Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (39 page)

‘They are mine, my lord.’
She’d known he’d ask this, and was ready with her answer. ‘From a
friend.’

‘Yours.’ He sniffs again.
‘Yours?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘What would a mean-bred girl like you
be doing with written papers?’ Sniff. ‘Tell me whose they are.’ He
leans in towards her and pokes a finger into the soft part of her throat.

She gags and struggles for breath. But she
holds still and he pulls back eventually.

Sniff. ‘Don’t think I
won’t break you, Nelly Dent,’ he says.

‘They are mine, my lord.’

‘Don’t take me for a fool,
Nelly. A rough little thing like you has no use for … How can I say it?’
Sniff. ‘I should think the Queen’s monkey reads more easily than a
girl … a girl who has the smell of the gutter on her. I’m surprised the
Countess of Hertford would take on a thing like you.’

The page lets out a snort of laughter from
where he is standing by the door.

‘Remember Catherine Howard? She could
barely sign her own name and she was Queen. Tell me, Alfred …’ He turns to
the page. ‘Can your sisters read?’

‘Hardly, my lord,’ says Alfred
whose shoulders are heaving now.

‘You see.’ He waves the papers
at her so she can feel the breeze of them on her face. ‘And
his
sisters
are ladies, are they not, Alfred?’

‘They are, my lord.’

‘For your father is an earl, I
believe.’ Sniff.

‘That is right, my lord.’

‘So if the daughters of an earl can
hardly
read, where does that leave scum like you, Nelly Dent?’

She imagines that she can see a forked
tongue flick out from between his lips.

‘I don’t know, my lord,’
she mumbles.

‘Go on then.’ Sniff.
‘Prove it.’ He thrusts the sheaf of papers at her. ‘Read to
me.’

Alfred is now openly laughing, Wriothesley
sneering.

Dot takes the papers and, getting hold of
her voice, says, ‘Would you like me to read all of it?’

‘Do you hear that, Alfred?’

The page is now almost bent double with
laughter.

‘She asks if she should read it
all.’ He comes round to her side of the table and points out a few lines.
‘This.’

The writing is a scrawl and smudged in
places but she has skimmed over the first page.
Last testimony of Anne Askew
,
it says at the top. She begins to read the lines he’s pointed out. ‘“I
have read in the Bible that God made man …”’

Both men are staring at her as if
she’s a performing ape.

‘“… but nowhere does it say
that man can make God.”’

Neither of them says a word. They still
stare at her as if she has two heads or four arms, so she continues reading.

Eventually Wriothesley finds his forked
tongue. ‘Enough!’
he brays. ‘You have proved your
point. But why do you have such heretic things? Who gave them to you?’

‘It was from Anne Askew herself, from
her maid, when I brought her the vittles.’

‘From Anne Askew?’ His eyes are
suddenly bright.

‘Yes, my lord, she thought to turn me
to the new faith.’

‘And were you turned?’
Sniff.

‘I think not, my lord.’

‘This is heresy, Nelly Dent, and you
should burn for this.’ His lips are gathered tightly, like a dog’s arsehole.
But the fire in him has gone completely, his voice and his words are empty, and Dot
feels a small triumphal thrill run up her spine. ‘You know we have racked better
born women than you – the Askew woman was one of them.’

The menace has gone from him. He has not got
what he needed, whatever that was. She hangs on to his ‘you should burn’ –
should
, not
shall
, nor
will
.

‘You can rot in here for all I
care,’ spits Wriothesley, swinging round fast, his layers of clothing lifting with
the movement as he exits the room.

Alfred gathers up his things and follows him
out.

‘Take her back to her cell. I will
send word of what to do with her,’ Wriothesley barks at the guard and is gone.

William Savage is shown into her rooms. His
beleaguered look is indication enough that he has no good news to tell. Katherine holds
a small lavender bag to her face; the sweet smell of it competes with the strong
frankincense scent of
the fragrant oil in the burner, which wafts
about the chamber – her attempt to erase the stench of the King’s visit. In the
window Cat Brandon is retying the Fool Jane’s coif that has become unravelled.
Jane is muttering to herself, her own kind of nonsense. Mary Wootten and Lizzie Tyrwhitt
are folding gowns and laying them into a big trunk, preparing for the move upriver to
Hampton Court tomorrow. Katherine wonders if she won’t be journeying in the
opposite direction; the thought of that great grey fortress haunts her.

The King had left in an improved mood. He
had said nothing of the warrant, and she had not dared mention it. But he had asked that
she come to his rooms that evening, giving her the finest of threads to cling on to –
unless he means the guards to come there to arrest her. That is not the usual way,
though; Sister Anne has seen it twice before, Mary Wootten too. The King removes himself
first, they say, disappears to another palace. Next someone is sent for the jewels. The
Queen’s jewels do not belong to the Queen. (Katherine has waited for the arrival
of someone – it would probably be Wriothesley with a vicious smirk on that prim mouth –
to ask for the coffer, but no one has come.) When the jewels are gone, the Queen –
whichever one it is, an Anne or a Catherine – is made to wait for excruciating hours,
wondering about her fate, the panic fizzling in her like acid. And when she is well
simmered and reduced – then, they come for her.

She beckons William Savage in. The look in
his eyes would make her cry were it not for the fact that she has cauterized her tears.
She will not be seen to be weak. She knows the King well enough; if word got to him of
her weakness, he would stamp on her all the harder.

Sister Anne bursts in from the wardrobe.
‘Kit,’ she cries, her face aghast, ‘Mother’s cross. It is
gone.’

‘I have it, Anne.’ Katherine
opens her hand to show her the necklace. The largest pearl has made a deep imprint in
her palm. ‘They will
not
get their hands on this,’ she adds under
her breath.

‘Oh, Mister Savage,’ says Sister
Anne, noticing him hovering nearby. ‘Have you news of Dot?’

‘Sadly, no, my lady.’

‘The full stop,’ calls the Fool
Jane from the other side of the room.

Cat bids her shush.

‘What was that you said, Fool?’
asks William Savage.

‘The full stop,’ she repeats.
‘The speck, the dot on the horizon.’

The women look from one to the other,
bewildered.

‘That is my name for her,’
William Savage explains. ‘Full Stop.’

‘Come, Jane,’ says
Katherine.

Cat leads her over by the hand, as one might
a small child.

‘What do you know of Dot? You
must
say.’

Jane’s one eye is wandering madly; the
other is gazing fixedly at her hands. She picks at her nails, seeming to clean the
invisible dirt from under them.

‘Jane,’ says William in the
softest of voices. ‘Please …’

The girl begins to chant quietly, half
singing, half speaking:
Nelly Bligh caught a fly and tied it to some string. Let it
go a little way and pulled it back again
.

Katherine takes hold of Jane’s sleeve,
saying, ‘But what does this mean?’

The girl simply begins a new song:
Deborah Dent had a donkey so fine, marrowbones, cherrystones, bundle ’em
jig
 … Her wild
eye fixes itself momentarily in the
same direction as the other, meeting Katherine’s expectant gaze briefly, before
roaming off again. Another rhyme starts up:
When will you pay me? Say the bells of
Old Bailey
.

‘Not that again,’ says Anne.
‘This is getting us nowhere.’

The door to the bedchamber creaks open
slightly, making Jane gasp and cling to Cat as if she’s seen the Devil himself.
Rig comes bursting in and skids over to his mistress.

‘There there, Jane,’ says
Katherine. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ She strokes the
girl’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go and find Will Sommers? He will tuck
you under his wing. Mister Savage will take you to him.’

William Savage dips into a bow as he takes
his leave, saying, ‘I shall keep searching. I will not rest until she is
found.’

‘Those infernal rhymes,’ says
Anne when they have left. ‘Some say she is wiser than Methuselah. I find that a
stretch of the imagination.’

‘I worry for Dot,’ says
Katherine, seeming to speak to herself. ‘She has no family to look after her
interests. She has been nothing but loyal to me and I have brought her only
adversity.’ She feels the guilt of it pressing down on her. Then, turning to her
sister, she asks, ‘Anne, will you help me dress for the King? I must wear my
finest things tonight. I must be impeccable.’

Katherine sails down the long gallery,
flanked by Cat Brandon and Sister Anne – three exotic birds, brilliant with colour.
Their clothes have been hastily pulled out of the trunks that were packed and ready for
the move to Hampton Court tomorrow. Katherine is in a gown of sky-blue damask with
sleeves and forepart in satin the colour of a bullfinch’s breast, all scattered
with spangles. Around her throat is a necklace
of fat pearls. Anne
wears striped crimson and white silk with the Herbert emeralds and Cat is in
canary-yellow taffeta under a midnight-blue velvet gown. Their three veils spill out
down their backs, and their trains drag behind them, picking up a thin layer of grime at
the edges and sending little whorls of dust swirling towards the skirtings. A pair of
ushers walks before them, occasionally turning for a glimpse of these splendid creatures
in their fine plumage heading for the King’s chambers. The usual melee of
courtiers mills about in the great watching room, parting like the Red Sea as they pass.
The whispers have circulated around this place, carried between mouth and ear on
invisible gusts of air. They all know how the King likes rare birds for his table, one
way or another.

Katherine is thinking about the warrant with
her husband’s signature scored into it in black ink. It was his own hand and not
stamped by the great seal that has been used for many of the official documents of late,
and she thinks of him actually taking up the pen and signing her life away with a
flourish. It frightens her. He may as well have etched his mark on her body. She had
thrown the warrant on the fire. She wonders which version of her husband awaits her. But
he has asked to see her and that must be good – maybe he has grown tired of getting rid
of his wives. Still, though, she pulses with dread at the thought that she will arrive
in his rooms to find him gone and a troop of guards waiting to convey her downriver. She
has one of Jane’s infernal rhymes circulating in her head … 
Nelly
Bligh caught a fly and tied it to some string
. The worry of Dot pokes at her,
poor disappeared Dot. An arm links through hers. It is Stanhope, in rustling satin and a
ruby as big as a rosehip, swinging on a chain. She has come to join them and Katherine
wonders, as she
exchanges a smile with her, whether it is in
solidarity or to gloat.

She has Huicke’s words in her head:
‘Be meek, Kit, and for God’s sake keep your opinions to yourself. Your life
depends on it.’

How will she ever thank him for everything
he has done, bringing her the warrant, risking his own life for hers? There are some
things too big for plain gratitude. He had come back early from Ashridge, having found
little wrong with Elizabeth. He had been got out of the way, that is clear. It was Paget
who sent him. But he is back now and has bolstered her for this. He wondered about the
warrant, if someone had let it drop deliberately for him to find, hoping it would serve
as a warning to her, or if it had been a fortuitous mistake on the part of her enemies.
Or was it God’s work? They would probably never know.

‘Dress like the Queen, Kit,’ he
had said, ‘and remember, docile.’

‘Biddable,’ she’d
added.

‘Acquiescent.’

‘Yielding.’

‘Silent.’

They had laughed at that, in spite of
everything.

Huicke had taken his leave with a light kiss
on her cheek and the words, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth, Kit.’ He wore
a smile but his face was tight with worry.

They stop at the door to the King’s
privy chamber. She exchanges a look with Cat, who gives her a little nod of
encouragement. Someone within is playing a lute, another sings … 
Who shall
have my lady fair, when the leaves are green?
It is familiar but Katherine
can’t remember where from. There is a general low hubbub of male conversation and
Katherine is
sure she can hear, with a pang of relief, the
King’s sonorous tone among it. He surely wouldn’t remain to witness her
arrest. A series of whispers is exchanged between the King’s ushers and her own,
before the doors are swung open. They are all there: Gardiner, Rich, Paget, as well as
the usual chamberers and suchlike, gathered about the mountainous shape of Henry. But
not Wriothesley – is Wriothesley awaiting her at the Tower with his thumbscrews?

A blanket of silence falls over the room as
the women glide in. There is a moment of paralysis before the men remember themselves,
grappling to their knees and lifting their caps. Henry is unreadable, splayed across his
seat, like a bullfrog.

‘Ah! It is my Queen,’ he says.
‘Come, sit with me, my dear.’ He pats his lap.

So I shall be reduced to dandling on his
knee like an infant, Katherine thinks, perching herself there and pecking his damp mouth
with her own. As she sits the men move to accommodate her companions. She catches the
barely concealed grimace on Gardiner’s face. He is like a dog hoping for a
bone.