The Taming of the Queen

He laughs as he sees me suddenly go pale. ‘Ah, Kate. You need fear nothing. I have taught you everything you need to know, have I not? It is my translations that you read? You are my dear wife, are you not? And we are friends?’

‘Of course, of course,’ I say. I bow as if I am delighted at the invitation.

‘And you may ask anything of me. Any little gift, any little favour. Anything you like, sweetheart.’

I hesitate, wondering if I dare speak of the broken woman in the Tower, Anne Askew, waiting to hear if she is to live or to die. He has said I can ask anything of him, he has just said I am to fear nothing. ‘Your Majesty, there is one small thing,’ I start. ‘A little thing to you, I am sure. But it would be the greatest wish of my heart.’

He raises his hand to stop me. ‘My dear, we have learned today, have we not, that there are no things, not even the smallest things, that come between a husband and wife like us? The greatest wish of your heart could only be the greatest wish of mine. We have nothing to discuss. You need never ask anything of me. We are as one.’

‘It is my friend. . .’

‘You have no better friend than me.’

I understand him. ‘We are as one,’ I repeat dully.

‘Holy unity,’ he says.

I bow my head.

‘And loving silence.’

‘She’s dead,’ Nan tells me brutally, as they are brushing my hair before dinner. The movement of the heavy brush through my thick hair, the occasional painful pull, seems to be part of her news. I don’t put up my hand to stop Susan, the maid, from grooming me as if I were a mare going to the stallion. My head rocks to one side and then the other with the harsh pulling motion. I see my face in the mirror, my white skin, my hurt eyes, my bruised mouth. My head going one way and then another like a nodding doll.

‘Who is dead?’ But I know.

‘Anne Askew. I just had word from London. Catherine Brandon is at her London house. She sent me a note. They killed her this morning.’

I choke. ‘God forgive them. God forgive me. God send her soul to heaven.’

‘Amen.’

I gesture that Susan is to go away but Nan says: ‘You have to have your hair brushed and your hood pinned. You have to go to dinner. Whatever has happened.’

‘How can I?’ I ask simply.

‘Because she died never mentioning your name. She took the rack for you and death for you, so that you could go to dinner and, when your chance comes again, you can defend the reform of the church. She knew you must be free to speak to the king even if all the rest of us are killed. Even if you lose us all, one by one. If you are the last one left, you must save reform in England. Or she will have died for nothing.’

I see Susan’s aghast face in the mirror behind my own.

‘It’s all right,’ I say to her. ‘You need not bear witness.’

‘But you must,’ Nan says to me. ‘Anne died without admitting that she knew any one of us, so that we would be free to go on thinking, talking and writing. So that you would carry the torch.’

‘She suffered.’ It’s not a question. She was in the torture room of the Tower, alone with three men. No woman has ever been there before.

‘God bless her. They broke her body so badly that she could not walk to the stake. John Lascelles, Nicholas Belenian and John Adams were burned at the same time, but the men walked to their pyres. She was the only one tortured. The guards had to carry her tied to a chair. They said her feet were turned in as if she was wearing them backwards, and her shoulders and her elbows were all pulled out. Her spine was disjointed, her neck was pulled from her shoulders.’

I dip my head and I put my hands over my eyes. ‘God keep her.’

‘Amen,’ Nan says. ‘A king’s messenger came to offer her pardon as they tied the chair to the stake.’

‘Oh, Nan! Could she have recanted?’

‘All they wanted was your name. They would have taken her down if she had said your name.’

‘Oh, God forgive me.’

‘She listened to the priest preaching the sermon before they brought the torches to set the fire, and she said “Amen” only when she agreed with him.’

‘Nan, I should have done more!’

‘You couldn’t have done more. Truly, there was nothing more that any of us could do. If she had wanted to escape death she could have told them what they wanted to hear. They were clear enough with her what it should be.’

‘Just my name?’

‘All this has been done only so they could name you as a heretic to the king and kill you.’

‘They burned her?’ It must be a terrible death, tied to a stake with the faggots heaped around your feet, the smell of the smoke as the flames take hold, the sight of family and praying friends dimming as the smoke rises and then the terrible crackle as your hair catches and then your skirt smoulders, and then the pain – I break off to rub my eyes – I cannot imagine the pain as a gown catches fire, as sleeves take the flames to the arms, to the shoulders, to her delicate white neck.

‘Catherine Brandon sent her a purse of gunpowder and she wore it in her gown. When the flames grew hot it blew off her head. She didn’t have to suffer long.’