The Taming of the Queen

He rears above me so that he can see my pale face and my auburn hair spilling over the pillow. ‘Christ, I am desperate for you,’ he exclaims, and then his face grows intent and his dark eyes widen and are blinded by desire as he starts to move inside me. I open my legs wider and hear my breath coming short, and know that I am with the only lover who has ever given me pleasure, in the only place in the world where I want to be, the only place that I feel safe – in Thomas Seymour’s warm bed.

Some time before dawn, he pours wine for me from a flagon on the sideboard and offers me dried plums and some little cakes. I take a glass of wine and nibble on a pastry, catching the crumbs in my cupped hand.

‘He’s proposed marriage,’ I say shortly.

Briefly, he puts his hand over his eyes, as if he cannot bear to see me, sitting in his bed, my hair tumbled around my shoulders, his sheets wrapped around my breasts, my neck rubbed red with his biting kisses, my mouth a little swollen.

‘God save us. Oh, God spare us this.’

‘I couldn’t believe it.’

‘He spoke to your brother? To your uncle?’

‘No, to me, yesterday.’

‘Have you told anyone else?’

I shake my head. ‘Not yet. I’d tell no-one before you.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘What can I do? I’ll obey,’ I say grimly.

‘You can’t,’ he says with sudden impatience. He reaches for me and snatches my hands, crumbling the pastry. He kneels on the bed and kisses my fingertips, as he did when he first told me that he loved me, that he would be my lover, that he would be my husband, that no-one should ever part us, that I was the only woman he had ever desired – ever! – in a long life of lovers and whores and servant girls and so many wenches that he cannot even remember. ‘Kateryn, I swear that you can’t. I can’t bear it. I won’t allow it.’

‘I don’t see how to refuse.’

‘What have you said?’

‘That I need time. That I have to pray and think.’

He puts my hand on his flat belly. I can feel the warm damp sweat, and the soft curls of his dark hair, the wall of hard muscle beneath the firm skin. ‘Is this what you’ve been doing, tonight? Praying?’

‘I’ve been worshipping,’ I whisper.

He bends and kisses the top of my head. ‘Heretic. What if you told him you’re already promised? That you were already secretly married?’

‘To you?’ I say bluntly.

He takes the challenge because he is a daredevil; any risk, any danger, and Thomas runs towards it as if it were a May game, as if he is only truly alive at a sword’s-length from death.

‘Yes, to me,’ he says boldly. ‘Of course, to me. Of course we must marry. We can say that we are already married!’

I wanted to hear him say it, but I don’t dare. ‘I can’t defy him.’ I lose my voice at the thought of leaving Thomas. I feel hot tears on my cheek. I lift the sheet and mop my face. ‘Oh, God help me, I won’t be able to even see you.’

He looks aghast. He sits back on his heels, the ropes of the bed creaking under his weight. ‘This can’t be happening. You’re only just free – we’ve been together no more than half a dozen times – I was going to ask his permission to marry you! I only waited out of respect to your widowhood!’

‘I should have read the signs. He sent me those beautiful sleeves, he insisted I break my mourning and come to court. He’s always coming to find me in Lady Mary’s rooms, and he’s always watching me.’

‘I thought he was just flirting. You’re not the only one. There’s you, and Catherine Brandon, and Mary Howard . . . I never thought he was serious.’

‘He has favoured my brother far beyond his deserts. God knows William wasn’t appointed Warden of the Marches on his ability.’

‘He’s old enough to be your father!’

I smile bitterly. ‘What man objects to a younger bride? You know, I think he had me in mind even before the death of my husband, God rest his soul.’

‘I knew it!’ He slams his palm against the carved post of the bed. ‘I knew it! I’ve seen the way his eyes follow you around the room. I’ve seen him send you a little dish of this or a little piece of that at dinner, and lick his own spoon with his big fat tongue when you taste it. I can’t bear the thought of you in his bed and his old hands pulling you this way and that.’

I strain my throat and swallow down my fear. ‘I know. I know. The marriage will be far worse than the courting, and the courting is like a play with mismatched actors and I don’t know my lines. I’m so afraid. Dear God, Thomas, I cannot tell you how very afraid I am. The last queen . . .’ I lose my voice; I cannot say her name. Katherine Howard died, beheaded for adultery, just a year ago.

‘Don’t be afraid of that,’ Thomas reassures me. ‘You weren’t here, you don’t know what she was like. Kitty Howard ruined herself. He would never have hurt her but for her own fault. She was a complete whore.’

‘And what d’you think he’d call me, if he saw me like this?’