He steps back and bows low to me, throws a quick, intense glance at Katheryn, who is pretending not to see us, but is head to head with Mary Howard, who really does seem to manage to then see nothing at all.
‘WHAT DID HEwant?’ Kitty demands, the moment the last maid has left her bedroom. She drags me down to sit beside her on her bed. ‘What did he say?’
‘A lot of nonsense,’ I say dampeningly.
‘He’s a very nonsensical young man,’ she agrees eagerly. ‘I’msurprised you even listened to him. What did he say that was such nonsense? Why were you laughing?’
I cannot resist the temptation to tell her. ‘At any rate, you have your revenge. He says that he loves you.’
‘Courtly love.’
‘He says not. He says he loves you for real.’
She gives a little crow of delight and bounces to her knees on her bed. ‘He does! Did he say he was sorry for being so rude about my gift?’
‘Yes. He asked me if you were displeased with him.’
‘Oh! Oh! And you said yes?’
‘I did better than that. I said that I didn’t think you even remembered it.’
She claps her hands. ‘You are clever. That was best. And he is sorry?’
‘Very sorry. He called himself stupid.’
She beams. ‘Serves him right. He is stupid.’
I nod. ‘And now you have your revenge.’
She sits back and holds her hands over her heart. ‘When shall I see him?’
‘No, you can’t see him,’ I correct her. ‘I only told you because I knew it would delight you. This is where it ends: with your victory. You wanted him beneath your feet. You have him there. That’s the end of the story.’
She widens her eyes at me; they have turned green with desire. ‘Oh, but, Jane, I have to see him.’
‘You can’t,’ I say simply. ‘It was only once, when I was there, when you were carrying the king’s child. Now you’ve got nothing to do, night or day, but conceive the king’s child. Any other thought, any other action is a waste of your time. And a danger to your reputation. You can’t be alone with any man until you have the king’s baby in your belly.’
She closes her eyes for a moment, her hands still clasped over her heart. ‘When I think of him, I just melt,’ she whispers.
There is a loud bang of the outer door. Kitty’s eyes fly open. ‘Is that the king?’
It is his vice chamberlain, announcing that the king will come to Kitty’s bed tonight. I hurry to tie her cap on her hair, to straighten her sheets. I see the joy drain from her face, her rosy cheeks go pale. I can almost see her grow dry and cold.
The double doors open, and the king limps in, Thomas Culpeper under his arm on his lame side. The king’s page and Culpeper manhandle him to sit on the edge of the high bed beside her, then lift his legs and swing them up. The mattress sinks down on his side; the ropes of the bed creak. Kitty is thrown off balance and rights herself by holding to the bedpost.
They heave the king up to the pillows and pull the covers up to his fat chest. He lies like a rounded effigy, the bedclothes heaped over his stiffly upright feet, his thickly bandaged leg, and then the mountain of his enormous belly and his rolling chest. Beside him, Kitty looks tiny, like a kidnapped child. She does not look at Thomas Culpeper, nor at me. Her gaze is on her clasped hands, as if she is praying that none of this is happening.
‘Goodnight, Your Majesties, God bless you.’ Thomas Culpeper and the page bow out behind me.
I curtsey as I leave the room last. We walk backwards to the door so that I see – we all see – the old king turn his big fat moon face towards the girl who sits so still beside him, and we then see him lunge towards her.
THE NEXT DAY,just as we are about to knock on the queen’s door and go in to wake the king and queen, a weary messenger comes to the king’s rooms with a letter from Scotland. Sir Anthony Browne has the authority to break the seal, and he tells us that the baby heir to the throne of Scotland has died, and – uncanny, unlucky, unbelievably – his newborn brother Robert has died, too.
This unbearable tragedy for the King of Scots is the happiest news anyone could have brought our king. Sir Anthony hands him the letter as he sits up in bed beside Kitty. The king reads it himself and then demands that Sir Anthony read it aloud to him as a satisfied smile spreads across his face. The king had wanted the tall, beautiful Queen of Scotland, Mary of Guise, as his own wife; Anne of Cleves was his second choice. Now, he sees this tragic loss of two baby boys as God’s punishment for Mary of Guise, who preferred another man to him. Scotland – which had two little princes – now has no male heir; but England does! We have a prince, and they do not.
‘That Mary of Guise made a great mistake when she refused my suit!’ Henry says joyfully, reaching out both arms like a child for his men to pull him out of bed.
I wait at the door; but I can see from here that Henry was potent last night, and Kitty is fighting to hide her shame. Her nightcap has been pulled off and her blonde hair is a tangled mess. Her face is white, as if she is ill. She pulls the bedclothes up to her chin; she turns her face away. Thomas Culpeper and the king’s page are courteously blind to her tumbled hair, the bite marks on her bruised neck. They heave the king to the side of the bed, get his fat feet in his slippers and his voluminous robe around his shoulders and tied around his swollen belly.
