Chenies Manor, Buckinghamshire, Autumn 1541
Chenies Manor, Buckinghamshire, Autumn
OUR ROUTE HOME takes us to the country house of Lord Russell – a firm favourite of the king, one of the old lords who has served the Tudors since their arrival, one of the old lords who has taken my Lord Cromwell’s fall as his own advantage.
He was made a baron at the last round of ennoblements, and he is Lord High Admiral.
His house, Chenies Manor, is much changed from when I was here before.
Then, I was with my sister-in-law Anne, on the progress we made to celebrate the arrest of Sir Thomas More, when Anne was at her greatest peak of success.
If I believed in ghosts, I would be haunted by my younger self and by Anne and George – all three of us supremely confident in our looks, our charm, our wit, and our future.
Now, a fifth queen and I ride under the great red-brick archway to the inner courtyard, and there is no Queen Anne waiting for me on the great stone steps before the open double doors, but Lady Russell, beaming with pride, richly dressed waiting to welcome us.
She is rightly proud of her house, built in the modern fashion with soaring gables and high chimneys.
I take it that Lord Russell has been given a brickyard among his other rewards, for the house is a palace with great gable ends of red-brick triangles without windows, like a fairytale castle.
She takes us to the beautiful pavilion in the garden, where we have views over the parkland, newly enclosed for hunting and stuffed with deer, should the king choose to shoot at them as they are driven towards him.
While the king rests in his rooms and complains to Lord Russell about the Scots king, who is poisoning his mind as his ulcer poisons his body, Lady Russell has wine and sugarplums served to Kitty and tells us the gossip from London.
The Ottoman army has reached Budapest, and I think this must be a benefit to England, as the Christian princes will want England to join a war against the infidel at the very gates of Christendom.
An appeal from Spain and France will take the king’s mind off the insult from the Scots.
But I have no one to discuss this with, my thinking hobbled by the company of ladies whose only concern is what this invasion will do to the price of soaps and silks.
The only other person who might think strategically – Lady Mary – will not hear a word of criticism against Spain.
She greets Lady Russell with particular affection.
Her ladyship was in her Lady Mary’s household when she was a princess, before it was diminished.
They are both extremely careful to show the greatest respect to Kitty.
Lady Russell takes us up to our rooms, and I see that the royal guest rooms have a picture gallery running between the king’s side and the queen’s rooms, where the lovers might meet.
We dine in the great hall, and there is music after dinner, conversation and singing; but the king orders there is to be no dancing.
He sits with his leg propped on a stool, and even from a distance, we can smell the oozing ulcer, which has opened up again.
He is a man rotting before he is in the grave, and when he calls for more wine and more pastries, I think he is a man knowingly destroying his own body, as he destroys everything around him.
Lord Russell makes the mistake of telling the king that thieves have been caught at Windsor Castle.
The king bursts out in an extraordinary fury that the two poor men must be charged with treason and hanged for treason, because stealing from a king is an attack on his greatness.
This is not thieving, this is treason, high treason, the men must be hanged, cut down while they are alive, their bellies slit and their guts drawn out.
Lord Russell – who has sat on more than one treason trial, including the death of my husband – is not a squeamish man; but even he murmurs that since the king was at York at the time of the burglary, it was no attack on him personally, nor on His Majesty.
‘Don’t speak to me of York!’ the king screams. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me of York! It’s treason, too! That’s treason to say it!’
All the musicians fall silent; the chorister warbles a note and then waits, open-mouthed.
For a moment, I think: this is it! He has gone full-moon mad, and what are we going to do?
We cannot overthrow him; we cannot disobey him.
We have raised him all-powerful, and now he is beyond restraint, and none of us are safe.
If you make a madman a despot, what are you to do when he goes insane?
‘Your Majesty . . .’ Lord Russell says helplessly.
The king waves furiously at Thomas Culpeper and Thomas Seymour, and they rush to his side, haul him to his feet and, half-dragging, half-lifting, get him out of the room.
Lord Russell, white with shock, turns to Kitty. ‘I am so sorry, I did not mean to offend . . .’ he starts.
Kitty is as frightened as a choirboy; she is open-mouthed like him.
‘No offence was intended,’ Lady Russell intervenes, smiling at the queen and at Lady Mary. ‘No doubt the king is weary from his long ride. Shall we all take our leave, Your Majesty? Shall we say goodnight? And I shall see that the king has a late supper; some good food and wine will restore him.’
‘Yes . . .’ Kitty stammers. ‘Goodnight, Lady Russell, Lord Russell. Thank you for your hospitality.’
WE THINK THAT Thomas will not be able to get away, that the king will gorge himself in his bedroom and want Thomas as a bedfellow to listen to his ranting before he sleeps. But at midnight, there is a light tap on the door from the gallery, and Thomas slips into the room.
He looks grim, and she is pale and strained. They cling together like children escaping a terrifying ordeal. They say nothing for long moments, and then he pulls back and looks at her face.
‘Is he asleep?’ she asks.
‘Dead drunk,’ he replies.
They do not speak another word. He leads her to the bed, and I turn my chair so that the high back shields them and I am facing the locked bedroom door.
They are quiet, a few whispered words and warm kisses; I hear her sigh with pleasure and the susurration of her nightgown being raised.
I hear him make a little wordless exclamation of longing and then delight, and then I hear him sigh.
They don’t swive so much as melt together, and I find that I am breathless as they are, my cheeks burning, my body yearning.
It is five years since I felt a man’s touch, since I heard the quiet whisper of words of love breathed against naked skin.
Five years, but even before then, I was never touched as Thomas Culpeper silently touches Kitty, and I never sighed as she does, against his shoulder, muffling a cry – just one – as she finds ecstasy.
In silence, I wait for the chime of midnight from the clock on the red-brick tower before I whisper, without rising from my chair: ‘It’s time to go.’
I hear them breathe together, as if awakened from dreaming, and when I turn my chair around they are like creatures entranced; she is tying the cords of his cape, he has his hands on her waist, drawing her to him.
Her hair is tumbled down, her nightgown pulled from her shoulders, her neck rosy with the flush of desire, her eyes green as a cat’s.
‘He has to go,’ I remind them.
They are far beyond words; they cannot even say goodnight. She lifts her face to him, and he kisses her softened mouth. She clings to him as he holds her. I think I will have to peel them off each other, one tendril after another, like bindweed.
‘You really have to go,’ I tell him.
Gently, he puts her from him. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ he whispers. It is the first time I have ever heard him think beyond the present moment. They are starting to want more than the intensity of now, than the moment of intimacy – they are starting to want a future.
‘Yes, yes, I have to see you tomorrow,’ she tells him.
‘If it is safe, if it is possible,’ I say.
I take hold of his hand and draw him away. She leans back against the wooden bedpost, as if she cannot stand if he is gone. Gently, I push him out of the door and lock it behind him.
‘I love him so,’ she says simply.
Gently, I guide her back to her bed, and put her between the rumpled sheets. She turns her head till she finds the place where he laid his head and she puts her face beside it, as if to inhale the scent of him as she sleeps.
‘Goodnight,’ I say.
She cannot speak, she smiles as if she hears his voice, sees his face. I take her candle and I sit by the fire until she sleeps.
I never thought I would see a true love, a love as green as a willow, in this arid court.
I thought I would steer her through the hazard of courtly life and bring her safely to widowhood, bitter, wiser, and richer.
I thought that court would spoil her and enrich her.
I never dreamed it might transform her into a creature as beautiful as a swan, paired for life.
I, too, am changing. I never dreamed that I would come through this cold-hearted court, through the valley of the shadow of death, to believe that love matters more than power.
The love that we offer to the king is false coin.
The love that he promises to one favourite after another is worthless, too.
The king only loves himself, and he loves himself madly, without restraint.
The court is a flock of starlings, stripping everything it can peck.
But I walk through this battlefield of warring desires as if spring is greening all around me.
I have lived in a deception all my life; I have never had a mouth clean of lies – but now, I believe truly.
I believe in something that rings true: I believe in the redeeming power of love.