‘Old enough for motherhood,’ I contradict him. ‘The king thinks her old enough to be a mother and a stepmother. Old enough tosupervise her stepchildren, our little kinswoman Lady Elizabeth and her stepson Prince Edward. When the weather is warmer, she will visit them both.’
He bows. ‘I am sure they will be honoured,’ he says. ‘I will see that the queen gets reports from the Hertford nursery.’
‘And she will send her advice through you, his uncles,’ I say. ‘Loving, motherly advice. You and she are the prince’s only parents while the king is unwell.’ I want him to understand that I’m not challenging their place as lords protector, but I expect a share of the power.
‘We’ll be glad to have her motherly advice,’ he says. A direct glance from his dark eyes tells me that we understand each other, that when the king dies, there will be a Seymour regency and Kitty must be named as regent queen. He knows well enough that this is my idea and my plan, that he will have to deal with me and the Howards behind me. Kitty is our figurehead: I am the power.
He kisses my hand. ‘I’m so glad we have had this talk.’
‘I too.’ I smile as he bows and goes up the stairs to the king’s rooms, where the king is dying in secret as the fever heats his hurrying heart towards silence.
IN THE QUEEN’Srooms, we see no one. There is no singing or dancing or even playing cards. The young noblemen who ran in and out are now confined to the king’s rooms, shuttered in silence. Only Katheryn’s kinsmen visit her, and they are not of the king’s inner circle and know nothing. Charles Howard comes to visit his sister and sips a glass of wine.
‘Did you tell the king you were coming to my rooms?’ Katheryn asks.
Her brother shakes his head.
‘He didn’t ask you to come to see me?’
‘Alas,’ he says insincerely.
‘He sent no message?’
Charles looks across at me for help. ‘No, he did not,’ he says. ‘He didn’t, actually. No.’
Katheryn slips off her throne, so her brother has to rise to his feet. She puts her little hand on the richly embroidered sleeve of his jacket, and he awkwardly passes his glass to me so he can hold her hands.
She draws him away from the listening ladies. Only I can hear, as I follow behind them, her urgent whisper: ‘Brother Charles, dear brother Charles, is the king my lord displeased with me?’
‘Not at all not at all!’ he shoots a glance at me imploring for help. ‘His Majesty the king is in good health and thinks fondly of you, as ever. He is very well... he will do himself the pleasure, no doubt...’ He detaches himself from Kitty’s grasping hands, makes a low bow, throws a yearning glance to Margaret Douglas, and gets himself out of the room.
I catch him in the gallery outside. ‘You do right not to alarm the queen, but you can tell me. Is the king thinking kindly of the queen? It’s better if I know. It’s better for all of us if I know how to advise the queen.’
My heart sinks as I recognise in him the alarm of a courtier who has lost control of his master. ‘Nobody knows what he’s thinking,’ he whispers urgently. ‘Because he’s struck dumb: his face black as a chimney sweep, his breath coming in gasps. He sees no one but his doctor and his cook and two favourites. He does nothing but sleep and eat, except for when he raves like a madman for pain. God knows where this will end. I cannot say – you understand me – I cannot say.’
‘But he has nothing against the queen?’ I ask urgently, one hand on his arm. I dare not say: He has not sent for a lawyer? He has not changed his will? When he dies, she will be recognised as dowager queen? He has named no heir other than the little Seymour boy? He has not approved a regency council that excludes her? Anyone but a fool would know what I mean.
‘He says nothing about her at all,’ he explodes. ‘I think he’sforgotten all about her! When he’s raving, he swears that he has no friend and no true advisor. His people are all rebels. He says he has no wife. He’s dying as lonely and pained as she did. Nobody can take the place of Lord Cromwell.’
‘He’s missing Lord Cromwell?’ I am aghast.
‘He says he’ll never forgive those who dragged him down – us Howards!’
‘But Lord Cromwell made the Cleves wedding!’
‘Now he says there was nothing wrong with the Cleves wedding! And nothing wrong with Anne of Cleves!’
‘Does he think to recall her?’ I am stunned. ‘What’s he thinking? Is he going back to the duchess?’ This is like a nightmare. If he regrets the divorce of Anne of Cleves and the death of my friend Thomas Cromwell, and all the others: my husband, my sister-in-law, Henry Pole, Henry Courtenay. Sir Thomas More, Bishop Fisher... then my whole life has been grief without reason, and I have lost my husband and my sister-in-law and the only friend I ever had to a madman.
My blank horror exasperates Charles. ‘I told you! And I d-damned well should not tell you! He thinks he is d-d-dying... and he speaks only of...’
‘Who?’
‘The dowager princess,’ he blurts out, and for a moment, I am so distressed that I do not know who he means. ‘Who?’ I demand. ‘Who?’
‘Katherine of Aragon,’ he says. ‘He is dreaming that he is a young man again and married to Queen Katherine. When he wakes, he cries for her and calls for Cardinal Wolsey and for his dear friend Thomas More and faithful Cromwell, and when we can’t bring them, he says that nobody cares for him, for his true self, and we are all... all...’
‘What?’
