Collyweston Palace, Autumn 1541
Collyweston Palace, Autumn
THE KING WAKES later and later every day, as he stays up all night gambling and drinking and he rarely comes out of his rooms before midday.
So on our first morning at Collyweston Palace, Thomas Culpeper and half a dozen of the young companions come on their own to sing under the windows of the queen’s ladies, and the girls and Kitty throw on gowns and run down into the garden for the sunrise as if it were a May Day for young lovers.
Unnoticed by the ladies and young companions, Culpeper wraps a cape around Kitty’s shoulders.
For just a moment, he holds her, and then stands beside her to face east, where a rosy sun is rising through wispy clouds.
They stand quite still, the sunlight on their rapt faces, as if this moment of stillness and silence at sunrise is a spell which will hold them entranced all through the rest of the day.
Someone laughs and makes a joke, and the magic is broken, and I sweep the ladies back up the stairs and bundle Kitty back into bed and stoke the fire in her bedroom.
‘That’s the last time you’ll be able to run out this season,’ I warn her. ‘You’ll have to take more care when we get home. Has he said anything?’
Her eyes are shining green with happiness at being with Culpeper for one moment. ‘No? What should he say?’
He must know as well as I that they cannot meet at Windsor Castle or Hampton Court or Westminster Palace as they have done on progress.
The routines are too fixed, the king more regular in his habits.
He will come to Kitty’s bedroom once or twice a week, but always without notice, and we cannot turn his groom of the chamber from her bedroom door ever again.
Besides, there are more ladies at court when we are near London; the great ladies of the kingdom who have served other queens expect entrance to the queen’s bedroom.
The wives of the lords have nothing to do but watch and gossip.
The spy networks of ambassadors, the council, the churches and the advisors have been absent on progress but they will all be watching in London.
Kitty cannot meet Thomas in her bedroom in any of the royal palaces, there is nowhere that they can meet secretly and they cannot even speak together for very long.
‘Thomas says the ulcer on the king’s leg is getting worse,’ she whispers.
She glances to the door, which is shut and locked; she glances at the curtained windows.
‘He says it’s down to the bone, like a dog bite, and running wet as if it was a rabid dog that bit.
Dr Butts has warned the king that he can’t eat and drink as he does.
He says he is gambling with his health. He says he might . . .’ She breaks off.
‘He’s an old man,’ I say cautiously.
‘Thomas says the Seymours are preparing a regency for next spring,’ she says. She puts her hand half over her mouth, as if her pillows cannot be trusted with these treasonous words.
‘Next spring?’ They think as I do that winters are hard on old men; the king nearly died last Lent, and he is heavier and sicker now than he was last year. He can’t live for much longer, and then Kitty will be free – we will all be free of him.
‘Next spring.’ She nods. She taps the wooden headboard of the bed; it makes a hollow knocking sound, as if on a coffin lid. At once, she looks aghast. ‘I meant to touch wood for good luck,’ she says, ‘only good luck.’
‘We won’t speak of this,’ I say. ‘But I wish us good luck, too.’
She holds out her hands. ‘And you’ll stay with me, Jane? When I am dowager queen? And then . . . when . . . I remarry?’
I think: yes, I will stay with the dowager queen.
If we could get the prince into our keeping, we could have a household which was a royal court.
Who could be a better governess for the young prince than me?
Who in this court is better read? Where might this life take me?
Dear to the dowager queen, the keeper of her secrets, and she the stepmother of the next King of England.
My face does not show my leap of excitement, my soaring ambition.
‘I will stay with you,’ I say sweetly. ‘I will stay with you always.’