Greenwich Palace, May, 1541 #2
They heave the king up to the pillows and pull the covers up to his fat chest. He lies like a rounded effigy, the bedclothes heaped over his stiffly upright feet, his thickly bandaged leg, and then the mountain of his enormous belly and his rolling chest. Beside him, Kitty looks tiny, like a kidnapped child.
She does not look at Thomas Culpeper, nor at me.
Her gaze is on her clasped hands, as if she is praying that none of this is happening.
‘Goodnight, Your Majesties, God bless you.’ Thomas Culpeper and the page bow out behind me.
I curtsey as I leave the room last. We walk backwards to the door so that I see – we all see – the old king turn his big fat moon face towards the girl who sits so still beside him, and we then see him lunge towards her.
THE NEXT DAY, just as we are about to knock on the queen’s door and go in to wake the king and queen, a weary messenger comes to the king’s rooms with a letter from Scotland.
Sir Anthony Browne has the authority to break the seal, and he tells us that the baby heir to the throne of Scotland has died, and – uncanny, unlucky, unbelievably – his newborn brother Robert has died, too.
This unbearable tragedy for the King of Scots is the happiest news anyone could have brought our king.
Sir Anthony hands him the letter as he sits up in bed beside Kitty.
The king reads it himself and then demands that Sir Anthony read it aloud to him as a satisfied smile spreads across his face.
The king had wanted the tall, beautiful Queen of Scotland, Mary of Guise, as his own wife; Anne of Cleves was his second choice.
Now, he sees this tragic loss of two baby boys as God’s punishment for Mary of Guise, who preferred another man to him.
Scotland – which had two little princes – now has no male heir; but England does! We have a prince, and they do not.
‘That Mary of Guise made a great mistake when she refused my suit!’ Henry says joyfully, reaching out both arms like a child for his men to pull him out of bed.
I wait at the door; but I can see from here that Henry was potent last night, and Kitty is fighting to hide her shame.
Her nightcap has been pulled off and her blonde hair is a tangled mess.
Her face is white, as if she is ill. She pulls the bedclothes up to her chin; she turns her face away.
Thomas Culpeper and the king’s page are courteously blind to her tumbled hair, the bite marks on her bruised neck.
They heave the king to the side of the bed, get his fat feet in his slippers and his voluminous robe around his shoulders and tied around his swollen belly.
‘Mary of Guise! Great mistake!’ the king exults, but Kitty and Culpeper do not remember the many women that the king considered for his fourth wife. The king smiles at me, knowing that I will understand his joy.
‘What’s she got to show for it now?’ he demands beaming at me. ‘Married to a madman and two sons in the grave! She must be breaking her heart this morning. She must be crying her lovely grey eyes out!’
I curtsey. I imagine she is breaking her heart, but it will be for the loss of her two baby sons, not because she refused this selfish old man.
‘You hear that, sweetheart?’ The king, halfway to the door, pauses and turns back to bellow at Kitty.
She nods, her head bobbing like a doll.
‘A great lady could ‘ave been in your place; but she married another king,’ he tells her. ‘And now she’s got nothing, because God did not bless the marriage. You get a son – you hear? And you will triumph over her as soon as you do, as I triumph over her now!’
Kitty nods. I know that she has no idea what he is talking about, but it doesn’t matter.
He is so delighted with himself, with the world, this morning, that he won’t wait for a reply.
The three of them – Thomas Culpeper, the king, and the page – their arms interlinked, stagger past me like drunks, followed by Sir Anthony and a few other young courtiers.
Only the king is looking around, smiling.
The rest look at their boots, as shamed as Kitty, who sits in bed in a crumpled nightgown, nodding and nodding while a crimson blush rises from her collar bones to her forehead.
‘We’ll go on progress,’ the king decides at the threshold, bringing everyone to a stumbling halt.
‘North. Triumphant progress. And we’ll meet James of Scotland on the border.
I’ll commiserate with him for his loss, and we’ll set a peace.
He’ll want a peaceful kingdom, now that he doesn’t have a son.
He can’t risk his life fighting us, if he doesn’t have an heir.
But I do! I’ll remind him that I do. This summer – we’ll go this summer. ’
THE GROOMS OF the household try to plan a route without Thomas Cromwell’s expertise or his maps and eye for detail, then change it as the king demands different halts and visits on the way north.
I, too, plan a progress which will show Kitty to the people of the northern lands, as a bringer of peace.
I pick out coronets for her to wear to remind everyone that she is a king’s wife now, blue gowns to remind everyone of the Holy Mother, dark-purple gowns to remind them she will be the king’s widow.
She will be dowager queen and – with luck – queen regent.
‘You must visit the royal nurseries before we go,’ I tell her. ‘Establish yourself as stepmother to the prince and Lady Elizabeth.’
She makes a little grimace. ‘Must I? Why do I have to?’
‘It makes you stronger . . . If people see you as the prince’s stepmother, taking an interest in his upbringing, being a mother to him – if the king sees you as mother to the prince, he’ll crown you queen.’
‘The Seymours are never going to let me near their precious boy. And besides, I don’t like little children.’
‘They will. I have agreed it. And when you see him, you must pet him, make much of him, put into his head that you’re his new mother. He’ll be king one day; and then your title will be in his gift – your pension, too.’
Kitty is never lazy when it comes to her own interests. Raised as the daughter of a poor relation in an ambitious house, she knows all about positioning in the family, at court, in the world.
‘And Lady Elizabeth. Yes, her too,’ I insist over her protest. ‘You have to be stepmother to all of them. You’ve got to get on good terms with Lady Mary as well. You can’t have her opposing you as regent.’
‘I can’t be her mother! She’s years older than me! And she hates me!’ Kitty protests.
‘She’s coming on progress with us,’ I warn her. ‘You’ll ride before her as her stepmother. She’ll be respectful to you, and you must look loving and kind to her. You have to look sure of yourself. You have to act like a queen crowned.’
‘And if I do, will he crown me at York? He was going to crown Jane Seymour at York, wasn’t he?’
‘I think he will.’ I cannot keep my own excitement from my voice. ‘Especially now that it would be such a snub to James of Scotland and an insult to Mary of Guise who have lost both their sons. Yes. I think he will.’