Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (5 page)

Once back in the relative calm of Lady
Mary’s chambers Susan Clarencieux hustles them all through to the outer rooms and
helps Mary, who seems on the brink of collapse, into her bedchamber. The younger girls,
now they are in private, start to pull off their elaborate hoods and loosen their gowns,
chattering and giggling. The women mill about in quiet groups, settling eventually to
their reading or needlework, and spiced wine is handed around. Katherine is about to
take her leave when a kerfuffle starts up outside, a drumming and singing accompanied by
a lute and a great stamping of feet. The girls all reach for their hoods, hurriedly
shoving them back on their heads again, helping each other to tie them on, stuffing
stray tendrils of hair away, while pinching their cheeks and biting their lips.

The doors fly open and a band of masked
minstrels dances into the room to a cacophony of clapping and cheering. They jig about
in a complicated reel, twirling in figures of eight, pushing the ladies out to the
sides. Katherine steps on to a stool, pulling Meg up with her, in order to get a view
over the heads. She can feel the atmosphere in the room heighten to a contained frenzy,
like static before a storm.

Sister Anne grabs one of the girls and says,
‘Fetch Susan. Tell her Lady Mary must come out; tell her there is a
visit.’

Katherine sees now, with a barely concealed
gasp, what all the fuss was for – there at the centre of the circling minstrels, limping
and hefting his huge form about, is the King, absurd in his minstrel garb, one leg black
and the other white. She remembers him doing this years ago, believing himself to be
completely disguised, and the whole court colluding in the dumbshow,
so desperate was he to discover if people were as delighted by the man as they were by
the King. He burst in then as now, surrounded by his finest courtiers, and he, a head
taller than them all, agile, muscular, vigorous, was an impressive sight indeed; the
effect was completely disarming, particularly to Katherine who was then just a girl. But
to be cavorting in such a way still, barely able to stand without the support of a man
either side of him, his minstrel’s doublet stretched around his girth, straining
at its laces; it reeks of desperation. And to surround himself with such well-formed
specimens, his fine ushers and chamberers, young and bursting with life, fit from the
hunt, makes the whole charade infinitely worse.

Meg is standing open-mouthed.

‘It is the King,’ whispers
Katherine. ‘When he removes his mask you must feign surprise.’

‘But why?’ Her face is a picture
of bewilderment.

Katherine shrugs. What can she say; the
entire court must collude in an illusion that makes the King feel young and beloved for
himself, when all he inspires truly these days is fear. ‘This is court,
Meg,’ she says. ‘Things here often defy explanation.’

The men are now skipping in a circle and at
its centre is little Anne Bassett, posturing coyly. Her mother, Lady Lisle, stands
watching, practically salivating, as her ripe sixteen-year-old daughter is twirled about
among the men under the greedy gaze of the King.

‘I fear history is repeating
itself,’ whispers Sister Anne. She doesn’t need to say in what way, the
whole room is thinking of Catherine Howard, except perhaps Lady Lisle whose sense is
doubtless clouded by ambition. But the circle breaks
up and Anne
Bassett is spun out to the edge of the crowd; the music dies and the King whips off his
mask to a great gasp of counterfeit surprise.

The room drops to its knees, the
ladies’ dresses crumpling to the floor in a sea of silks.

‘Who would have believed it – the
King!’ cries someone.

Katherine keeps her eyes down, inspecting
the grain of the oak floorboards, resisting the temptation to nudge her sister for fear
of the giggles. The whole thing is more ludicrous than an Italian comedy.

‘Come,’ booms the King.
‘This is an informal visit. Rise, rise. Now let us see who is among you. Where is
our daughter?’

The crowd parts, allowing Lady Mary to move
forward. A rare smile casts itself over her face and the years seem to drop away from
her as if a crumb of her father’s attention has collapsed time.

A few other men have arrived and are milling
about.

‘Will is here,’ Anne says.
‘With his crowd.’

Katherine catches sight of that feather
bucking and bobbing about the room. Her stomach gives a flip and she pulls Meg away,
only to find herself standing before the King.

‘Ah, is that my Lady Latymer we see
lurking? Why do you lurk, my lady?’

A waft of fetid breath engulfs her and it is
all she can do not to reach for the pomander that hangs from her girdle. ‘Not
lurking, Your Majesty, just a little overwhelmed.’ She holds her gaze on his
chest. His tightly laced black and white doublet, which on closer inspection is
encrusted with pearls, seems to hold him together, with rolls of him spilling out from
its edges and giving the impression that were he to remove it he would lose his form
altogether.

‘We offer our condolences for your
husband’s passing,’ he
says, holding out his hand for her
to kiss the ring, which is embedded in the flesh of his middle finger.

‘That is kind, Your Majesty.’
She dares a glance towards his face, round and doughy with raisin eyes sunk into it,
wondering what became of the magnificent man he once was.

‘I am told that you cared well for
him. You are quite known for your nursing skills. An old man needs to be cared
for.’ Then, before she has a chance to respond, he leans in towards her ear, close
enough for her to hear the wheeze of his breath and get a whiff of ambergris. ‘It
is good to see you back at court. You look appetizing even in a widow’s
weeds.’

She feels a hot blush rise through her and
struggles to respond, managing just a few mumbled words of gratitude.

‘And who is this?’ he booms, the
moment of intimacy thankfully over. He is waving a hand towards Meg, who drops into a
deep curtsy.

‘This is my stepdaughter, Margaret
Neville,’ announces Katherine.

‘Get up, girl,’ the King says.
‘We want to see you properly.’

Meg does as she is told. Katherine notices
the tremble in her hands.

‘And turn about,’ he demands.
Then, when she has turned for him like a mare at auction, he cries, ‘BOO!’
causing her to jump back, terrified. ‘Nervy little thing, isn’t she,’
he laughs.

‘She has been sheltered, Your
Majesty,’ Katherine replies.

‘Needs a fellow to break her
in,’ he states, then asks Meg, ‘Anyone here take your fancy?’

Seymour saunters by and Meg looks briefly
towards him.

‘Ah! We see you have an eye for
Seymour,’ the King exclaims. ‘A handsome fellow, don’t you
think?’

‘N-n-no,’ Meg stutters.

Katherine kicks her sharply on the ankle.
‘I think what she
is trying to say is that Seymour is nothing
when compared to Your Majesty,’ she chips in, her voice slick as oil, barely able
to believe such stuff can trip so easily off her tongue.

‘But he is talked of as the handsomest
man at court,’ replies the King.

‘Hmmm,’ says Katherine, her head
to one side, thinking how best to form her response. ‘That is a matter of opinion.
Some prefer greater maturity.’

The King emits a loud guffaw and says,
‘I think we will arrange a match between your Margaret Neville and Thomas Seymour.
My brother-in-law to your stepdaughter … It has a nice ring to it.’

Clasping both women by the elbow, he steers
them across the room to a gaming table. He is a dead weight and Katherine can think of
no way to politely discourage the match, so she remains silent. Two chairs are brought
by a scurry of staff and the King heaves himself into one, indicating for Katherine to
take the other. A chessboard is magicked from nowhere and the King beckons Seymour to
set out the pieces. Katherine dares not even glance his way, for fear of the confusion
of feelings that twists about inside her seeping to the surface.

She is aware of Lady Lisle’s darting
glances from where she stands with her daughter; she can almost hear the woman’s
machinating thoughts of how better to push her girl, school her, groom her, to catch the
biggest fish in the sea. She must be happy with the fact that Katherine is no
competition, twice widowed and beyond thirty, next to Anne in the full flush of her
youth. If he wants sons he will choose Anne Bassett or one like her. And he does want
sons, everyone knows that. She makes her play.

‘Queen’s gambit accepted,’
says the King, taking her white
pawn, rolling it between fat fingers.
‘You mean to rout me at the centre of the board.’ He looks at her, sunken
eyes flashing, his breath wheezing as if there is no space for air in him.

They make their moves back and forth,
swiftly and in silence.

He takes a sweetmeat from a platter, popping
it into his mouth, smacking his lips, then picks up a rook between his fat fingers,
placing it, blocking her move with an, ‘Aha!’ Then he leans in towards her
and says, ‘
You
will want a husband as well as your
stepdaughter.’

She absently runs the little white knight
over her lower lip.

It is smooth as butter.

‘Eventually, perhaps I shall
remarry.’

‘I could make you Queen,’ he
declares.

She feels droplets of his spit land next to
her ear. ‘You tease, Your Majesty,’ she says.

‘Perhaps,’ he growls.
‘Perhaps not.’

He wants sons. All the world knows he wants
sons. Anne Bassett would give him a score of infants – or a Talbot girl, or a Percy, or
a Howard. No, not a Howard; he has had two Howard Queens and sent both to the block. He
wants sons and Katherine has had nothing in two marriages save for a secret dead baby.
The thought hits her like cannon shot: the thought of making a child with Seymour,
beautiful Seymour, a man in his prime. It would be a sin for such a man not to
procreate. She silently admonishes herself for entertaining such a ludicrous idea. But
it refuses to be quashed and sits there germinating at the back of her mind.

She has to use all her willpower to keep her
eyes off Seymour, to focus on the game and on amusing the King.

Katherine wins.

The small gathering of spectators shrinks
back a little, like a crowd anticipating a loud explosion, as she cries,
‘Checkmate.’

‘That is what we like about you,
Katherine Parr,’ the King says with a laugh.

The gathering relaxes.

‘You do not humour us by losing, like
all the others who think it pleases us always to win.’ He takes hold of her hand.
‘You are honest,’ he adds, pulling her towards him, stroking her cheek with
waxy fingertips. The room watches and Katherine is aware of her brother’s impish
grin as the King cups a hand for secrecy, presses his wet mouth to her ear and murmurs,
‘Attend us in private later.’

Katherine flails for some kind of response.
‘Your Majesty, I am honoured,’ she says. ‘Deeply honoured that you
would choose to spend time alone with me. But with my husband so recently gone I
–’

He places a finger over her lips to hush
her, saying, ‘No need to explain. Your loyalty shines from you. We admire that.
You need time. You shall have time to mourn your husband.’ And with that he
beckons one of his ushers to help hoist him from his chair and, leaning heavily on him,
limps towards the door, followed by his entourage.

Katherine watches as the usher stumbles on
the King’s foot. The King’s arm flies out in a sharp slap across the
man’s face, like a frog’s tongue to a fly. The hubbub of conversation
dies.

‘Out of my sight, idiot. Want to have
your foot cut off for clumsiness?’ the King bellows, sending the poor cowed usher
scuttling off. Another takes his place and everyone continues as before. It is as if
nothing has happened – no one remarks on it.

As Katherine seeks out her sister she can feel
the atmosphere of the room has shifted, turned towards her. People part to let her pass,
throwing compliments like flowers in her wake, but Anne Bassett and her mother look
sideways at her across the room. Sister Anne is like an island in this dissimulating
sea.

‘I need to get away from this place,
Anne,’ she says.

‘Lady Mary has retired, no one will
mind if you go,’ her sister replies. ‘Besides,’ she adds with a
playful nudge, ‘it appears you can do no wrong.’

‘Sister, this is no joke. There is a
price for this kind of favour.’

‘You are right,’ says Anne,
suddenly serious. They are both thinking of all those miserable Queens.

‘He was only flirting. He
is
the King … Entitled to that, I suppose … not serious …’
Katherine is gabbling. ‘Best I keep away from court for a time, though.’

Sister Anne nods. ‘I’ll see you
out.’

It is almost dark in the courtyard and fine
flakes of snow are caught hanging in the light from the torches under the arcades. Much
of the sludge has frozen over now and the grooms tread carefully over the treacherous
cobbles. A large party arrives, dismounting noisily, and the flurry of pages and ushers
that appears to receive them suggests they must be of some note. Katherine notices the
goggle eyes and thin-lipped sneer of Anne Stanhope whom she knows from childhood, a
spiteful and self-important girl who had sometimes shared the royal schoolroom all those
years ago. Stanhope swans past, nose aloft, shoving Sister Anne with her shoulder as she
passes, as if she hasn’t seen her, not acknowledging either of the Parr
sisters.

‘I see some things never change,’
snorts Katherine.

‘She’s been insufferable since
she married Edward Seymour and became the Countess of Hertford,’ says Anne.
‘You’d think she was the Queen the way she goes about.’

‘But she
is
descended from
Edward III,’ says Katherine, rolling her eyes.

‘As if we didn’t know
that,’ Anne says with a groan.