1538
THIS YEAR, MYfather’s new year gift to Lady Mary is a translation ofPsalm 36. It is a hint for her to keep her friends – the Poles, the Courtenays, the Spanish ambassador and his spies – at a safe distance. The Spanish party are at the peak of their power. I cannot think they will ever overreach; nothing seems to be beyond their grasp. It feels part of their triumph that my mother-in-law, Elizabeth Boleyn, dies without returning to court, and my father-in-law faces the rest of his life alone, one daughter estranged, his two favourite children and his wife dead.
My father is right to warn Lady Mary:Let not the foot of pride come against me.
May Day is a muted celebration, appropriate for a king who swears he will never be happy again. Lord Cromwell talks to all the ladies and praises the king, whose leg is healed so well that he can take part in a circle dance and works his way around the ladies to arrive at me. I curtsey low to him as my new partner and observe the barrel circumference of his chest, the broadening of his belt, and the exaggerated embroidered codpiece thrusting between the thickly jewelled skirts of his jacket.
‘Pretty Jane,’ he says to me, and then his big round face flushes, and tears come into his eyes. ‘That’s what I called her.’
I take his hand. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘And she was very pretty.’
‘She adored me.’
‘She did,’ I agree. ‘All the ladies do, Sire. But the greatest honour for her was that you loved her. You were her knight errant.’
The musicians pause the music. Everyone is standing still, waiting for the king to start the dancing, noting the warmth of his gaze on my face, his head close to mine.
‘You understand me.’ He smiles through his tears. ‘Like she did.’
‘I have been at your court so long...’
It is a mistake. I bite back my words. He does not want to think of my long service to three queens at an ageing court. He must be seen as a young widower, grieving for his one and only wife. He flushes with annoyance and drops my hand and repeats reproachfully: ‘You call it so long?’
‘Long enough to know and love you,’ I say quickly. ‘Not long enough at all! And you never seem a day older!’
He smiles again; he kisses my hand. The musicians strike up and we dance together, and then he goes on to the next partner, Anne Basset, who sinks into a curtsey so deep that her smiling mouth is level with his codpiece.
The dance finishes, the dancers disperse, and I find myself beside Lord Cromwell. The choristers begin the May Day carolof spring and youthful hope, promises, and love that will never die. I don’t smile at the words. My May Day is an anniversary of terror and loss.
‘You offended him?’ Cromwell asks me.
‘Who does not? It was a little slip of the tongue. But I recovered. I’m glad to see you, Lord Cromwell.’
He tucks my hand in his arm, and he walks me away from the dancers towards the card tables. He presses me gently into a seat and takes a deck of cards and starts to shuffle. The pictures, each with a secret meaning, like a pack of codes, flicker through his strong hands.
‘You have news for me?’
‘I do. You remember that Lady Margaret Pole has an abbey, her family foundation, at her palace at Bisham?’ I ask him.
‘It was closed by my inspectors for corruption and harbouring a runaway heretical priest.’
‘The king has reopened it. He has promised it will never be closed again.’
There is no check to his smooth shuffling. ‘I didn’t know this.’
‘It is to be a chantry for Queen Jane’s immortal soul. The king’s paying for a permanent foundation with nuns singing daily masses for Jane. The holy women will be housed at Bisham Abbey, under the protection of Lady Margaret Pole.’
We reformers don’t believe in the existence of purgatory, nor that masses will release a sinner early from torment. It’s so obviously a ruse to fleece grieving families of their money. Once, the king agreed with us, but His Majesty’s grasp of theology is rarely as strong as his whims.
Cromwell turns over cards at random. ‘Not quite the glorious Pilgrimage of Grace that Lady Margaret’s son Reginald promised to lead, is it?’ he says, unimpressed. ‘One abbey, reopened – just one – and that at the Poles’ own expense? But no doubt it will be a great joy for Lady Margaret to reopen her family abbey in defiance of my closure. This must give her hope.’ He pauses. ‘And if you see any other signs of hope: reading books against reform or lettersfrom Reginald or Rome, or any sort of thing, you will let me know, dear Lady Rochford.’
‘I will,’ I say. ‘But she didn’t get to sixty-four years old, through four reigns, by leaving signs of hope lying around for a casual passerby.’
‘No,’ he says with a smile. ‘But she’s not surrounded by casual passersby but by a large family, indiscreet and all needing money. One of them is sure to betray her.’ His eyes rest on the youngest brother, Sir Geoffrey, the least handsome and least likeable of a handsome, likeable family. ‘Would you like to take a wager on which one?’
Westmister Palace, Summer
1538
