Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

“How do they open it?” I ask. “You know, this is really disgusting.”

“They cut into it and then they hold it open,” she says. “They wedge it open with little chips of gold. They have to push the chips into the wound to keep it raw, otherwise it will close over. He has to bear the pain of an open wound all the time, and they will have to do it again. Cut into his leg and then cut again.”

“Then he will be well again?” I ask brightly; I really want her to stop telling me these things.

“No,” she says. “Then he will be as he was, lame and in pain, and being poisoned by it. The pain makes him angry, and, worse than that, it makes him feel old and weary. The lameness means he cannot be the man he was. You helped him to feel young again, but now the wound reminds him that he is an old man.”

“He can’t really have thought he was young. He can’t have thought he was young and handsome. Not even he can have thought that.”

She looks at me seriously. “Oh, Katherine, he did think he was young and in love. He has to be made to think that again.”

“But what can I do?” I can feel myself pouting. “I cannot put ideas in his head. Besides, he does not come to my bed while he is ill.”

“You will have to go to him,” she says. “Go to him and make something up that will make him feel young and in love again. Make him feel like a young man, filled with lust.”

I frown. “I don’t know how.”

“What would you do if he were a young man?”

“I could tell him that one of the young men of the court is in love with me,” I suggest. “I could make him jealous. There are young men here,” I am thinking of Thomas Culpepper,“that I know I could really, truly desire.”

“Never,” she says urgently. “Never do that. You don’t know how dangerous it is to do that.”

“Yes, but you said-”

“Can you not think of a way that would make him feel in love again without putting your neck on the block?” she demands irritably.

“Really!” I exclaim. “I only thought-”

“Think again,” she says, quite rudely.

I say nothing. I am not thinking; I am purposely not speaking to show her that she has been rude, and I will not have it.

“Tell him that you are afraid he wants to go back to the Duchess of Cleves,” she says.

This is so surprising that I forget to sulk, and I look at her in astonishment. “But that is just what Agnes was saying, and you told her not to distress me.”

“Exactly,” she says. “That is why it is such a clever lie. Because it is all but true. Half the court is saying it behind their hands; Agnes Restwold says it to your face. If you ever thought for a moment about anything but yourself and your looks and your jewels, you would indeed be anxious and distressed. And, best of all, if you go to him and you behave anxiously and distressed, then he will feel that two women have been fighting over him and will regain confidence in his own charm again. If you do it well, it might get him back into your bed before Lent.”

I hesitate. “I want him to be happy, of course,” I say carefully. “But if he does not come to my bed before Lent, then it does not much matter…”

“It does matter. This is not about your pleasure or even his,” she says gravely. “He has to get a son on you. You seem to keep forgetting it is not about dancing or music or even jewels or land. You do not earn your place as queen by being the woman he dotes on; you earn your place as queen by being the mother of his son. Until you give him a son, I don’t think he will even have you crowned.”

“I must be crowned,” I protest.

“Then you must get him into your bed to give you a child,” she says. “Anything else is too dangerous even to think about.”

“I’ll go.” I sigh a great hard-done-by sigh, so she can see that I am not frightened by her threats, but on the contrary I am wearily going to do my duty. “I’ll go and tell him I am unhappy.”

By luck, when I get there, the outer presence chamber is unusually empty, so many people have gone home. So Thomas Culpepper is almost alone, playing at dice, right hand against left, in the window seat.

“Are you winning?” I ask him, trying to speak lightly.

He leaps to his feet as he sees me, and bows.

“I always win, Your Grace,” he says. His smile makes my heart skip a beat. It really does, it truly does; when he tosses his head like that and smiles, I can hear my heart go thud-thud.

“That is not a great skill if you are playing alone,” I say aloud; and to myself I say, And that’s not very witty.

“I win at dice and I win at cards, but I am hopeless at love,” he says very quietly.

I glance behind me; Katherine Tylney has stopped to talk to the Duke of Hertford’s kinsman and is not listening, for once. Catherine Carey is at a discreet distance, looking out of the window.

“You are in love?” I ask.

“You must know it,” he says in a whisper.

I hardly dare think. He must mean me; he must be about to declare his love for me. But I swear if he is talking about someone else I shall just die. I can’t bear him to want someone else. But I keep my voice light.

“Why should I know it?”

“You must know who I love,” he says. “You, of all people in the world.”

This conversation is so delicious I can feel my toes curling up inside my new slippers. I feel hot; I am certain I am blushing and he will be able to see.

“Must I?”

“The king will see you now,” announces the idiot Dr. Butt, and I jump and start away from Thomas Culpepper, for I had utterly forgotten that I was there to see the king and to make him love me again. “I’ll come in a minute,” I say over my shoulder.

Thomas gives a little snort of laughter, and I have to clap my hand over my mouth to stop myself giggling, too. “No, you must go,” he reminds me quietly. “You can’t keep the king waiting. I’ll be here when you come out.”

“Of course I am going at once,” I say, remembering that I have to seem upset at the king’s neglect, and I turn away from him in a hurry and dash into the king’s room, where he is lying on his bed like a great ship stranded in dry dock, his leg stuck up into the air on embroidered cushions and his big round face all wan and self-pitiful. I walk slowly toward his big bed and try to look anxious for his love.

The king is sliding into some kind of melancholy; he insists on being alone, shut away like some old dying smelly dog, and Katherine’s attempts to make him turn to her are doomed since she cannot sustain an interest in anyone but herself for more than half a day. She has gone to his room again, but this time he would not even let her in; instead of showing concern, she tossed her pretty head and said that if he would not let her in, she would not visit again.

But she lingered long enough to meet Thomas Culpepper, and he took her walking in the garden. I sent Catherine Carey after her with a shawl and another well-behaved maid to give them the appearance of decorum, but from the way the queen was holding his arm, and chattering and laughing, anybody could see that she was happy in his company and had forgotten all about her husband lying in silence in a darkened room.

My lord duke gives me a long, hard look at dinner but says nothing, and I know that he expects me to get our little bitch serviced and in pup. A son would raise the king from his melancholy and secure the crown for the Howard family forever. We have to do it this time. We have to manage it. No other family in the world has had two attempts at such a prize. We cannot fail twice.

In her pique Katherine summons musicians to the ladies’ chamber and dances with her women and the people of her household. It isn’t very merry, and two of the wilder girls, Joan and Agnes, run down to the dining hall and invite some men from the court. When I see they have done this, I send a page for Thomas Culpepper to see if he will be fool enough to come. He is.