The Taming of the Queen

He bows as Nan makes a little fearful noise. ‘Is it wise to confess acquaintance with her? To let yourself be identified with her?’

‘Anyone can discover that she has preached here,’ I say. ‘Everyone knows that her sister works at court. What the bishop needs to know is that we, her friends, will stand by her. He needs to be aware that when he questions her, he is questioning one of my preachers, a friend to the Suffolk household. He must be told that she has important allies and we know where she is.’

Christopher nods that he understands, and swiftly turns and goes out of the door.

‘And send a message back as soon as she is released,’ I call after him. ‘And if they proceed against her, come back at once.’

We have to wait. We wait all the day, and we try to pray for Anne Askew. I dine with the king and my ladies dance for him, and we smile until our cheeks ache. I glance at him sideways as he is listening to the music and beating time with his hand, and I think: do you know that a woman who thinks as I do, who has preached before me, who loved me when she was a little girl and whose gifts I admire, is being questioned for the offence of heresy, which might take her to the stake? Do you know this and are you waiting to see what I will do? Is it a test, to see if I will act for her? Or do you know nothing? Is this nothing more than the clockwork movements of the old church, set in motion like automata, the ambition of the Bishop of London, the bigotry of Stephen Gardiner, the endless conspiracy of the old churchmen grinding on and on and resisting change? Should I tell you of this and ask for your help? Am I sitting beside the man who would save Anne, or beside the king who is playing her as a piece in one of his games?

Henry turns and smiles at me. ‘I shall come to your rooms tonight, sweetheart,’ he says.

And I think: that proves it. He must know nothing. Not even a king as old and as duplicitous as this King of England could possibly smile and bed his wife while her friend was being interrogated on his orders.

I do not speak of Anne to my husband, though as he strives to reach his pleasure he groans: ‘You please me, ah, Kateryn, you do please me. You can have anything . . .’

When he is quiet and falling asleep he repeats: ‘You please me, Kateryn. You can have any favour.’

‘I want nothing,’ I say. I would feel like a whore if I named a favour now. Anne Askew prides herself on being a free woman; she defied her husband and her father. I should not buy her freedom with the sexual pleasure of a man old enough to be our father.

He understands this. He has a sly smile as he lies back on the heaped pillows, his eyes half-closed, drowsy. ‘Ask me later then,’ he says, ‘if you would detach payment from the deed.’

‘The deed is a gift of love,’ I say pompously, and then I feel that I have earned his scoffing laugh.

‘You make it gracious by naming it so,’ he says. ‘It is one of the things that I like about you, Kateryn: you do not see everything as a trade, you don’t see everyone else as a rival or an enemy.’

‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘But it must be a grim world if you see it like that. How would one bear to live in it?’

‘By dominating it,’ he answers easily. ‘By being the greatest trader with the most to deal in; by being the master of everyone, whether they know it or not.’

Two things save Anne Askew: her own keen intelligence, and my protection. She confesses to nothing but believing the scriptures, and when they try to trap her with details of the liturgy she says that she does not know, that she is a simple woman, that all she does is read her Bible, the king’s own Bible, and try to follow its precepts. Anything else is too complex for a faithful God-fearing woman like herself. The Lord Mayor tries to trap her with questions of theology and she keeps her head and says that she cannot speak of such things. She irritates Edmund Bonner, the Bishop of London, almost beyond speaking, but he can do nothing against her when he hears from the people of his household that Anne Askew preaches to the queen and her ladies, and that the queen and her friends and companions – the greatest ladies in the land – heard no heresy. The queen – so high in favour with the king that he stayed all last night in her rooms – cannot be denied. She has not yet spoken to the king in favour of her court preacher, but clearly she can do so. In a frightened hurry, they release Anne Askew, and send her home to her husband. As bullies and men this is the only way they can devise to control a woman. I laugh when they tell me. I believe it will be more of a punishment for him than for her.

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, EARLY SUMMER 1545