St Mary’s, York, Autumn 1541
St Mary’s, York, Autumn
WE ENTER YORK as a punitive force in September.
The journey north from Pontefract is erratic – constantly stopping for gentry and local people to come and prostrate themselves before the king to atone for their part in the Pilgrimage of Grace.
In some villages, the bodies of fathers and brothers are still rotting in metal cages hanging from roadside gallows.
Their sons and brothers kneel at the crossroads for forgiveness as we go by.
When we enter the city of York, the archbishop himself, with three hundred priests, kneels to the king and offers a treasure chest of money, asking pardon.
Lady Mary watches the king harangue them, knowing they were trusting her to come to their aid, knowing they hoped to put her and Reginald Pole on the throne in place of her father.
She sits completely still on her horse, her face as blank as a painted saint on a plastered wall; her guilt and grief only shows in convulsive swallowing as she fights the desire to vomit.
We stay at the empty abbey of St Mary, half of the buildings tumbled down by the storm of destruction which is called the king’s reformation.
But the abbot’s house has been repaired in a hurry for this visit, and there is a great stone-floored hall where most of the court can be seated to dine; the queen has the rooms for honoured guests, and the king has the abbot’s rooms. There is a charming little parlour room on the ground floor where the abbess used to speak to visitors through a grille.
Thomas can enter, unnoticed, from a courtyard and Kitty can slip down a private stair from the abbess’ bedroom when the court has closed for the night.
I go with her, in case there is any trouble, and sit at the back of the room while the two of them play Pyramus and Thisbe speaking through the grille for the first hour, until their lips come closer and closer to the metal lattice, and then Kitty opens the little door, and she is in his arms.
‘You’re hot,’ she leans back to look into his face.
‘I have a slight fever,’ he smiles. ‘My heart beats faster when you are against it.’
She puts her hand on his forehead. ‘Thomas, you must take a draught and go to bed. I am sure you’re feverish, and how shall I see you, if you’re ill?’
‘I’m not ill.’ He takes her hand from his forehead and kisses it. ‘Dying of love, of course.’
‘Jane!’ She summons me. ‘Feel his forehead – isn’t he hot?’
He certainly has a fever. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks flushed; his forehead is burning hot and dry.
‘You’d better put yourself to bed and let the queen go,’ I tell him.
It would be disastrous for her to be ill now, when her coronation might be announced any day. All the king’s pleasure in his pretty bride will not keep him in the same palace if she has sweating sickness. He is more afraid of illness than anything in the world.
Reluctantly, Culpeper releases her.
‘But who will look after you?’ she asks him, as I draw her away.
‘I’ve got good servants,’ he assures her. ‘And the king will send Dr Butts if he thinks I’m ill.’
‘Don’t say a word about us,’ she reminds him. ‘Not to the doctor. Don’t say about late nights and no sleep.’
‘Never,’ he says simply. ‘Never. You know I would die rather than betray you.’
She looks aghast. ‘Don’t say die! Don’t speak of it. If you . . . if you . . .’
Gently, I push her towards the door. ‘He has a slight fever,’ I say, very matter-of-fact. ‘He’ll be well by next week.’
‘Send me word how you are,’ she says as I get her to the foot of the stair. ‘I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re getting better.’
‘Let him go to bed now,’ I interrupt. ‘Master Culpeper, send your page in the morning and tell me how you are. But don’t write anything.’
‘No, write to me!’ Kitty begs. ‘Write to me every day.’
One passionate kiss on Kitty’s hand and he slips out of the door.
Kitty’s green eyes are tragic. ‘What if he were to be very ill?’ she asks. ‘What if he were to . . .’
‘He’s a strong, healthy young man,’ I say to her. ‘He’s not old, he’s not fat, and he’s not poisoned by an ulcer and broken by old injuries. He can have a fever and jump out of bed in two days, none the worse for wear. There’s nothing for you to fear.’
IN THE MORNING, we enter the chapel and there is no curly brown head bowed behind the king.
‘Can I write to him?’ she whispers. ‘I have to, Jane. I will.’
‘You can tell me what to write, so it’s not in your hand,’ I say. ‘And nothing but what anyone could read.’
She nods and dictates it to me in a whisper, while the long service goes on.
I write a passionless précis – not at all what she wanted to say – and I palm it and pass it to Webb as we leave the chapel and tell him to give it to Culpeper’s servant.
If he reads the brief words, he will think that it is from me – fool enough to pursue a younger man.
But I have outlived far worse scandals than this.
The page sends word that Thomas Culpeper is very ill, with a burning fever, and is to be cupped later today.
Kitty can barely endure the long ceremonies of the day and the many changes of dress: the procession to the cathedral, the presentation of loyal wishes, the submission of former rebels.
She does it by rote, with an empty smile.
The king beside her sees only her obedience to the order of the service; he has no idea that she is sick with longing for another man.
After dinner, the king sits beside Kitty to watch the dancing and tells her, with a pleased smile, that she is to prepare for a great event.
It is a sign of how her marriage has schooled her that she does not leap to her feet with excitement about her coronation.
She bows her head and says that she will do whatever he wishes.
Equally, she shows no disappointment when the king adds that it is to be a royal visit: his sister’s son, his rival, his neighbouring monarch, King James of Scotland, is coming to York to meet the greater King of England.
If he brings his queen, the famously beautiful Mary of Guise, who preferred the lesser king to the greater one, Kitty will have to show herself as the younger, more beautiful, and certainly more fertile woman.
Queen Mary must regret her choice of husband, and King James must see that our English king has the better wife.
We are to send to London for extra jewels and gowns, and the queen’s household must have the best tapestries and glassware – all this must come north at once, and it is Kitty’s task to see that the English court and the English queen outshine the Scots.
Kitty’s eyes widen at the enormity of the task. ‘But I don’t know how . . .’ she starts, and the king laughs at her and gestures to me: ‘Jane will know what to do,’ he says. ‘How many kings have we bested, Jane? How many royal shows have we dazzled with?’
‘And we have the most beautiful queen ever.’ I smile and curtsey. ‘When do they arrive, Your Majesty?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have to make York into a little Hampton Court?’
It is the wrong thing to say – the king’s face darkens with sudden anger. ‘He’ll come when he’s bidden,’ he says furiously. ‘He’ll come when he’s ordered!’ He rounds on Kitty. ‘Do you question me?’
‘No! No!’ Kitty gasps. ‘And nor did Jane!’
She is brave to try to defend me, but we are in for one of his sudden, inexplicable storms, and nothing will restore his good temper.
I drop into a curtsey and keep my head down as he roars over both of us toThomas Howard the Duke of Norfolk: ‘When d’you think the King of Scots will arrive? Eh? You’re so pressing for this meeting, and here’s a lady of your house questioning me! Me!’
Our uncle, taking in my bowed head and Kitty’s white face in one swift glance, says smoothly: ‘For certain, he’ll be scrambling to meet you as soon as he can get here, I should think.
But he’s at Falkland Palace now – did he not write to Your Majesty?
A pretty humble letter: he knows his place.
I’ll give him safe conduct through the borders.
I think he fears your stout English borderers! ’
‘What sort of king is frightened by border reivers?’ the king asks contemptuously.
The duke laughs. ‘He is!’ he says. ‘He doesn’t have the grip on his people that you do, Your Majesty. But how can he? So young a man, in thrall to the Church and to his advisors, commanded by your sister his mother! Give him time, and he’ll learn from you how to govern.’
I rise up from my curtsey, and the duke shows Kitty and me a loveless smile. ‘And he’ll envy your bride. He should have thought of our English beauties before he tied himself up in a barren alliance with France.’
The king cracks a laugh. ‘He should!’ he says triumphantly. He turns to Kitty and to me; his ill temper is all forgotten. ‘He married a Frenchwoman and her babies died!’ he says triumphantly. ‘He should have tried fertile English stock.’
Kitty manages a smile, but she can barely stand as the rage passes over us.
‘Dance!’ the king says suddenly. ‘You should be practising your dances. And we will have to put on a masque. What would be a good one? What would show the Scots that we are as far above them as the angels above men?’
Kitty waves to the musicians to play a circle dance and escapes to the dance floor.
My uncle rolls his eyes towards me; he has no idea what to suggest for a masque. ‘Spring?’ he suggests stupidly, remembering the last masque we did.
At once, the king’s smile dies. ‘What’s spring got to do with it?’ he demands.
The music strikes up. Kitty glances across at me anxiously and starts the dance, but the whole court can see the king is falling into ill temper, again.
‘Aurelian?’ I snatch at an old, half-forgotten lesson. ‘Aurelian, the Emperor – conqueror of the German barbarians?’
The king scowls, racking his drink-fuddled brain. ‘I’ve never . . .’