‘No wait,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to get his hopes up and then disappoint him.’
The look she turns on me is that of a far older wiser woman. ‘Jane,’ she says. ‘Remember how he was before Lent? I have to get crowned.’
She is right: she must be crowned. We thought he would die then, and his illness is not cured but just in abeyance; it is a tertian fever it will flare up again and again. He could die before her baby quickens. A dowager queen veiled in black with a baby in her belly would be unbeatable. It’s worth the risk.
‘I’ll tell him after mass,’ she says, throwing back her fine linen sheets. ‘I’ll wear blue – get me my blue gown with blue sleeves, Jane. I’ll wear blue like the Virgin Herself.’
‘Theannuntiati,’ I agree, hearing the snort of laughter of a ghost.
SHE ASKS MEthe correct way to inform a king that his queen is with child, and I tell her lord chamberlain, who informs the king’s lord chamberlain. When mass is over, we ladies wait on our side of the chapel while the king gets Culpeper to haulhim to his feet. I prompt her to curtsey very prettily, and step forward and whisper in his ear, blushing. Culpeper studies the floor.
The king takes her hand, kisses her on the mouth, turns her as if she were a little puppet, to face the altar and says: ‘Rejoice, highly favoured one. The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women!’
Everyone says ‘Amen!’ or ‘Thanks be to God!’ and gives a muted cheer. The Seymours look as if they have swallowed a furball and are going to have to go quietly into a corner to retch it up. But even they cross themselves and say: ‘God bless you and keep you well!’ to Kitty, who stands, flushed and so proud, among them all, with the king holding her hand and her eyes filled with tears, not crying so as not to spoil her looks – just tears of happiness.
Greenwich Palace, Spy Wednesday
1541
SPYWEDNESDAY ISthe day before Maundy Thursday, named for Judas Iscariot, and I think of my master, the greatest spy in England, as if this were his memorial day – to honour spies. I think: what would he advise me – with the king disappearing from court? What would he do when the king came out, refusing to even remember that he nearly died? What would he do with a young queen who may have a royal heir in her belly? I think: he would have prepared for everything, for anything. That’s what I must do.
Katheryn tries to escape the long masses and prayers in these final days of Lent, and I have to bribe her into church with beautiful black-lace Spanish mantillas that Queen Katherine of Aragon left in the royal wardrobe. But she refuses outright to wash the feet of seventeen poor women – one for each year of her life. ‘It’s far worse for the king; he has to do fifty,’ I tell her. ‘Old men, too.’
‘It’s worse for me because I have no need to humble myself,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t born a queen. I am not an old king. Why do I have to wash their disgusting feet?’
‘They’re not disgusting; they’re washed already,’ I tell her. ‘And every queen of England has done it.’
‘I can’t bear it!’ she says with a little wail. ‘Why do I have to?’
‘Because Our Lord washed the feet of the disciples,’ I said. ‘The pope himself does it in Rome. The king does it. You can certainly do it.’
‘Only if you show me exactly how, and if you promise me a favour after.’
‘Oh, very well,’ I say impatiently.
We set up a line of stools, and her young maids-of-honour throw themselves into the roles of being old and poor. They limp and cough and insist on being carried and seated. They roll down their stockings and slip off their satin shoes, screaming with laughter and accusing each other of having smelly feet.
‘No laughing,’ Kitty says crossly. ‘The poor don’t laugh, do they? Why do I have to do this properly if no one else does!’
I show her how each poor woman will have her feet in the bowl before her, and all Kitty has to do is pour a jug of water into the bowl and touch the top of the foot.
‘Jane Seymour did it beautifully,’ I prompt her. ‘She saw it as part of queenly service.’
Down the line of seated giggling maids Katheryn goes, her face set and serious, pretending to pour from an empty jug, touching their feet with one extended fingertip. Margery Horsman takes the jug from her at the end of the line of stools, dries her hands, and hands her a purse. Kitty turns and walks back up the line, giving each woman a penny.
She stops at the end of the line and looks at me. ‘Then, do I just walk away?’
‘Bless them and wish them a Happy Easter.’
Katheryn turns back with the most angelic smile. ‘God bless you, smelly old ladies, and Happy Easter,’ she says.
The girls shriek with laughter. ‘God bless you, Queen Katheryn!’ they call. ‘God bless your sweet face! God bless your goodly belly and the baby inside it! God save you get another the way you got that one! God hope you enjoy it next time!’
‘Enough!’ I say sternly. ‘And put the stools straight.’ I turn to Katheryn. ‘That was well done. Do it just like that.’
‘And now my favour!’ She is suddenly bright with mischief; she draws me away from the noise of the girls taking the stools back to their rooms.
‘What favour?’
