‘Very well,’ I reply instantly and curtsey as he leaves.
Lord Cromwell says goodnight to the ladies and pauses, bowing over my hand. ‘She looked pretty enough,’ he says. ‘You turned her out well. A pretty face.’
‘She has a pretty face,’ I say simply. ‘But it’s not a false face. And he’s seen nothing but false faces and painted smiles for all his life. D’you think he wants an honest woman now? Does any man want an honest woman as his wife? Don’t you all prefer liars?’
She is no fool. She doesn’t understand half that we say, but she doesn’t need to be told that he doesn’t desire her. The king leaves her bed after a few hours the first night, and there is not a mark on the sheets and her hair is still in the fat blonde plait, tidy under her nightcap in the morning.
Kitty Howard, a noble-born maid who should have no knowledge of such signs, gives me a knowing look as the queen sits before her mirror and we unpin her nightcap and brush her hair.
Anne, the new queen, sees the exchanged glances and says nothing.
‘EARLY DAYS,’ THOMASCromwell says to me stoutly, as the king and queen process to mass and breakfast and sit side by side, smiling, like gold icons of marital bliss.
‘Not through the gate, not into the field,’ I say crudely.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
He scowls. ‘He told me that he knew by certain signs that she is no maid.’
I fold my lips over a sharp retort. There’s no point arguing with the king’s certainties.
‘But you would say she’s a maid?’ Cromwell asks me carefully.
‘A beautiful and clever maid. Fully fitting to be a young queen.’
‘That’s what I think,’ my spymaster says firmly. ‘It’s early days.’
I get hold of the serving girls and tell them that if anyone breathes a word about clean sheets and a tidy bed, I will see them hung upby their thumbs amid the hams in the meat larder. The gossips learn nothing from the queen’s attendants – though I don’t doubt Kitty Howard reports to our uncle the duke, Thomas Howard; Catherine Carey to her mother, my sister-in-law, Mary Boleyn, and from her to the supporters of reform; Anne Basset reports to her mother Lady Lisle and she to the old lords. The Spanish spies – whoever they are – report to Don Chapuys and to Lady Mary; the French spy earns his pension with information to the French ambassador. But the king and queen go through the celebrations of January in perfect public accord, and the wider court does not know that at night they sleep side by side, like statues on a tomb, never touching.
Every day, the Howards send Kitty Howard out in a prettier gown and a smaller hood, and their spies and placemen remark in the king’s hearing that it is a pity that the new queen is taking so long to learn to dance or sing or play an instrument or write a poem – and how strictly raised these Lutheran duchesses must be, that they take it as a holy duty not to delight the eye or entertain the mind! Every day, the Seymours loudly remark how charming the new queen is and what a worthy heir to their girl. The Seymours don’t care if the marriage is amariage blanc– one for public show. They prefer it. The last thing they want is a little half-brother to their prince; they want all the attention on him and on them.
Every day, Lord Cromwell looks across at me at prayers in the morning and just raises an eyebrow as if to say:and has the bull got through the gate into the field?Every day I minutely shake my head. The king spends most nights in her bed, but I think he has lost the power to do it.
‘She’s got to please him,’ Cromwell says bluntly, catching me as I am waiting for the grooms to bring my horse for me to ride out with the queen. She looks wonderful on horseback, when she’s not afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. She’s at ease with her big Holsteiner horse, and she rides as fast as any of the young men. They whoop and holloa as she keeps up with them, and scramble to help her down from the saddle when we come home.
‘She has to invite him,’ Cromwell urges me. ‘She has to incite him to happiness. She has to encourage him. She has to inspire desire. Do I have to tell her chamberlain to tell her? Or will you speak to her?’
‘Sortilèges?’ I ask, blank-faced. ‘You want sortilèges now?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Don’t,’ he says shortly. ‘Don’t be amusing with me. It’s no joking matter. She has to do something. Anything. Anything to attract him. If he’s not encouraged, he won’t get a boy. If he doesn’t get a boy, he’ll say it proves the marriage isn’t blessed by God. And if God is against the marriage, he’ll want to get out of it – and I tell you, Jane, neither God nor I can get him out of it. Not without upsetting all the German princes and leaving us open to attack from Spain and France. Not without setting back the cause of reform. Not without the king needing another bride so his pride isn’t humbled – and where do I find her? Who would be a fifth wife?’
‘She can do no more than she does,’ I say flatly. ‘She greets him with pleasure every time she sees him; she’s learning English as fast as she can; she’s learning the dances; she’s learning our entertainments. If he comes again in disguise, she knows to act falling in love with him. She’s changed her clothes to French fashions. She rides like acentaur, and she has the patience of a saint. What more d’you want of her?’
‘I want her to be like Kitty Howard!’ he exclaims as if it is forced out of him. He immediately drops to a whisper. ‘I want her to flirt.’
‘Kitty Howard was born a flirt and raised a flirt. If the king had married her, you’d have an inquiry into her lovers in the first year.’
‘She has lovers?’ he demands, alert to any Howard weakness.
‘God only knows what her step-grandmother the dowager duchess allowed in Norfolk House,’ I say. ‘She’s already in love with three different courtiers. Currently, it’s Thomas Culpeper – the king’s new favourite.’
Cromwell grins with genuine amusement. ‘How will she take the king’s eye if she’s courting with the groom of the bedchamber?’
‘She’s a Howard girl,’ I say shrewdly. ‘She can do both.’
Whitehall Palace, February
