Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (20 page)

The privy kitchen is dark, the smell and the
heat of it intense, roasted meat battling with the rotten stink of the pig bucket and
the smell of the pottage that always makes her stomach turn. What remains of the sugar
galleon sits like a skeleton on the table, and a couple of the kitchen lads are picking
at it. Some of the servants have gathered for a drink and are feasting on a platter of
leftovers, laughing and joking. Betty is among them but Dot slides by, hoping not to be
seen. She doesn’t feel quite right there for, though she is a servant as they are,
she is not treated as one of them – except by Betty. But Betty likes anyone who’s
prepared to listen to her rantings.

She stacks the plates on the dirties’
table and empties the
ewer into the drain, noticing William Savage,
still at his desk, scratching away with his pen in a pool of candlelight. Her heart
takes a jump.

‘You,’ he calls out.

She turns round, to see who’s behind
her, but there’s no one there. ‘Me?’ she asks.

‘Yes, you.’ His face has a grin
spread right across it.

She thinks he might be laughing at her for
some reason and imagines with a sinking feeling that she has soot on her face, or worse.
She notices a single dimple has formed on one cheek, giving him a sweet lopsided look.
She wants to gaze at him, drink him in with her eyes, but dares not and looks instead at
her hands, wishing they were small and fine like a lady’s and not the great big
ugly things they are.

‘What is your name?’ he
asks.

‘Dorothy Fownten,’ she says, her
voice croaking.

‘Come closer, I can’t hear
you.’

She takes a step towards him and says her
name again, a little louder.

‘That is a pretty name. Like the
maidens in stories,’ he says. ‘The Lady Dorothy awaits her
knight.’

She thinks he’s teasing her but his
grin is gone and is replaced with a look that makes her feel like her belly has flipped
inside out.

‘But I am never called anything but
Dot.’

He gives a little laugh, which makes her
feel small and silly, and says, ‘Like a full stop.’

Dot doesn’t know what he means by
that, so says nothing and keeps looking down at her hands.

‘I am William Savage.’

‘William Savage,’ she echoes, as
if it is the first time she has heard it.

‘You serve the Queen, do you
not?’

‘I do,’ she says, risking a
brief glance at him before going back to the minute inspection of her fingernails.

‘And I suppose you are about to tell
me you must return to her chambers?’

Dot nods.

‘Off you go then, or she will miss
you,’ he says as he turns back to his papers.

She can hear the scratch of his quill as she
goes towards the steps. She floats up the stairs, a throb in her chest as if Cook has
got in there with a wooden spoon. She fetches her things, taking them into the anteroom,
not more than a corridor really, unrolling her pallet and setting it down where it is
warmest by the embers of the fire. She curls up, wrapping her arms about herself, unable
to even imagine how it would be to have his arms around her. She creates pictures in her
head of him, that single dimple, the cleft in his chin, his inky
fingers … 
Like a full stop
, he is saying. She wonders what he
meant by that. Rig whines. He is crouched outside the door to the great bedchamber, his
nose pressed tight to the crack at the bottom of it.

She can hear muffled grunts and moans
beyond, animal noises. The King is a man as well as a king, she reminds herself. As if
she could forget. The sounds become louder, more urgent, and there is a crash. She
wonders if she should go in, if something is wrong. Katherine would surely ring the
bell. Then there is a burst of laughter and more groaning. She cups her ears with her
palms but the noise won’t stop. The dog begins to whine.

‘Shush, Rig,’ she whispers.
Then, seeing his sad cocked head, she pats her bed.

He scampers over and creeps under the
blanket, tucking himself into her for comfort.

‘William Savage,’ she whispers
into the dog’s warm fur. ‘Will Savage. Bill Savage. Mistress Savage, Dorothy
Savage.’

The bell rings early, a silvery sound that
seeps into Dot’s sleep. She gets herself up but hesitates before the chamber door,
anxious, remembering those sounds from the night before. She cannot shake off her fear
of the King. She was never a blencher; as a little girl she was always the first to
mount the unbroken pony or catch the angry dog, even when the boys wouldn’t, but
she
is
afraid of the King. You never know when he’s going to burst out in
anger, and everyone creeps and grovels around him. She’s glad to be a nobody, too
small to even be seen. She hears Katherine’s voice respond to her soft knock, and
creeps in, relieved to find her alone. She is out of the bed and standing wrapped in a
coverlet, by the window, looking out at the palace gardens below. It is early and the
sun is still low, shining behind her, making it seem as if she wears a halo like the
Virgin.

‘Dot,’ she says, ‘good
morning to you. It is a fine morning, is it not?’

Dot still can’t see her face properly
for the brightness of the sun, but her voice is calm and has the sound of a smile in
it.

‘It is, madam,’ she says,
stumbling over the new address.

‘Dot.’ She moves into the centre
of the room, touching Dot’s sleeve. ‘It will take time for you to become
accustomed to all this,’ she says, sweeping her arm in an arc towards the bed.
‘I can see your concern. Don’t worry. He is just a man beneath all the
gilding … and I have had two husbands before,’ she adds. ‘I know
what men are like.’

Dot can’t help but think of
Murgatroyd. She wonders what Katherine is thinking but it is impossible to know.

‘I need something to wear,’
Katherine continues, handing over a scrumpled pile of fabric, her nightclothes, which
Dot hasn’t noticed until then. She unravels them, holding them up, seeing that the
fine chemise is ripped from top to bottom, torn right through Meg’s beautiful
embroidery. Dot gasps, unable to imagine how something like that could happen between a
husband and wife. To her it is as if the Queen herself has been torn, and not just her
shift, as if the fine fabric is her very skin. But Katherine seems to think nothing of
it.

Dot recalls the days it took Meg to
embroider the pattern, how carefully she had designed it and the trouble she’d had
finding thread of the perfect green – Tudor green for the King. It would be impossible
to mend; the ivory silk is so precious. She herself had cut the cloth – it had been
thick and creamy, resisting the scissor blades – and she had stitched its edges
together, imagining stupidly that it would be a nightgown for a perfect romantic union.
She fingers the fabric, noticing a drop of blood on the pale silk.

‘The King is a passionate man,’
Katherine says plainly, as if she can see into Dot’s thoughts. There is a tiny
sneer to her mouth. ‘Make sure no one hears of this. The gossips would make quite
a meal of it.’

There are too many secrets in this place,
thinks Dot as she leaves with her pile of evidence. People whisper in corners, swapping
information. But no one notices Dot, who moves around as if she’s invisible. If
she cared to listen she could find out more about the court intrigues than she would
ever know what to do with.

She returns to her mistress with a clean
silk chemise and another black robe. She understands that things must appear to be
seamless, for there are eyes and ears everywhere and even Queens can be easily got rid
of.

‘Thank you, Dot,’ says Katherine.
‘What I would really love is a scalding bath to soak in.’

‘Shall I prepare one,
madam?’

‘I don’t think there’s
time. I have people,’ she says. ‘Endless people … It is quite
relentless, Dot.’

Dot wonders how it is that even the Queen
can’t have a bath if she wishes it.

Katherine holds out her hand for Dot to pass
the clean shift and robe. There is a purple bruise on her upper arm.

‘You don’t want me to
–’

‘No, I can manage. That will be all,
Dot.’

Dot turns to leave.

Katherine adds, ‘Keep an eye on Meg
for me, won’t you?’

‘Yes, madam,’ she says. ‘I
always do. Meg is like a –’ She stops herself, feeling uncomfortable saying out
loud that Meg is like a sister. Now Katherine is the Queen it seems wrong somehow to say
such a thing.

‘I know you do. You have always been
so kind to her, Dot …’ She pauses, looking for a moment out of the window
where a couple of gardeners are trying to shoo a deer away from the vegetable garden.
‘I sometimes ask myself what it is that ails her so. I know there have been
things …’ she lets her words drift unsaid. ‘I would have thought
she’d be … well … better by now.’

Dot feels her secret weighing down on her;
she wants to tell Katherine what really happened at Snape, but what good would that do?
Anyway, she promised Meg and so she will keep her mouth shut – as she has these last six
years. She will keep her mouth shut about everything; she knows how to keep a
secret.

‘This place is horribly damp,’
says Sister Anne, signalling to one of the pages to stoke the fire. ‘My gown feels
like wet clay. Have you had a peek behind the hangings, Kit? The walls are mouldering
away.’

‘Wasn’t Catherine of Aragon sent
here when she was first ousted?’ Katherine asks.

‘She was, I think, poor
woman.’

‘We shouldn’t talk about her, I
suppose …’

They sit in silence for a while, watching
the hubbub in the room. There are groups of people clustered about the chamber, some
playing cards or chess, some gathered to swap gossip, some to read, some just milling
about aimlessly. A pair of girls practise their dance steps with Will Sommers mimicking
their moves, making them giggle.

‘I long for a little privacy, Anne,
not to have to constantly watch what I say.’

A clerk approaches with some papers for
Katherine to sign. She takes them and begins to read. The clerk hovers with a dipped
quill that drips, leaving a glossy black mark on the flags.

He sways from foot to foot, unable to quite
hide his impatience. ‘I can assure you, madam, that all is correct,’ he
says.

‘I will not sign it unread,’ she
replies, holding out her hand for the quill eventually, making her mark, handing back
the papers. One of the King’s ushers has come in and is waiting his turn, stepping
forward as the clerk departs.

‘Yes?’

‘I am come to convey the King’s
apologies to you, madam. He is indisposed and will be supping alone tonight.’

‘Thank you kindly. Please give the King
my best wishes for a swift recovery.’

Henry has been incapacitated by his
ulcerating leg for several days now. That is why they remain at Ampthill when they
should by rights have moved on a week ago.

When the usher has gone she turns to her
sister and winks. ‘We can sup in my rooms.’

A feeling of lightness comes over her. When
Henry ails he may be bad-tempered but she has a welcome respite from the marriage bed.
When he does visit at night she shuts her eyes and imagines it is Thomas – those are his
hands gripping at her flesh, his hard body on her, his groans – until tears well in her
eyes and Henry mistakes them for tears of desire. His delight sickens her. She is in
terror that she might cry out her lover’s name, mutter it in her sleep, so she
forces all the tender memories into a secret part of her. But Thomas is still written
into her as indelibly as ink fixes into vellum.

‘That clerk looked as if he’d
wet himself, he wriggled so. I think he was late to send those papers out,’ says
Anne.

‘None of them can bear that I insist
on reading things before I make my mark.’

‘You are so like Mother, Kit. I
remember her saying, “Never sign anything unless you …”’

Katherine joins in,
‘“… know exactly what it is and have read it twice
through.”’ She sighs. ‘I sometimes miss an ordinary kind of life,
Anne. The hours in the still room, making up remedies. Afternoons in the kitchens,
overseeing the salting of fish, the bottling of fruits … managing the estates.
There is someone to do everything for me wherever I am now: a chancellor, an apothecary,
stewards, ushers, clerks, scribes, cup-bearers, chamberers, physicians.’ She
counts them off on her fingers. ‘Thank heavens Huicke is my doctor.’

‘Is Udall coming today?’

‘I believe he is.’

‘Oh, I am glad of that,’ says
Anne, her eyes brightening.

‘Yes, I am too.’

They all like Udall’s visits, when
they sup in her rooms with just the close circle of them. When they have tired of
dancing and music they lounge about, entirely forgetting precedence and canopies of
state, forgetting for a few hours that she is Queen and should sit above them. Then they
play lazy games of cards and talk of the new faith. Katherine is cautious about
revealing her views, remains non-committal to all but a trusted few. There is only the
finest line between what is deemed allowable and what is deemed heresy, and that line
shifts this way and that – nothing is clear. Until recently there was an English Bible
in every church, for all to see, but now they are gone; Luther is allowed but Calvin is
not. Candles in church, prayers for the dead, relics, holy water are making a return –
it is almost impossible to keep abreast of it all.

But Henry’s affection makes Katherine
feel safe. Besides, there are several in the King’s close circle who stand openly
for reform – Hertford for one. Henry himself refuses to commit to a single position, but
the Catholics on the Privy Council – Gardiner and Wriothesley primarily – are constantly
tugging and pulling at him to join them on their side of the fence.

Katherine cannot resist the talk of reform,
feels she is having her mind prised open. She wants to embrace everything new, for in
her mind the old religion is dark and violent and has Murgatroyd and his ilk at its
heart. She has long believed that the gospel should be read in English, has championed
that in her own household, raised Meg to it, but now
she begins to see
that there is so much more to reform than she had imagined. Her head buzzes and bubbles
with new ideas. At last she has found another passion, something to take her thoughts
off her lost love.