The Taming of the Queen

Clever as always, he breaks the tension, the king laughs and everyone joins in. Somers winks at me as he goes by, his kind brown eyes twinkling. No-one else even looks at me. As they bow and leave they keep their eyes on the ground. I think that they fear for me, left alone with him at last, as the fumes of the wine seep from his head and the food curdles in his belly and his mood sours. My ladies dash to get out of the room. Nan is the last to leave and she gives me a little nod as if to remind me that I am doing God’s work as much as if I were a saint about to lie down on the rack.

The door closes behind them and I am kneeling at the foot of the bed in silence.

‘You can come closer,’ he says gruffly. ‘I won’t bite. Get into bed.’

‘I was saying my prayers,’ I say. ‘Shall I pray aloud for you, Your Majesty?’

‘You can call me Henry now,’ he says. ‘When we’re alone.’

I take that as a refusal of the prayers, and I lift up the covers and slip into bed beside him. I don’t know what he is going to do. Since he cannot even roll on his side unaided, he certainly cannot mount me. I lie beside him perfectly still and wait for him to tell me what he wants.

‘You’ll have to sit on my lap,’ he says eventually, as if he has been puzzling at this too. ‘You’re not a foolish girl, you’re a woman. You’ve been wedded and bedded more than once. You know what to do, eh?’

This is worse than I had imagined. I lift the hem of my nightgown out of the way, and creep towards him on my hands and knees. Unbidden, the vision of Thomas Seymour, outstretched and naked, his back arched, his dark eyelashes sweeping his brown cheeks, comes into my mind. I can see the muscles of his hard belly ripple with pleasure at my touch as he thrusts upwards.

‘Latimer was no great lover, I take it?’ the king enquires.

‘He was not a man of great strength like you, Your . . . Henry,’ I say. ‘And of course, he was unwell.’

‘So how did he do?’

‘His health?’

‘How did he do the act? How did he bed you?’

‘Very rarely.’

He grunts in approval at that, and I see that he is aroused. The thought that he is more potent than my former husband excites him.

‘That must have made him angry,’ he says with pleasure. ‘Taking a woman like you to wife and not being able to do the act.’ He laughs. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re very lovely. I can’t wait.’

He takes hold of my right wrist and tugs me towards him. Obediently I kneel up and try to straddle his body. But his fleshy hips are so wide that I cannot get across, and he pulls me down so that I squat on him as if I were astride a fat horse. I have to hold my face rigid so that I don’t grimace. I must not tremble, I must not cry.

‘There,’ he says, excited at his own potency. ‘Feel that? Not bad for a man just over fifty, is it? You won’t have got that from old Latimer.’

I murmur a wordless response. He pulls me towards him and struggles to push upwards against me. He is soft, a half-formed thing, and now I am disgusted as well as embarrassed.

‘There!’ he says again more loudly. His face is becoming redder, the sweat is pouring off him with the effort of pulling me down with his hands and squirming his huge haunches upwards.

I put my hands over my face to block the sight of him labouring beneath me.

‘You’re not shy!’ he exclaims, his voice loud in the room.

‘No, no,’ I say. I must remember that I am doing this for God and for my family. I will be a good queen. This is part of my duty, my God-given duty. I put my hands to the neck of my nightgown and I untie the ribbons at the front. When he sees my naked breasts he puts both fat hands over them and grasps at them, pinching the nipples. At last he penetrates me and I feel him try to thrust, then he gives a strangled shout, and falls back and lies still, completely still.

I wait, but nothing else happens. He says nothing. The brick red colour drains from his face leaving his cheeks grey in the candlelight. His eyes are closed. His mouth sags open and he gives a long loud snore.

That seems to be it. Gently, I lift myself off his damp lap and carefully I slide off the bed. I gather my robe around me and I wrap it tightly, tying the sash around my waist and pulling it close. I sit at the fireside on the big chair that has been specially widened and strengthened for his weight, and I pull my knees to my chest and hug myself. I find I am shivering and I pour a glass of the mulled wedding ale that stands at my side on the table. It was supposed to give me courage and him potency. It warms me a little and I wrap my hands around the silver cup.

After a bleak time of staring blankly at the fire I creep into bed beside him. The mattress is deeply bowed under his weight, the blankets and the expensive coverlet heaped high over his great bulk. I am like a little child lying beside him. I close my eyes. I am thinking of nothing. I am absolutely determined to think of nothing at all. I close my eyes and I fall asleep.