Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

“Don’t.”

I am brushing the queen’s long fair hair as she sits before her silvered mirror. She is looking at her reflection, but her eyes are quite blank, she is not seeing herself at all. Fancy that! Having such a wonderful looking glass that it will give a perfect reflection, and not looking at yourself! I seem to have spent my life trying to get a view of myself in silver trays and bits of glass, even leaning over the well at Horsham, and here she is before a perfectly made looking glass and she is not entranced. Really, she is most peculiar. Behind her, I admire the movement of the sleeve of my gown as my hands move up and down; I bend down a little to see my own face and tip my head to one side to see the light catch my cheek, then I tip it the other way. I try a small smile, then I raise my eyebrows as if I am surprised.

I glance down and find she is watching me, so I giggle and she smiles.

“You are a pretty girl, Katherine Howard,” she says.

I flutter my eyelashes at our reflected images. “Thank you.”

“I am not,” she says.

One of the awkward things about her not knowing how to speak properly is that she says these dreadfully flat statements and you can’t quite tell how you should reply. Of course she is not as pretty as me, but on the other hand she has lovely hair, thick and shiny, and she has a pleasant face and good, clear skin and really quite beautiful eyes. And she should remember that almost no one at court is as pretty as me, so she need not reproach herself for that.

She has no charm at all, but that is partly because she is so stiff. She can’t dance, she can’t sing, she can’t chatter. We are teaching her to play cards and everything else, like dancing and music and singing, of which she has absolutely not a clue; but in the meantime she is fearfully dull. And this is not a court where dull goodness counts for much. Not at all, really.

“Nice hair,” I say helpfully.

She points to the table before her to her hood, which is so very large and heavy. “Not good,” she says.

“No,” I agree with her. “Very bad. You like try mine?” One of the really funny things about trying to talk to her is that you start speaking like she does. I do it for the maids when we are supposed to be sleeping at night. “You sleep now,” I say into the darkness, and we all scream with laughter.

She is pleased at this offer. “Your hood? Yes.”

I take the pins out and I lift it off my head. I take a little glance at myself in the mirror as my hood comes off and my hair tumbles down. It reminds me of dear Francis Dereham, who used to love to take off my hood and rub his face in my loose hair. Seeing myself do this in a good mirror with a true likeness for the first time in my life, I understand how desirable I was to him. Really, I can’t blame the king for looking at me as he does; I can’t blame John Beresby or the new page who is with Lord Seymour. Thomas Culpepper could not take his eyes off me at dinner last night. Truly, I am in extraordinarily good looks since I have come to court, and every day I seem to be prettier.

Gently I hold out the hood for her, and when she takes it I stand behind her to gather back her hair as she sets the hood on her head.

It makes a tremendous improvement; even she can see it. Without the heavy square frame of her German hood sitting like a roof slap on her forehead, her face becomes at once rounder and prettier.

But then she pulls my pretty hood forward so it is practically on her eyebrows, just like she wore her new French hood at the joust. She looks quite ridiculous. I give a little tut of irritation, and push it so that it is far back on her head, and then I pull some waves of hair forward to show the fair shiny thickness of it.

Regretfully, she shakes her head and pulls the hood forward again, tucking her lovely hair out of sight. “It is better so,” she says.

“Not as pretty, not as pretty! You have to wear it set back. Set back!” I exclaim.

She smiles at my raised voice. “Too French,” is all she says.

She silences me. I suppose she is right. The last thing any Queen of England can dare to look is too French. The French are the absolute last word in immodesty and immorality, and a previous English queen educated in France, quintessentially French, was my cousin Anne Boleyn, who brought the French hood to England and took it off only to put her head on the block. Queen Jane wore the English hood in a triumph of modesty. It is like the German hood, quite ghastly, only a little lighter and slightly curved, and that’s what most ladies wear now. Not me: I wear a French hood, and I wear it as far back as I dare and it suits me, and it would suit the queen, too.

“You wore it at the joust and nobody dropped dead,” I urge her. “You are queen. Do what you like.”

She nods. “Maybe,” she says. “The king likes this?”

Well, yes, he likes this hood but only because I am under it. He is such a doting old man that I think he would like me if I wore a jester’s cap on my head and danced about in motley, shaking a pig’s bladder with bells.

“He likes it well enough,” I say carelessly.

“He likes Queen Jane?” she asks.

“Yes. He did. And she wore an awful hood, like yours.”

“He comes to her bed?”

Saints, I don’t know where this is going, but I wish that Lady Rochford were here. “I don’t know, I wasn’t at court then,” I say. “Honestly, I lived with my grandmother. I was just a girl. You could ask Lady Rochford, or any of the old ladies. Ask Lady Rochford.”

“He kiss me good night,” she says suddenly.

“That’s nice,” I say faintly.

“He kiss me good morning.”

“Oh.”

“That all.”

I look around the empty dressing chamber. Normally there should be half a dozen maids in here; I don’t know where they can all be. They just wander off sometimes. There is nothing so idle as girls, really. I can see why I irritate everybody so much. But now I really need some help with this embarrassing confession, and there is no one here at all.

“Oh,” I say feebly.

“Just that: kiss, good night, and then kiss, good morning.”

I nod. Where are the idle sluts?

“No more,” she says, as if I am so stupid that I don’t understand the really disastrous thing she is telling me.

I nod again. I wish to God someone would come in. Anyone. I should even be glad to see Anne Bassett right now.

“He cannot do more,” she says bluntly.

I see a dark color rising up her face; the poor thing is blushing with embarrassment. At once I stop feeling awkward, and I feel such pity for her; really, this is as bad for her to tell me as it is for me to hear. Actually, it must be worse for her to say than for me to hear, since she is having to tell me that her husband feels no desire for her, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. And she is a very shy, very modest woman; and God knows, I am not.

Her eyes are filling with tears as her cheeks are growing red. The poor thing, I think. The poor, poor thing. Fancy having an ugly old man for a husband and his not being able to do it. How disgusting would that be? Thank God I am free to choose my own lovers; Francis was as young and sleek-skinned as a snake, and he kept me awake all night with his unstoppable lust. But she is stuck with a sick old man, and she will have to find a way to help him.

“Do you kiss him?” I ask.

“No,” she says shortly.

“Or…” I mime a stroking motion with my right hand lightly clenched at hip level; she knows well enough what I mean.

“No!” she exclaims, quite shocked. “Good God, no.”

“Well, you have to do that,” I tell her frankly. “And let him see you, leave the candles burning. Get out of bed and undress.” I make a little gesture to indicate how she should let her shift slide off her shoulders, slither down over her breasts. I turn away from her and look over my shoulder with a little smile; slowly I bend over, still smiling over my shoulder. No man can resist that, I know.