, falling to her waist, and entwined around her coronet a garland of rosemary. She no longer looks like a grocer’s wife, but like what she is: a princess whose childhood was spent in a high castle on a crag, from where you can see for miles.
It is a short and simple ceremony. Nothing is required of her but to stand still and look cheerful. The archbishop glances around him, when he asks if any impediment is known: as if he offers chances to all comers. No one speaks. Cranmer bobs his head as if taking cover. The king makes his vows. Then at his archbishop’s signal, he turns, takes the queen by the elbows, and plants a kiss on her cheek. Stiffly, she turns her head; ducking around her winged head-dress, the king kisses the other cheek. The red lips are pursed, ready for him: but nothing doing.
Cranmer says, Deo Gratias.The king and queen leave the closet hand in hand. Fanfares sound. Courtiers cry, Gaudete! The councillors follow to the feast.
For once he hardly notices what he eats. Usually, after a dinner like this, the king’s councillors knot together in a corner and talk about hunting. But when the pipers come in Norfolk is prevailed upon to dance with his niece Katherine. Fitz watches him, gloomy. ‘I suppose this was worth getting out of bed to see?’
‘You will not dance, Lord Cromwell?’ Culpeper says. ‘If my lord Norfolk can, you can.’
Mr Wriothesley says, ‘If only Lady Latimer would come in. Then my lord would caper.’
‘You will not let that joke go,’ he says amiably. ‘Lord Latimer is younger than the king. And in health, as far as I know.’
Health and prosperity. Lady Latimer’s brother William became Baron Parr last year. And her sister, who served Jane the queen, is now a gentlewoman in the new queen’s privy chamber.
Norfolk’s niece giggles at her uncle’s show of high spirits. She is soon on her feet with the other maids: a lively dancer, her cheeks flushed. Into the fray go the young gentlemen, kicking up their heels. The king watches them with a tolerant smile. When they rise from the table, Henry holds out a hand to the queen, and leads her to the portrait that Hans has given him for a New Year gift. The councillors follow, like goslings in a line. A curtain is drawn back, revealing Edward the prince in red and gilt. Below his broad infantine forehead, under his feathered cap, his eyes glow. One open palm is held out; in the other he clutches his jewelled rattle, wielding it like a sceptre.
‘Master Holbein painted it,’ the king says; she understands that.
‘What a darling prince,’ she says. ‘When shall I meet him?’
‘Soon,’ the king promises.
‘And your lady daughters?’
‘Presently.’
‘And Lady Mary is to be wed?’
There is a hasty conference among the translators. An emphatic shake of the head makes Anna look sorry she spoke. The king turns to speak in French to the Cleves envoys. ‘We take pleasure in the company of the Duke of Bavaria. So there is no haste in the matter, and much to be discussed.’
He, Lord Cromwell, employs Italian, which Olisleger understands a little. His gesture cuts the air: drop it.
The king continues, showing off his son. ‘Edward is my heir. My daughters are not my heirs. Does she understand that?’ He turns back to the picture, his face softened. ‘That little chin of his, that is Jane’s.’
The king and queen part, bowing to each other, the queen turning towards her own rooms. The interpreters and the Cleves delegation set into each other, buzzing and elbowing. He leaves them to it and walks away. A message comes: the queen will speak with Lord Cromwell.
When he arrives Anna is still in her wedding dress. Norfolk’s niece is sitting on the floor, holding a needle and thread, an inch of the queen’s hem beneath her fingers. In her lap is Anne’s garland of rosemary. A knot of Cleves ladies are laughing in a corner. Jane Rochford gives him a nod. The queen takes off her wedding ring and shows it to him. Her chosen motto is written around it: God send me well to keep. What goose suggested that to her? It should have said, God send him well to keep.
‘Thank you for the cakes,’ the queen says. ‘We enjoyed them. A taste of home. You have visited my home?’
He is sorry to say he has not.
‘I hoped for letters at Calais. But there was nothing for me.’
Poor lady, she is homesick. ‘The posts are bad at this time of year,’ he says. ‘I myself am awaiting news from our ambassadors in France.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘so are we all. To know whether the amity continues. It seems harsh to wish for discord, when we have grown up praying for peace. But I know my brother Wilhelm would be relieved if the Emperor and the French king were to set about each other with their fists and teeth.’ She laughs.
‘War for them is peace for us,’ he says, ‘their discord our harmony.’ He realises she is not uninformed, or lacking in eloquence, and also that he can partly understand her. But he would not speak to her without an intermediary. He cannot afford to create a misunderstanding. It is risky enough even when the translators are doing their best.
‘Where is the young Gregory?’ she asks in English. ‘So well he entertained me in Calais. What a good boy.’
There is a murmur of pleasure and surprise from the ladies. ‘Well spoken, madam!’
Katherine Howard looks up from her work on the floor. ‘Can’t get the needle through. This stuff is as tough as hide. It needs some great bodkin.’
There is a little laughter, edgy. Mary Norris blushes, guessing at something unfit for maiden ears. Jane Rochford says, ‘Get the whole thing off her. She will not be wearing it again till it has been made over in our English fashion.’ She reaches down – a comradely gesture – and pulls the young Howard to her feet.
He is making his farewells, but Anna calls him back. She seems preoccupied with the fifty sovereigns he sent her, as if he might expect to be paid back. She explains she has broken the coins into those of lesser value and given some in largesse. Women came out of their houses, she explains, at –
‘At Sittingbourne,’ Jane Rochford says.
‘– offering me delicacies to eat.’
He says to the interpreters, ‘Tell her whenever she issues out, she should carry suitable coins – or have them carried, in her case. She need not wait for gifts to be made her, but should hand them freely to bystanders. Be generous especially to children, as it stores up goodwill for the future.’
Jane Rochford is studying Anna’s lips as they move, as if to pick out the words. She is a woman with a good wit, he thinks, but she has never found a use for it; perhaps this is her time to shine. Soon the great ladies, Bess Cromwell included, will go home to their households and children, and Rochford will assist Lady Rutland with the queen’s daily round, keeping a hand on the young maids and ensuring order and piety.
One of the interpreters asks him, ‘My lord, what comes next?’
‘Evensong,’ he says. ‘Then the French ambassador will be joining us for Caesar’s invasion of Britain, with more bagpipes and drums; then it will be tumblers or magicians, then supper and bed.’
At twilight they play Britannia unconquered. The queen sits up straight and looks alert, while one of the interpreters rehearses to her what will unfold: the repulse of the Romans, how the island stood firm and resisted tribute. He recognises the King of Britain as one of George Boleyn’s men.