‘I will take these,’ I say, showing her the beautifully embroidered sleeves in my arms. Her eyes linger on the luminous mother-of-pearl buttons, on the rich silk slashing. ‘They came to you by accident. The king intended them for the queen. It will be better – far better for you – if I tell her that. But I shall see that you are invited back to court within a year or two. You can come back then, and no one will know that I ordered you to go.’
‘You order!’ she finds the courage to say, with a little quaver in her voice. ‘Who are you to give orders to me?’
‘I am a Howard,’ I say simply. ‘His Grace, Thomas Howard the Duke of Norfolk is head of my house, and the queen is my sister-in-law. Who are you to question me?’
She gives a sulky little curtsey. ‘I’ll return the sleeves to the royal wardrobe myself,’ she says.
It is her surrender, and I give them to her and go out of the room, closing the door behind me. As I walk through the presence chamber, I hear the sound of her running feet and a little breathless sob. She is looking for a friend to have a good cry and rail against me, and someone to take a letter to her parents, and someone to take the sleeves back to the royal wardrobe.
We are rid of her. My work – my spiteful courtier work – is done.
HALF AN HOURlater, the king stalks into the queen’s presence chamber, ignoring all of us ladies-in-waiting, though we are dressed to perfection and waiting for him. He tells Anne he will speak with her privately.
Her face lights up; she thinks he has come for a passionate quarrel and reconciliation, as they used to do. She leads the way into her privy chamber and closes the door on us. She thinks she will fly at him and slap his face, and he will grab at her and kiss her into submission. Perhaps they will whirl from anger to lust, from privy chamber to bedchamber, and we will all be late to dinner.
But she is wrong. She is the queen now; the days of fighting and lovemaking are gone.
I stand close to the privy-chamber door to prevent anyone eavesdropping, and I hear the low heated mutter of the king’s banked-down rage and the quick staccato reply of Anne denying whatever he is saying.
Then he says one thing loudly: ‘If she is causing this much trouble between us, then she must go.’
The door jerks open, and he comes out to the presence chamber.
I think: at any rate, we have won. He has named Agnes as trouble and insisted that she must go. But at that very moment, from the gallery end of the presence chamber, the king’s friends stroll in, merry as ever, George among them, and – to my utter amazement – on George’s arm is Agnes – not tear-stained and shamed; but rosy and chattering, smiling as if she walks into court every day with my husband at her side... and she is wearing the new sleeves.
Anne Parr, one of the ladies, touches my hand and says: ‘The queen wants you.’
I cannot tear my eyes from Agnes’ triumph. ‘What?’
‘The queen. In her privy chamber.’
I curtsey to the king; but he does not see me. George does not acknowledge me. Suddenly, I am invisible; everyone is smiling atAgnes, who is spreading her arms and pirouetting to show off her new sleeves.
I go into the privy chamber, and Anne is bleached white with rage.
‘Agnes just walked in,’ I tell her. ‘On George’s arm. In the new sleeves.’
‘The king says she’s to stay at court,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘He says you’re not to torment her. He says that if you cause this much trouble, you are to go.’
I can hardly hear her. ‘I?’
George opens the door and closes it quickly behind him. ‘Get out there,’ he says to Anne. ‘Go quick – don’t give her another moment to show off. And smile: for God’s sake, look as if it’s nothing to you. It was a catfight between your ladies: Jane and Agnes. Nothing to do with you at all.’
‘After what he said to me at the hunt?’
‘Because of that!’ George says urgently. ‘You must be more queenly than ever. She’s nothing beside you – a passing fancy. Put her out of his head. Shine her down. You can do it! You’ve always done it before. He has to forget that he said he raised you from nothing; he has to forget that he said Katherine was your better. We make it a petty quarrel between two women. It’s not about him seeing you for real: it’s Jane. It’s Jane’s fault. It’s Jane being a scold and bullying Agnes.’
‘It’s not!’ I find my voice. ‘Agnes knows I was obeying Anne’s order, and she’ll have told the king.’
‘Anne’ll deny it,’ George says briskly. He gently pinches her cheeks to bring the colour to them, and then he kisses her swiftly on the lips to give her courage and pushes her towards the door. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘I’ll come as soon as I’ve got Jane out of the way.’
She raises her chin and sets her shoulders back. She breathes in, like an actor preparing to walk on a stage, and she goes without another glance at me.
‘Out of the way?’ I demand. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘My love – you’ve got to take the blame for quarrelling with Agnes.’
‘There was no quarrel! How could there be a quarrel between a maid-of-honour and the senior lady-in-waiting? I dismissed her, as you told me to! The duke told me to! Anne told me to! I didn’t loosen the saddle girth and kill the girl! I’ve done far less than Anne wanted! I’m not taking the blame for this.’
