Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

“Thank you,” I say. “I hope.”

He nods.

“You are well?” I ask awkwardly. “Happy?”

He looks surprised at my question. “Er, yes. Yes, Your Grace.”

I think for the word I need. “No trouble?”

For a moment I see it, the fear that crosses his face, the momentary thought of confiding in me. Then it is gone. “No trouble, Your Grace.”

I see his eyes drift across the jousting arena to the opposite side where the king is sitting. Lord Thomas Cromwell is at his side, whispering in his ear. I know that in a court there are always factions, a king’s favor comes and goes. Perhaps Lord Lisle has offended the king in some way.

“I know you good friend to me,” I say.

He nods. “God keep Your Grace, whatever comes next,” he says, and steps away from my chair to stand at the back of the box.

I watch the king stand and go to the front of his box. A pageboy keeps him steady on his lame leg. He takes his great gauntlet and holds it above his head. The people in the crowd fall silent, their eyes on this, their greatest king, the man who has made himself king, emperor, and pope. Then, cleverly, when all the attention is on him, he bows to me and gestures with his gauntlet. The crowd roars its approval. It is for me to start the joust.

I rise from my great chair with the gold canopy over my head. On either side of the box the curtains billow in the Tudor colors of green and white, my initials are everywhere, my crest is everywhere. The other initials of all the other queens are on the underside of the curtains only and they don’t show. To judge from today, there has only ever been one queen: myself. The court, the people, the king, all conspire to forget the others, and I am not going to remind them. This joust is for me as if I were the very first of Henry’s queens.

I raise my hand, and the whole arena goes silent. I drop my glove, and at either end of the jousting line the horses dive forward as the spurs strike their sides. The two riders thunder toward each other; the one on the left, Lord Richman, lowers his lance a little later, and his aim is good. With a tremendous thud like an axe going into a tree, the lance catches his opponent in the very center of his breast-plate and the man bellows out and is thrown violently backward off his horse. Lord Richman rides to the end of the line, and his squire catches the horse as his lordship pushes back his dark visor and looks at his opponent, thrown down into the sand.

Among my ladies, Lady Lisle gives a little scream and rises to her feet.

Unsteadily, the young man rises, his legs tottering.

“He is hurt?” I ask in a quiet undertone to Lady Rochford.

She is avidly watching. “He may be,” she says, a delighted exultant tone in her voice. “It is a violent sport. He knows the risks.”

“Is there a…” I do not know the English word for doctor.

“He is walking.” She points. “He is unhurt.”

They have his helmet off; he is white as a sheet, poor young man. His brown curly hair is dark with sweat and sticking to his pale face.

“Thomas Culpepper,” Lady Rochford tells me. “A distant kinsman of mine. Such a handsome boy.” She gives me a sly smile. “Lady Lisle had given him her favor; he has a desperate reputation with the ladies.”

I smile down at him as he takes a few shaky strides to come before the queen’s box and bows low to me. His squire has a hand on his elbow to help him up from his bow.

“Poor boy,” I say. “Poor boy.”

“I am honored to fall in your service,” he says. His words are obscured by the bruise on his mouth. He is a devastatingly handsome young man; even I, raised by the strictest of mothers, have a sudden desire to take him away from the arena and bathe him.

“With your permission, I shall ride for you again,” he says. “Perhaps tomorrow, if I can mount.”

“Yes, but take care,” I say.

He gives me the most rueful sweet smile, bows, and steps to one side.

He limps from the arena, and the victor of this first joust takes a slow canter around the outside circle, his lance held upright, acknowledging the shouts from the crowd who have won their bets on him. I look back at my ladies, and Lady Lisle is gazing after the young man as if she adores him; Katherine Howard, with a cape thrown around her costume, is watching him from the back of the box.

“Enough,” I say. I have to learn to command my ladies. They have to behave as my mother would approve. The Queen of England and her ladies must be above question. Certainly the three of us should not be gawping after a handsome young man. “Katherine, get dressed at once. Lady Lisle, where your husband his lordship?”

They both nod, and Katherine whisks away. I sit back on my throne while another champion and his challenger ride into the ring. This time the poem is very long and in Latin, and my hand creeps to my pocket where a letter rustles. It is from Elizabeth, the six-year-old princess. I have read it and reread it so often that I know I have her meaning, indeed, I almost have every word by heart. She promises me her respect as a queen and her entire obedience to me as her mother. I could almost weep for her, dear little girl, creating these great solemn phrases and then copying them over and over until the handwriting is as regular as any royal clerk. Clearly, she hopes to come to court, and, indeed, I do think that she might be allowed to enter my household. I have maids-in-waiting who are not very much older than her, and it would be such a pleasure to have her with me. Besides, she lives all but alone, in her own household with her governess and nurse. Surely the king would prefer her to be near us, to be supervised by me?

There is a fanfare of trumpets, and I look up to see the riders drawn to one side and saluting as the king limps across the arena to the front of my box. The pages spring to open the doors so that he can mount the steps. He has to be heaved up by a young man on either side. I know enough about him by now to know that this, before a watching crowd, will make him bad-tempered. He feels humiliated and self-conscious, and his first desire will be to humiliate someone else. I stand and curtsy to greet him; I never know whether I should put out my hand or reach forward in case he wants to kiss me. Today, before the crowd that likes me, he draws me to him and kisses me on the mouth, and everyone cheers. He is clever at this; he always does something to please the crowd.

He sits on his chair, and I stand beside him.

“Culpepper took a hard knock,” he says.

I don’t quite understand this, so I say nothing to it. There is an awkward silence, and clearly it is my turn to speak. I have to think hard to find something to say and the correct English words. Finally I have it: “You like to joust?” I ask.

The scowl he turns on me is quite terrifying; his eyebrows are drawn down so hard that they almost cover his furious little eyes. I have clearly said utterly the wrong thing and offended him very deeply. I gasp. I don’t know what I have said that is so very bad.

“Excuse me, forgive…” I stammer.

“I like to joust?” he repeats bitterly. “Indeed, yes, I would like to joust, but for being crippled with pain with a wound that never heals, that is poisoning me every day, that will be the death of me. Probably in a matter of months. That makes it agony to walk and agony to stand and agony to ride, but no fool thinks of it.”

Lady Lisle steps forward. “Sire, Your Grace, what the queen means to say is, do you like to watch the joust?” she says quickly. “She did not mean to offend you, Your Grace. She is learning our language with remarkable speed, but she cannot help small errors.”

“She cannot help being as dull as a block,” he shouts at her. Spittle from his pursed mouth sprays her face, but she does not flinch. Steadily she sinks into a curtsy and stays down low.