Westminster Palace, May 1540 #2
‘The ladies in the queen’s rooms are much concerned about the arrests, Lord Essex.’
‘Are they?’ he asks me, smiling. ‘I would be surprised if they thought about anything but their own ambition. Or is it just you? Just you who is concerned? Since I have a moment. But only a moment?’
I step closer. ‘You’re not pursuing the petitio principii?’ I whisper. ‘Not the witchcraft accusation?’
‘I am,’ he says frankly. ‘But not up to the queen’s door.
She can be kept out of it as long as she agrees to an annulment.
The matter can begin and end with the unfortunate Lord Hungerford and his friends on one scaffold and the unfortunate Lord Lisle on another, and no connection from them to the queen at all. ’
‘But there is no connection,’ I point out. ‘No connection to the queen at all!’
Lord Cromwell smiles. ‘None at all, none will be made – if she agrees to an annulment.’
‘But if she does not, then you have this . . . this possible third act?’
‘This inducement,’ he says gently. ‘She can make a false admission of invalidity or face a false accusation of witchcraft – it can be her choice. I have no preference. They both achieve the same end – I want a final blow to the Spanish party and to set the king free of a marriage that he doesn’t want. ’
He is so smilingly cheerful that I feel foolish when I take hold of his hands and say, breathlessly: ‘But, Lord Essex, one way gives an innocent woman 8,000 nobles a year and the Palace of Richmond and the other names her as a witch. And the punishment for witchcraft is death.’
He bows over my hands and lets me go. ‘That’s why I know that you will advise her to make the right choice.
Will you bring ladies to the Tower to give evidence, Lady Rochford?
I will send a barge for you. I should like one – no, I should like two other ladies to sign evidence.
You choose whomever you think would be the most convincing. ’
I put a hand on his arm. ‘I know you wouldn’t hurt her,’ I say earnestly.
‘She’s very young. Her father is dead; her brother doesn’t protect her.
She’s not even fluent in our language. She could be easily entrapped by a bad advisor.
But it was you who brought her to England, Lord Essex, and she has done nothing wrong. You would not hurt her.’
He puts his hand over mine. His hands are still callused from hard work, though he has sat among the nobility for years. ‘I won’t hurt her,’ he promises. ‘But she has to help me to set her free. You have to help me free her from this marriage.’
IT IS LIKE the other May Day. I have the same swirling sense of darkness behind my eyes, and I seem to be running wherever I go, though I don’t really know where to go, and certainly I should not be seen running and breathless.
I skid to a halt before the double doors of the queen’s rooms as they are opened, and I curtsey as the queen and her ladies come out for mass, their heads veiled, holding their prayer books. I snatch up a scarf to veil my head and step into the procession behind the queen.
In the royal chapel, everything is comfortingly unchanged: the king in his balcony, his foot propped on a stool, half-listening to the priest, who is saying the prayers in Latin although today the Bible readings are in English.
The king holds a pen as Cromwell, steady as a turning water wheel, bends forward, slides a paper before him, whispers in his ear, and the king signs without reading.
Behind Cromwell, his clerk scatters the new signatures with sand to dry the ink, before putting them in the great wooden box.
Kneeling in prayer on one side of the king is his new favourite, Thomas Culpeper; on the other side is his brother-in-law, Thomas Seymour, and standing at the back of the balcony, Sir Anthony Browne.
Everything is as it always is, as it always will be.
Except that I know that this time next year, there will be a new queen beside me, looking over at the king and bowing with respect, sliding to her knees and praying earnestly that God will give her a son, as the king cannot.
Today, the fate of this queen lies in my hands, and Thomas Cromwell has shown me a way to bring her out of the valley of the shadow of death into safety and freedom.
I kneel beside her, and I proffer my missal for her to share. I have knelt close before, to prompt her in the ritual which is strange to her, but this time I whisper: ‘I have to advise you, Your Grace.’ I speak in German, so none of the English ladies will understand if they overhear us.
She is no fool. Not a flicker of an expression crosses her face. She keeps her eyes on the words of the service, her lips moving in prayer; she does not even steal a glance at me.
‘The king’s minister is going to end your marriage,’ I say. I don’t know the word for annulment in German, and this would sound more tactful in French; but we are safer in her language. ‘Please stay still and quiet.’
She keeps her eyes on the altar. She says: ‘Amen,’ to the end of a collect, and I take it as agreement.
‘There are two ways this can be done. One is very bad for you. Very bad.’ I wait until I see her half nod.
She knows what ‘very bad’ means for a queen in England.
‘The other way gives you a pension, two beautiful houses. You would be a single woman, an Englishwoman, as free and as wealthy as a rich widow. You would be respected.’
She has gone very white; I am afraid that she is going to faint. Under the shelter of the velvet shelf where our prayer books are resting, I clasp her hand. She does not take her eyes from the officiating priest but she minutely nods. ‘Sprechen,’ she whispers. ‘Speak.’
‘They will ask if you were betrothed to the Duke of Lorraine.’
‘They asked me already. I told them no.’
‘I know. But they will ask again, and this time you must answer differently. Don’t deny it this time. Just say that you don’t know. You were only a little girl – you don’t know what your father agreed. And now your father is dead, you can’t ask him. How would you know?’
‘Because I have seen the contract of release,’ she says simply. ‘I swore on my honour I was free to marry the king, my husband.’
‘You have to say that you may be mistaken,’ I tell her. ‘On your life – for your life – you have to do this.’
‘But it is a lie,’ she observes quietly, her gaze on the crucifix on the altar.
‘I know. But you must say it, and then the churchmen will inquire, and they will decide that you were married before and your marriage to the king is invalid.’
‘So, I am married to the Duke of Lorraine?’ she confirms quietly. ‘And I have been married to him since I was eleven years old?’
‘It doesn’t matter that this makes no sense. It is a pretence, like a masque. But it’s going to save your life.’
Again, she goes a terrible waxy white.
I pinch her soft palm. The priest has started the bidding to mass.
I don’t have long to make her understand.
‘You have to say that the marriage to the king has not been consummated,’ I whisper.
I have no idea of the word ‘consummated’ in German.
‘You have to say he hasn’t swived you. No bed.
No bed. No fuck. No baby. You understand? ’
‘Because he is old?’ she whispers. ‘He cannot?’
‘No, no! Never, never say he cannot. If you say it, they will say there is a witch – an overlooking – evil magic. You say that you don’t know what should be done in bed.
You are a maid. You know nothing about it.
He kisses you goodnight and good morning, and you thought that was all that was needed to make a baby. ’
‘He knows better . . .’ she observes.
‘Yes, but he says that he does not do it, he chooses not to do it, because he knew as soon as he met you that you are the wife of the Duke of Lorraine.’
Even in this terrible danger, she has a sense of the ridiculous. She lowers her eyelids to hide the gleam of amusement in her dark-brown eyes. ‘How does he know this?’ she whispers in English.
‘God told him,’ I say without a smile.
She hides her face in her hands as if praying.
‘Whatever you think, whatever the truth, it has to be done this way,’ I say sternly.
The priest has started the confessional; the ladies behind me follow the strange English words in a whispered chorus.
I hold up the prayer book to hide the queen’s face from the officiating priest. ‘You have to agree that the king has not bedded you; then the marriage can be annulled, and you can get your pension and your lands, and you will be safe. You have to agree that you were precontracted; you have to say that you’re still a virgin; you have to agree that the king has slept by your side but never touched you.
You didn’t know there was more. You kiss goodnight and good morning, and that is all. ’
‘It’s not true,’ she says flatly. ‘Everyone will know it is not true.’
‘If you don’t say this lie, then the king will say he is impotent, and others will say it was caused by witchcraft.
’ I press my words into the side of her hood with my lips, as if I would force them into her head.
‘They will say someone put a spell on him, to make sure that he never had a baby with you. They may even say that you knew, that you wanted the king unmanned. They may even say it is you who is the witch.’
I thought she might be frightened, but under her heavy gown, I see her shoulders make a tiny shrug. ‘Is as stupid as the other,’ she says in English, and if we were not in chapel with the king opposite and Cromwell putting down death warrants before him, she would have shocked me into laughter.
THE WEATHER IMPROVES, and May is a merry month of arrests.
Lord Hungerford is taken into the Tower for questioning.
It is announced that he foretold the king’s death with a witch, and they produce the poor old woman and his priest and his doctor, too.
They are all accused of plotting with the dead rebel pilgrims for the return of the old royal family – Reginald Pole and Arthur, Lord Lisle.
Such wickedness earns them all the death sentence.
Justice must be swift, and there is no need for a trial; they will be executed by a writ of attainder, nodded through by an appalled House of Parliament.
The queen’s lord chamberlain Thomas Manners Earl of Rutland comes to me in the middle of June and says that the king’s council advise that there is illness in London.
‘Not plague?’ I ask.
‘Alas, yes,’ he says, glassy-eyed. ‘The council thinks it would be best if Her Grace moved to Richmond Palace.’
We both know that if there were plague in London, the king would be in Windsor by now. But we have our parts to play. ‘Richmond Palace? Will the king join us there?’
‘In a few days,’ he lies, so smoothly that only I – another smooth liar – would detect it. ‘Please do explain to Her Grace that the palace is known for its healthy air.’
‘I will,’ I say.
I have not spoken to her since the morning in the chapel.
I hope she understands the arrest of Lord Hungerford and his witch is part of the plot that could bring her down, but I don’t know what she is thinking, nor if she has plans of her own.
She cannot get a secret message to her brother in Cleves; any letter would immediately be delivered to Thomas Cromwell’s dark chamber for opening, translating, and reading, and only sent on if it suits his plans.
The queen’s ambassador, newly arrived from Cleves, has no money and speaks no English.
He can be no help. The people of London liked her on sight, but they can do nothing, and she knows nobody in England but her ladies.
Her most trusted friend is me – and I am plotting for the annulment of her marriage and her shame.
I curtsey to the lord chamberlain and go slowly into the queen’s rooms.
Queen Anne is playing cards with Catherine Carey and red-eyed Anne Basset.
I am hoping that Anne’s tearful face will remind the queen of her danger.
If a royal cousin like Lord Lisle can be arrested, a friendless young foreign duchess can disappear overnight.
A lie to save yourself is allowed by God, Jews call it the pikuach nefesh.
The most faithful Roman Catholic Christian in England, Lady Mary, swore that she was a bastard.
If Lady Mary can lie, this Lutheran surely can.
The girls at the card table try to smile when I come in.
‘Ach, Lady Rochford,’ the queen says. ‘These girls are robbing me.’
‘They are terrible thieves!’ I say, laughing, and Anne Basset flushes red.
I rush on: ‘I have just spoken to your lord chamberlain, Your Grace, and we are to move to Richmond Palace tomorrow. I think you will like the palace; it is one of the most beautiful new buildings on the river and more healthy than London at this time of year.’
Not by one flicker of expression does she betray that she knows Richmond Palace is to be part of her settlement. ‘Does His Majesty come with us?’ she asks.
‘He will follow,’ I say. ‘When he has completed his business in London.’
At the mention of the king’s business in London – the execution of her stepfather, Lord Lisle – Anne Basset excuses herself and dashes out of the room.
I sit in her place and pick up her cards, and the queen nods as if she is pleased and picks up her cards again, as cool as if I had told her nothing but a detail of housekeeping.
‘It is your deal, I think, Mistress Carey,’ she says.