Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (200 page)

“She was born and bred a queen, but these are a girl’s rooms,” I say. “And a spoiled, willful girl at that. She doesn’t behave like a queen; she behaves like a girl. And if she wants to turn the place upside down for a ribbon, she will do so, and no one can tell her to behave.”

“You should command her.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Your Grace, she is the queen. You made this child Queen of England. Between her upbringing in your houses and the king’s indulgence, she has been taught no sense whatsoever. I shall wait until she goes to dinner, and then I shall have everything set to rights; tomorrow all this will be forgotten, and she will go on progress. Everything she needs will be packed, and anything she has left behind she will buy new.”

The duke shrugs and turns from the room. “Anyway, it’s you I wanted to see,” he says. “Come out into the hall. I cannot stand this women’s noise.”

He takes my hand and leads me out of the room. The sentry stands to one side of the door, and we move away so he cannot listen.

“She is discreet with Culpepper at least,” he says bluntly. “No one has any idea. How many times has he bedded her?”

“Half a dozen,” I say. “And I am glad that there is no talk of her in the court. But here in her rooms at least two of her women know that she loves him. She looks for him; her face lights up when she sees him. She has gone missing at least once in the last week. But the king comes to her rooms at night, and in the day there is someone always with her. Nobody could prove anything against them.”

“You will have to find a way for them when they are on progress,”
he says. “Traveling from one house to another, there must be opportunities. It is no good for us if they can meet only seldom. We need a son from this girl; she has to be serviced until she is in pup.”

I raise my eyebrows at his vulgarity, but I nod in agreement. “I will help her,” I say. “She can plan no better than a kitten.”

“Let her plan like a bitch in heat,” he says. “As long as he beds her.”

“And my affair?” I remind him. “You said that you were thinking of a husband for me?”

The duke smiles. “I have written to the French count. How would you like to be Madame la Comtesse?”

“Oh,” I breathe. “He has replied?”

“He has indicated an interest. There will be your dowry to be considered and any settlement on your children. But I can promise you this, if you can get that girl with child by the end of the summer, then I shall kiss your hand as Madame la Comtesse by winter.”

I am almost panting in my eagerness. “And is he a young man?”

“He is about your age, and with a good fortune. But he would not insist on your living in France; I have already asked. He would be happy that you remain as lady-in-waiting to the queen and would only ask that you have a house in both England and France.”

“He has a château?”

“All but a palace.”

“Have I met him? Do I know him? Oh, who is he?”

He pats my hand. “Be patient, my most useful of all the Boleyn girls. Do your work, and you shall have your reward. We have an agreement, do we not?”

“Yes,” I say. “We do. I shall keep my side of the bargain.” I look at him expectantly.

“And I shall keep mine, of course.”

Katherine, Lincoln Castle, August 1541

I had feared it would be terribly dull, traveling round the country while people turn out to stare and offer us loyal addresses at every market cross. The king sits in state in every town hall in the country and I grit my teeth to stop myself yawning while fat aldermen in gowns address him in Latin—at least I suppose it’s Latin. Thomas is very naughty and swears it is Ethiopian because we have got lost and are in Africa—but actually, it’s tremendous fun. The speeches are very dull indeed, but as soon as they are over there’s a masque or a dance or an entertainment or a picnic or something of the sort, and it is much more fun being the queen on progress than being the queen at court because every few days we move to another castle or house, and I have no time to get bored.

Here at Lincoln the king commanded that I and all my ladies should dress in Lincoln green, and it was like a masque when we entered the town. The king himself was in dark green with a bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder and a rakish bonnet with a feather.

“Is he Robin Hood, or is he Sherwood Forest?” Thomas Culpepper whispered to me, and I had to put my gloves to my mouth to smother a laugh.

Everywhere we have gone there has been Tom Culpepper, catching my eye and making me giggle so even the most tedious loyal address
is a moment when I can feel his eyes on me. And the king is much better in both health and temper, which is a relief for all of us. He was very irritated by the rebellion in the North, but that seems to be defeated now, and of course he beheaded the poor Countess of Salisbury, which upset me very much at the time, but now all the wicked people are defeated or dead and we can sleep easily in our beds again, he tells me. He has made an alliance with the emperor against the King of France that will defend us from France, he tells me—they are our enemies now,
voilà!
—and this is a good thing, too.

I should not waste my time grieving for the countess for she was very old, after all, as old as my grandmother. But best of all, when we get to York, we are going to meet with the Scots court and with the king’s nephew King James of Scotland. The king is looking forward to this, and I am, too, for there will be a great meeting of the two countries and jousting and tournaments, and the English knights are certain to win for we have the bravest men and the best fighters. Tom Culpepper will wear his new suit of armor, and I will be Queen of the Joust, with my new curtains on the royal box. I cannot wait to see it.

I have practiced everything. I have practiced walking down the steps into the box and looking round to smile. I have practiced sitting in the box, and I have practiced my gracious queen face, one that I shall put on when people cheer for me. And I have practiced how I shall lean over the box and hand out the prizes.

“You might as well practice how to breathe,” Joan Bulmer says rudely.

“I like to get things right,” I say. “Everyone will be looking at me. I like to do it right.”

There will be more than a hundred English knights jousting, and I believe every single one of them has asked to carry my favor. Thomas Culpepper took the opportunity to come to my presence chamber at Lincoln Castle, to kneel to me and ask if he could be my knight.

“Has the king ordered you to ask me?” I say, knowing very well that he has not.

He has the grace to look down, as if embarrassed. “This is my own suit from my own beating heart,” he says.

“You are not always so humble,” I say. I am thinking of a very hard kiss and his hand clutching at my buttocks as if he would lift me onto his cock then and there in the gallery before we left Hampton Court.

He glances up at me, one quick, dark glance, and I know that he is thinking of that, too. “Sometimes I dare to hope.”

“You certainly act like a hopeful man,” I say.

He giggles and ducks his head. I put my gloves to my lips to bite them so I don’t laugh aloud.

“I know my mistress and my queen,” he says seriously. “My heart beats faster when she just walks past me.”

“Oh, Thomas,” I whisper.

This is so delightful that I wish it could go on all day. One of my ladies comes toward us, and I think she is going to interrupt. But Lady Rochford says something to her, and she is distracted, and pauses.

“I always have to walk past,” I say. “I can never pause for as long as I would wish.”

“I know,” he says, and under the caressing, flirtatious tone there is real regret. I can hear it. “I know. But I have to see you tonight; I have to touch you.”

I really don’t dare to reply to this, it is too passionate; and though there are only the ladies of my chamber around us, I know that my desire for him must just blaze out of my face.

“Ask Lady Rochford,” I whisper. “She will find a way.” Aloud, I say: “Anyway, I cannot give you my favor. I shall have to ask the king who he favors.”

“You can keep your favor if you will only give me a smile as I ride out,” he says. “They say the Scots are formidable fighters, big
men with strong horses. Say you will be watching me and hoping that I don’t fall beneath a Scots lance.”

This is so poignant I could almost cry. “I always watch you; you know I do. I have always watched you joust, and I have always prayed for your safety.”

“And I watch you,” he says, so quietly that I can hardly hear him. “I watch you with such desire, Katherine, my love.”

I can see that they are all looking at me. I rise, a little unsteadily, to my feet, and he gets to his. “You can ride with me tomorrow,” I say, as if I don’t much care either way. “We are going hunting in the morning before Mass.”

He bows and steps back, and as he turns away I give a little gasp of shock, for there in the doorway, like a ghost, so like a ghost that for a moment I almost think he is a ghost—is Francis Dereham. My Francis, my first love, turned up on my doorstep in a smart cloak and a good jacket and a handsome hat, as if he were doing very well indeed, and as handsome as he was all those days ago when we played at husband and wife in my bed at Lambeth.

“Mr. Dereham,” I say very clearly, so that he shall make no mistake that we are not on first-name terms anymore.

He understands it well enough, for he drops to one knee. “Your Grace,” he says. He has a letter in his hand, and he holds it out. “Your respected grandmother, the duchess, bid me to come to you and bring you this letter.”

I nod to my page, and I let Francis see that I don’t bestir myself to go three paces for my own letters. The lad takes it from Francis and hands it to me, for I am far too important to lean. Without looking toward him I can see Thomas Culpepper, as stiff as a heron, standing by and glaring at Francis.

I open the duchess’s letter. It is a terrible scrawl, for she can hardly write, and since I can barely read we are very poor correspondents. I look for Lady Rochford, and she is at my side in a moment. “What does she say?” I pass it over.

She reads it quickly and since I am watching her face and not the page I see an expression flicker across her eyes. It is as if she is playing cards and she has just seen a very good suit come up in her partner’s hand; she is almost amused.

“She writes to remind you of this gentleman, Francis Dereham, who served in her household when you were there.”

I have to admire the mask of her face, which is now absolutely without expression, given that she knows what Francis was to me and I to him, for I told her all about him when I was nothing more than a maid-in-waiting and she a far grander lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne. And, now I come to think of it, since half my ladies-in-waiting were my friends and companions in those days, too, they all know that Francis and I, facing each other so politely, used to be naked bedmates on every night he could sneak into the girls’ bedchamber. Agnes Restwold gives a smothered little giggle, and I shoot her a look that tells her to keep her stupid mouth shut. Joan Bulmer, who had him before I did, is utterly transfixed.

“Oh, yes,” I say, taking my cue from Lady Rochford, and I turn and smile at Francis as if we were long-standing acquaintances. I can feel Thomas Culpepper’s eyes flicking on me and around at the others, and I think that I’m going to have to explain this to him later, and he won’t like it.

“She recommends him to your service and asks you to take him as a private secretary.”

“Yes,” I say; I can’t think what to do. “Of course.”

I turn to Francis. “My lady grandmother recommends you to me.” I really cannot think why she would interest herself in putting him into my household. And I can’t understand why she would put him in a position so close to me, when she herself boxed my ears and called me a lustful slut for letting him into the bedchamber when I was a girl in her household. “You are indebted to her.”

“I am,” he says.

I lean toward Lady Rochford. “Appoint him,” she says briefly in my ear. “Your grandmother says so.”

“So to oblige my grandmother, I am pleased to welcome you to my court,” I finish.

He rises to his feet. He is such a handsome young man. I really cannot blame myself for loving him when I was a girl. He turns his head and smiles at me as if he were shy of me now. “I thank you, Your Grace,” he says. “I will serve you loyally. Heart and soul.”

I give him my hand to kiss and when he comes close I can smell the scent of his skin, that familiar, sexy smell that I once knew so well. That was the scent of my first lover; he meant everything to me. Why, I kept his shirt under my pillow so that I could bury my face in it when I went to sleep and dream of him. I adored Francis Dereham then; I only wish to God I didn’t have to meet him again now.

He bends over my hand, and his lips on my fingertips are as soft and as yielding as I remember them on my mouth. I lean forward. “You will have to be very discreet in my service,” I say. “I am the queen now, and there must be no gossip about me—not about now, and not about the old days.”

“I am yours heart and soul,” he says, and I feel that disloyal, betraying, irresistible flicker of desire. He loves me still, he must love me still, otherwise why would he come to serve me? And though we parted on bad terms, I remember his touch and the utter breathtaking excitement of his kisses, and the slide of his naked thigh between mine when he first came to my bed, and the insistent pressing of his lust, which was never resisted.