Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

Well, I must say that it is all well and good to be married, but I have not had half the wedding that she had. There was no great reception for me at Greenwich, and no riding out on a beautiful horse and being greeted by him with all the nobles of England behind him. There was no sailing in barges down the river while the City of London went mad with joy either, so those who think that to marry the king is a very merry thing should note my wedding, which was – to be blunt – a hole-in-the-corner business. There! I’ve said it, and anyone who thinks differently can’t have been here. And actually, that would be most people in the world – for next to no one was here.

I said to Lady Rochford, the day before: “Please find out from the Groom of the Chamber or the Lord Chamberlain or somebody what it is we are to do. Where I am to stand, and what I am to say and what to do.” I wanted to practice. I like to practice if I am going to appear before people and everyone will watch me. I should have been warned by her response.

“Nothing much to practice,” she said dourly. “Your bridegroom is well rehearsed at least. You will just have to repeat the vows. And there will be hardly any audience for you at all.”

And how right she was! There was the Bishop of London officiating (thank you so much, not even a real archbishop for me); there was the king, not even wearing a special waistcoat, in an old coat – isn’t that next to insulting? – there was me in the finest gown that I could order; but what could I do in little more than a fortnight? And not even a crown on my head!

He gave me some very good jewels. I sent for the goldsmith to value them at once, and they are indeed very fine, though some of them I know for a fact were brought by Katherine of Aragon from Spain, and who wants jewels that belonged to a friend of your grandmother? I have no doubt that there will be sables as good as Queen Anne’s to follow, and already I have commanded the dressmakers to make me new gowns. And there will be gifts from everyone in the world, as soon as everyone knows, as soon as everyone is told.

But there is no denying that it was not as great a wedding as I had expected, and it was not a patch on hers. I thought we would have planned it for months, and there would be processions and my important entry into London, and I should have spent my first night in the Tower and then processed to Westminster Abbey through streets that were swathed in cloth of gold, with people singing songs about me. “Fair Katherine,” I thought they would sing. “Rose of England.”

But no, instead there is a mere bishop, there is the king, there is me in a bewitching gown of gray-green silk that shifts colors as I move, and a new hood, and his pearls at least, and there is my uncle and grandmother as witnesses, and a couple of men from his court, and then we go to dine; and then… and then!… It is unbelievable! Nobody talks of anything but the beheading of Thomas Cromwell.

At a wedding breakfast! Is that what a bride wants to hear on her wedding day? There are no healths drunk and no speeches made to me, and scarcely any celebration. Nobody pays me any compliments at all; there is no dancing and no flirtation and no flattery. They can talk of nothing else but Thomas Cromwell because he has been beheaded today. On my wedding day! Is this how the king celebrates his wedding? With the death of his chief advisor and best friend? It’s not a very nice gift for a girl on her wedding day, is it? It’s not as if I am whoever she is in the Bible who wanted someone’s head for a wedding gift. All I really wanted for a wedding gift were sables, not the news that the king’s advisor has been beheaded, calling for mercy.

But it is all the old people talk about. No one consults my feelings at all; they are utterly delighted with it, of course, and so they talk over the top of me, as if I were a child instead of the new Queen of England, and they talk about the alliance with France and say that King Francis will help us with the Pope. And nobody asks me for my opinion at all.

The king grips my hand beneath the shield of the table and leans toward me and whispers, “I cannot wait for tonight, my rose, my finest jewel,” which is hardly very inspiring when I think that Thomas Culpepper had to help him to his seat, and will no doubt have to heave him into my bed.

In short, I am the happiest woman in the world, praise God. But just a little discontented tonight.

And I am out of my usual ways. At this time of night when I was in the queen’s chamber, we would all be getting ready to dine in the hall, and we would be looking one another over and teasing each other if anyone had done their hair very well, or was dressed very fine. Someone would always accuse me of trying to attract one boy or another, and I would always blush and say, “No! Not at all!” as if I were shocked at the thought of it. And the queen would come out of her bedroom and laugh at us all, and then she would lead us into the hall and it would all be very merry. Half the time there would be a young man with an eye to me. In the last few weeks there has been Thomas Culpepper always smiling at me, and all the girls around me would nudge me and tell me to look for my honor. Of course he does not even look at me now; obviously there is no amusement for a queen, and you would think I was as old as my husband.

It was more than merry; it was busy and gay and young. There was always a crowd of us, all together, all happy and sharing a jest. And if the jest wore a little sour from time to time, with jealousy or malice, then there was always another person to complain to, and a little group to form, and a little quarrel to run. I like being in a gang of girls; I like the maidens’ chamber; I like being one of the queen’s ladies and all of us being together.

It is all very well being Queen of England, but I have no friends. It just seems to be me, and these old people: Grandmother, my uncle, the king, and his old men of the Privy Council. The young men in the king’s service don’t even smile at me now; you would think they didn’t even like me. Thomas Culpepper bows his head when I come near him and doesn’t meet my eyes. And the old people talk among themselves about the things that interest old people: the weather, the bad end of Thomas Cromwell, his estates and money, the state of the church and the danger of Papists and heretics, the danger of the men of the North who still long for their monasteries. And I sit here like a well-behaved daughter, like a well-behaved granddaughter actually, and it is all I can do not to yawn.

I turn my head one way to appear as if I am listening to my uncle, and then I turn the other to the king. I don’t hear any of them, to tell truth. It is all buzz, buzz above me, and there are no musicians and no dancing and nothing to amuse me but the conversation of my husband, and what bride ever wanted that?

Then Henry says, very soft and sweet, that it is time for us to retire, and thank God Lady Rochford comes in and takes me away from the rest of them, and she has a new and beautiful nightshift for me with a matching cape to go over the top, and I change my gown in the queen’s own dressing room because I am queen now.

“God save you, Your Grace,” she says. “But you have risen very high indeed.”

“I have, Lady Rochford,” I say, most solemnly. “And I shall keep you by me if you advise me and help me in the future as you have done in the past.”

“Your uncle has commanded me to do just that,” she says. “I am to be head of your privy chamber.”

“I shall appoint my own ladies,” I say, very haughty.

“No, you won’t,” she says pleasantly. “Your uncle has already made the chief appointments.”

I check that the door is closed behind her. “How is the queen?” I ask her. “You have just come from Richmond, haven’t you?”

“Don’t call her queen.” She stops me at once. “You’re the queen now.”

I tut at my own stupidity. “I forgot. How is she, anyway?”

“She was very sad when I left,” she says. “Not for the loss of him, I don’t think. But for the loss of all of us. She liked the life as Queen of England; she liked the rooms and being with us, and everything about it.”

“I liked it, too,” I say wistfully. “I miss it, too. Lady Rochford, does she blame me very much, d’you think? Did she say anything against me?”

Lady Rochford ties my nightgown at the neck. There are little seed pearls embroidered on the ties. It is a most heartwarming gown, and it will comfort me on my wedding night to know that I am wearing a gown that costs a small fortune in pearls. “She doesn’t blame you,” she says kindly. “Silly girl. Everyone knows that this was not of your doing – except that you are young and pretty, and no one can blame you for that. Not even her. She knows that you did not plan her fall and her unhappiness, any more than you are responsible for the death of Thomas Cromwell. Everyone knows that you don’t matter at all in this.”

“I am queen,” I say, rather nettled. “I should think I matter more than anyone.”

“You are the fifth queen,” she points out, quite unmoved by my irritation. “And to be honest, there has been none worth the name of queen since the first one.”

“Well, I am the queen now,” I say stoutly. “And that is all that matters.”

“Queen of the day,” she says, going behind me to spread out the little train of my nightshift. It, too, is heavy with seed pearls; it is the most gorgeous of gowns. “A mayfly queen, God save your little majesty.”

The king, having won his rose without a thorn, is determined to keep her close. Half the court don’t even know that the wedding has taken place, left behind at Westminster, out of touch with everything that is happening here. This is the king’s private circle, his new wife, her family, and only his most trusted friends and advisors; I am among them.