Hampton Court, Spring 1540
Hampton Court, Spring
THE SEASON OF Lent is observed only lightly this year.
We eat no beef, but the new Church of England confirms chicken and game and eggs as ‘fish’ for the forty days of fasting.
Lady Lisle sends quail from her aviaries and dotterel for the queen’s table, and her daughter Anne Basset gives the king marmalade to her mother’s recipe.
But neither quails nor marmalade take the king’s gaze from Kitty Howard, who encourages him like a demure granddaughter hoping to be given a pony.
Her inviting smiles disappear the moment that our uncle, wearing a new French cape, strides into the queen’s rooms with the other lords before dinner.
‘You won’t tell him about Thomas Culpeper, will you, Lady Rochford?’ she whispers urgently to me. ‘It was a kiss on Shrove Tuesday; he said he would give me up for Lent. I’d never do it again; it was only because it was Shrove Tuesday – like a pancake, you know. So sorry.’
‘I won’t mention it,’ I say, and she fades away among the other girls and keeps a good distance from her overpowerful uncle, who comes to me and kisses my cheek.
‘All well?’ he asks.
‘All well,’ I say. ‘Did you have a successful embassy to France, sir?’
One glance at his hawk-faced gleam tells me that he has won a treaty with our nearest neighbour and separated them from the alliance with Spain.
‘I did. But I came back to news that I should’ve heard first from you. Remember you’re a Howard, whoever your paymaster is. I expect you to keep me abreast of things in the queen’s rooms.’
‘I’ve withheld nothing,’ I reply, wondering what he can have learned on the road from Harwich. ‘I have no paymaster. I couldn’t have written secrets to you, anyway.’
‘The king told his council that he can’t consummate his marriage. You didn’t tell me.’
‘He said that?’ I show him a shocked face. ‘But he comes to the queen’s bed every few nights? And she’s said nothing to anyone.’
I see he is uncertain. He was sure that I had played him false; but now he is wondering if his informant is lying. ‘She’s said nothing?’
‘No, my lord. I would have told you.’
‘You must know! Don’t you listen at the door? You must have heard . . .’
I shake my head. ‘Sometimes His Majesty stays all night, and sometimes he calls for his page and goes to his own bed around midnight. He’s never said anything to us ladies. Nor has she. We’ve been hoping for a prince, as you know.’
‘Forlorn hope! The king says that nothing’s happened and it never will.’
‘Oh!’
‘He says God has saved him from the sin of bigamy.’
‘Oh.’
My uncle narrows his eyes to glare at me. ‘So, the council must decide if the queen is a bigamist. What d’you say about that? Going to say “oh” again?’
‘No, my lord. I’d heard there was a childhood betrothal; but the new Cleves ambassador is coming to Hampton Court for Lent. Won’t he bring the papers to show the childhood betrothal was ended?’
‘Better for us, if he doesn’t,’ my uncle whispers. ‘If the king’s marriage was annulled, he’d be free to marry. And he’s seen the bride he wants, hasn’t he? He’s all over Kitty?’
‘He’s given her several gifts.’
‘And she’s behaving herself?’
I nod without committing myself to words.
‘Very well. If the queen asks you for advice, you know what your answer should be: that the king can’t and won’t consummate, and she should admit a prior contract and let the marriage be annulled, and the king can be free to marry our girl, and Cromwell’s girl can go back to Cleves.
We own the queen, and he looks like a fool. ’
THE KING REVELS in the Easter rituals of the old church, creeping to the cross, blessing cramp rings, washing the feet of the poor men, and the queen obeys him in this, as everything else, though the traditions must seem completely pagan to her.
They take Easter mass dressed in cloth of gold, side by side before an altar smoking with incense and drenched in holy water.
After the long church service, there is a dinner with roast beef, veal, lamb, porpoise, and puddings to celebrate the end of Lent.
Then there is masquing and dancing by the younger noblemen and the queen’s ladies.
The king’s older friends stand beside him, drink and watch the girls dance with a new generation of handsome sons of the great houses: Lord Lisle’s stepson, John Dudley; Anthony Kingston, son of my husband’s gaoler; Richard Cromwell, my spymaster’s nephew, and Gregory Cromwell, his son.
George Carew, Sir Nicholas’ kinsman, is home on leave from Rysbank Fort, Calais, and there are several handsome young Howard men newly come to court, including Charles, my cousin.
Margaret Douglas, back at court having learned nothing from disgrace and widowhood, dances twice with Charles Howard; but I tell the queen to nod her to a new partner for the third dance.
My spymaster, Lord Cromwell, is smilingly watching the dancing, chatting from time to time with the other lords and the king.
My uncle’s belief he would fall is proved wrong by the king, who rewards him with a great honour: the title of Earl of Essex.
Lord Cromwell takes the news with quiet pride; the king gives a dinner for him in the council chamber.
Cromwell himself heads the table; and the court is treated to a new masque which could be called The Rise of the Common Man, as the new earl is seated on one side of the king, and Thomas Howard the Duke of Norfolk, stiff with offended pride, on the other.