Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (44 page)

She longs for Christmas when at last they
can have meat again. She has had enough of fish; fish, endless fish, carp, eel, pike,
picking tiny bones out from between her teeth, the bland taste of it, and if not bland
then too salty, for all the sea fish – the cod, the ling, the saithe – are packed in
salt and make for a terrible thirst. Besides, it is always overcooked and dry and cold
by the time it has been brought up from the kitchens. But there are still two more weeks
of Advent fasting.

She lets her mind wander as she tends her
husband, thinking of the feast they will have at Christmas, the sides of venison, the
swans, the geese, the suckling pigs. Poor Surrey will not be so gay. Henry’s
lawyers are circling about the Howards like vultures, trying to find a plausible reason
to butcher him. The King has always feared that the Howards
might
become too powerful. She can see her Henry is looking death in the face, for she knows
only too well a dying man’s demeanour. He fears for the aftermath with the Prince
still so young.

It is she who will be Regent until Edward
reaches his majority, or so the will says. She imagines rising to it, pushing through
the reforms, becoming a great Queen remembered for bringing England firmly to the true
faith. But a part of her would like nothing more than to live out her life in a small
palace such as this, in obscurity – to be rid of the crushing weight of queenship.

She drops the poultice into a bowl, taking a
muslin square and pressing it to the ulcer. Henry groans and bangs his hand on the arm
of his chair. She asks one of the pages to light some candles; it is dark so early and
the nights are endless. She is glad to be in this pretty palace with a smaller
entourage. Nonsuch is a wonder of turrets and plasterwork – like the best of the
Florentine palaces, they say – and she is glad of the newness of the place, the stone
grates that don’t smoke, her very own bath with piped water.

She takes a fresh bandage and begins to wrap
it around Henry’s leg, thinking about the repeating pattern of her life, wondering
how many more hours will be spent wrapping and unwrapping the King’s bandages with
her head down, three and a half years of it. If she ever has the chance to marry again,
she thinks, it will not be to another old man. Though she pulls herself up with that
thought – the brutal reminder that she, too, is a fruit on the brink of turning, and
that old men may be all there is. The yearning for a child has not left her, as many had
said it would, with age; she is in her thirty-fifth year now and still feels that gaping
emptiness.

She loves the girls as if they were her own,
and perhaps that is why: Dot, blessed Dot who would have died for her; and Elizabeth,
with that resilience, that determination. There is something about Elizabeth that is
hard to quantify, a steely charisma that Katherine cannot resist. And then there is
Mary, more a sister than a daughter, carrying the woes of her mother on her slight
frame; Mary’s fabric is stitched through with tragedy. And Katherine cannot forget
poor blighted Meg, misses her quiet presence. Finally, there is Edward too. For all his
frosty demeanour in public, he is a sweet little thing underneath, just a child, and
what a burden he will inherit. All these children, who come and go, on the whim of the
King, and none really hers. Even Dot is given to William Savage now, though willingly.
She smiles to think of them together – her lovebirds. The King gave her a pair of
lovebirds once; she wonders what has become of them.

She ties the bandage and the page returns
with a carton of candles, which slips from his hands, spilling with a clatter.

‘For pity’s sake, Robin,’
the King snaps. ‘Are your fingers made of lard?’

She waits silently while Robin collects them
up and lights them, and when Henry has calmed she helps him into his hose. That done, he
pats the stool beside him.

‘Come, Kit. Sit with us a little. We
know we are bad-tempered but we are grateful that you do all this for us, when you could
as easily leave it to our doctors.’

She sits and tells him how she would rather
be doing this than anything. ‘What else is there for a wife to want, than to serve
her husband?’ she says, while silently asking God’s forgiveness for her
lie.

There is a hushed shuffling among the pages
and ushers,
who had been going about their business invisibly.
‘Majesty,’ says one of them, ‘my Lord Hertford is waiting.’

‘You’d better send him
in.’

Hertford enters. He has developed a new
swagger of late and a new look to go with it. His beard is carefully fashioned into two
points that sit against his white satin doublet like foxtails in the snow. His hose are
white too, like the King’s, and spotless – a pair of swans’ necks – and his
outer gown is lined in palest cream rabbit. The doublet is notched and slashed and
stitched with pearls. Hertford is fond of pearls. Katherine feels her own pearl-dropped
cross that is in a little bag on her girdle, running her fingers over it.

A couple of men move into the chamber behind
Hertford but Katherine is too mesmerized to notice them, captivated by Hertford’s
sheeny pearls, the gloss of the pale satin, the flawlessness of the white hose, the
downy rabbit, the very glow of this man, dripping with confidence, while all the others
creep and scuttle – a man on the rise. It is a few moments before she notices that it is
Thomas who stands, in the gloom, behind his brother. She emits an almost imperceptible
gasp and can feel the burn of a blush rise up her face like steam from a bowl of piping
soup.

Thomas glances her way and she catches his
eyes with hers. Her whole being invisibly sighs. She is entirely lost in his periwinkle
world, where the memories of all their moments together reside – the feel of his
fingers, his lips, the weight of his body, the musky cedar smell of him, the susurration
of his voice, whispering nothings. It is but the briefest moment, a nothing, a no time,
but it is also an eternity, and she is turned inside out with longing. She drags her
eyes away and on to her husband whose own flint eyes are flicking back and forth between
her and Thomas. She presses her
fingernails into her palm. Hertford is
speaking but she doesn’t hear what he says and the King is not listening
either.

‘Go, wife,’ he spits quietly.
Then erupts, ‘GET OUT OF HERE, WOMAN!’

As if a cannon has been fired in the room,
they all stand stock-still, uncomprehending. Katherine rises, scattering, with a
misplaced foot, all her medicinal paraphernalia. She tries to gather it up, but her
hands dither and fluster and things drop out of them.

‘GO, I SAID!’

She makes for the door, as fast as she can
backwards, afraid to turn away from the King and incur further wrath.

‘Not again, not again,’ she
mutters to herself as she rushes away through the empty corridors. She had feared just
this. That she would not be able to control her eyes; that her feelings would seep out
through the ill-stitched seams of her. She thinks then of the speed of Surrey’s
fall and feels sick to the core.

Huicke approaches. ‘Kit …’
His face is creased in concern.

She must be wearing her fear like a
gown.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘The King has sent me
away … again. But this time it is …’ She wants to tell him
everything, describe the moment, Thomas’s dear face, his eyes. ‘Not
here,’ she whispers.

He understands, nodding and squeezing her
upper arm. ‘Kit, you tremble.’

‘Go,’ she says. ‘Are you
going to him?’ She taps at the jar he holds in his hand. ‘A
tincture?’

‘Yes, it is for pain. It is the one
you used to make for Latymer. The King thinks it better than magic.’

‘He likes you more than his own
physicians, Huicke.’

‘Is that a blessing or a
curse?’

‘It’s hard to say, but go
carefully …’ She hesitates before adding, ‘If you have to distance
yourself from me I will understand.’

He brings her hand to his lips and they
part.

Katherine’s words swill about
Huicke’s head and he wonders what could have triggered this latest incident. A
pair of pages exits the King’s chambers as Huicke approaches; one carries an empty
coal scuttle, swinging it by the handle, the other a large ewer. They chat casually,
laughing about something. He stops briefly to watch them, indulging in the fresh bloom
of their skin, the slender lines of their stockinged legs, not quite yet men, but not
boys either, imagining them momentarily, unclothed, how their muscles would be emerging
from the soft layers of boyhood, the down on them still soft. One prances and struts,
exaggerating his movements, tucking the ewer beneath his arm to remove his cap and wave
it about with a flourish of feather.

‘It is Roister Doister himself,’
laughs the other. ‘Master of the high seas, seducer of ladies.’

‘Did you know he escaped from pirates
once, rowed himself to safety?’

‘Yes, yes, everyone’s heard that
one. As it happens, I like the fellow, for all his fancy posturing. He once paid me a
penny to drop a tray of tarts on the palace steps.’

‘Why?’

‘He never said.
And
he helped
me pick them up …’

Their voices fade as they turn the corner of
the corridor and Huicke continues to the door, waiting for the guard to announce him. He
has the feeling that his incident must have something to do with Thomas Seymour, and a
horrible
memory comes to him of Catherine Howard’s lover, the
beautiful Thomas Culpepper, green with fear, being dragged away by the guards.

As he enters the King’s chambers from
the chill of the corridor, it is like walking into a wall of heat. The fire blazes,
lighting the scattering of men like a Van Eyck he once saw in Bruges. The room has a
male smell to it, leather and horse, and a lingering, rancid something. Thomas Seymour
is there, just as Huicke thought; the King must loathe the man for his splendid looks
alone. There is a small gathering clustered around the King. Stoatish Wriothesley is
there, looking flustered as if he’s just arrived, Hertford too, dressed absurdly
in white, like a Christmas angel, as well as a couple of ushers lurking at the edges.
They stop the conversation as he approaches, so the quiet click of his boots rings out
around the space.

‘Ah, Huicke, what potions have you for
us?’

‘I have something to relieve your
pain, Your Majesty.’

There is a buzz of tension in the
silence.

‘Well, get it ready then,’ snaps
the King. Then, turning to Hertford, he adds, ‘This physician is the best of them.
His cures are the only ones that soothe me.’

Hertford makes a mumble of agreement.
He’s basking in the King’s favour. His timing is perfect, thinks Huicke;
with the King deteriorating fast Hertford is rising to the top at exactly the right
moment. Huicke has watched the nobles vying to position themselves in these last weeks,
and with the Howards on the run the field has been left clear for the Seymours, who, as
the Prince’s uncles, have the advantage.

Huicke takes his jar to a side table and a
page is dispatched to bring a clean cup. Hertford takes his leave with a bow, followed
by his brother and one of the ushers. Wriothesley
sidles up towards
the King; he is making a plea for one of his relatives, couching it in compliments. The
King seems to be only half listening; Wriothesley doesn’t have the influence he
used to.

‘What think you of Thomas Seymour,
Wriothesley?’ the King says, interrupting the man’s oily drawl.

‘Seymour, Your Majesty? Did he not
court the Queen once?’ Wriothesley is slowly kneading his palms together as if
rubbing salve into them, and the ghost of a smile appears at the corner of his
mouth.

‘Is he honest?’ growls the King.
His eyes reflect the firelight, shining like a cat’s.

‘Honest, Your Majesty?’

‘Honest, yes. Honest.’

‘Your Majesty, my opinion is not
worth …’

‘We ask you, what do you think?’
An edge of impatience creeps into the King’s speech and his hands are curled into
fists, one on each knee.

‘Think, Your Majesty?’

‘Yes.’ His voice is raised now,
enough to make most shrink, but not Wriothesley. ‘Do you think Seymour is
honest?’

Wriothesley pauses with a small sigh,
drawing his lips together and looking down to the floor as if pondering deeply on it.
‘I
think
he is honest.’

The King lets out a small huff and shrugs.
He, too, must have heard the slight emphasis Wriothesley placed on ‘think’,
infusing his statement with doubt, yet still managing to appear the loyal courtier. And
Huicke, even in his loathing of the fellow, is impressed at the subtlety of his
game.

But this is not a game; Wriothesley is
trying to oust Katherine again, and Seymour is his tool this time.

Dot is packing things up quickly with the
other maids of the chamber, stuffing gowns into chests, wrapping the mirrors in among
the linens, pushing furs into their satin bags, the ties left undone for haste. There
has been a change of plan. The Queen is to go to Greenwich Palace for Christmas and the
King will go tomorrow to Whitehall. There wasn’t the time to light a fire this
morning and it’s so cold in the room they can see their breath.

Earlier, Dot had found the Queen alone in
her chamber, sitting on the corner of the bed, a blank face on her, running the chain of
her mother’s cross through her fingers as if it were a rosary. She had barely
seemed to notice Dot coming in, as if in some kind of a trance, and Dot had asked her if
something was troubling her.

‘Yes, Dot,’ she had replied.
‘I think this is the beginning of the end.’ The skin of her face looked
stretched with worry, her eyes glassy and unsettled. She has always feared being sent
away from the King, she had said as much once.
Dot, as long as he will see me, all
will be well
. And now he will not see her.