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  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

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  Copyright © Philippa Gregory, 2015

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  Contents

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SPRING 1543

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SUMMER 1543

  OATLANDS PALACE, SURREY, SUMMER 1543

  MANOR OF THE MORE, HERTFORDSHIRE, SUMMER 1543

  AMPTHILL CASTLE, BEDFORDSHIRE, AUTUMN 1543

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1543

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

  SAINT JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1544

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SUMMER 1544

  LEEDS CASTLE, KENT, AUTUMN 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, AUTUMN 1544

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1545

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1545

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, EARLY SUMMER 1545

  NONSUCH PALACE, SURREY, SUMMER 1545

  SOUTHSEA CASTLE, PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR, SUMMER 1545

  COWDRAY HOUSE, MIDHURST, SUSSEX, SUMMER 1545

  GREENWICH PALACE, SUMMER 1545

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, AUTUMN 1545

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, WINTER 1545

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, CHRISTMAS 1545

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, WINTER 1546

  GREENWICH PALACE, SPRING 1546

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1546

  GREENWICH PALACE, SUMMER 1546

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1546

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SUMMER 1546

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SUMMER 1546

  WINDSOR CASTLE, AUTUMN 1546

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, WINTER 1546

  OATLANDS PALACE, SURREY, WINTER 1546

  GREENWICH PALACE, WINTER 1546

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, WINTER 1547

  HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SPRING 1543

  He stands before me, as broad as an ancient oak, his face like a full moon caught high in the topmost branches, the rolls of creased flesh upturned with goodwill. He leans, and it is as if the tree might topple on me. I stand my ground but I think – surely he’s not going to kneel, as another man knelt at my feet, just yesterday, and covered my hands with kisses? But if this mountain of a man ever got down, he would have to be hauled up with ropes, like an ox stuck in a ditch; and besides, he kneels to no-one.

  I think, he can’t kiss me on the mouth, not here in the long room with musicians at one end and everyone passing by. Surely that can’t happen in this mannered court, surely this big moon face will not come down on mine. I stare up at the man that my mother and all her friends once adored as the handsomest in England, the king that every girl dreamed of, and I whisper a prayer that he did not say the words he just said. Absurdly, I pray that I misheard him.

  In confident silence, he waits for my assent.

  I realise: this is how it will be from now until death us do part, he will wait for my assent or continue without it. I will have to marry this man who looms larger and stands higher than anyone else. He is above mortals, a heavenly body just below angels: the King of England.

  ‘I am so surprised by the honour,’ I stammer.

  The pursed pout of his little mouth widens into a smile. I can see the yellowing teeth and smell his old-dog breath.

  ‘I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘I will show you how to deserve it,’ he assures me.

  A coy smile on his wet lips reminds me, horribly, that he is a sensualist trapped in a rotting body and that I will be his wife in every sense of the word; he will bed me while I am aching for another man.

  ‘May I pray and think on this great proposal?’ I ask, stumbling for courtly words. ‘I’m taken aback, I really am. And so recently widowed . . .’

  His sprouting sandy eyebrows twitch together; this displeases him. ‘You want time? Weren’t you hoping for this?’

  ‘Every woman hopes for it,’ I assure him swiftly. ‘There is not one lady at court who does not hope for it, not one in the country who does not dream of it. I among all the others. But I am unworthy!’

  This is better, he is soothed.

  ‘I can’t believe that my dreams have come true,’ I embellish. ‘I need time to realise my good fortune. It’s like a fairy story!’

  He nods. He loves fairy stories, disguising and play-acting, and any sort of fanciful pretence.

  ‘I have rescued you,’ he declares. ‘I will raise you from nothing to the greatest place in the world.’ His voice, rich and confident, lubricated for all his life with the finest of wines and the fattest of cuts, is indulgent; but the sharp little gaze is interrogating me.

  I force myself to meet his gimlet eyes, hooded under his fat eyelids. He doesn’t raise me from nothing, I don’t come from nowhere: I was born a Parr of Kendal, my late husband was a Neville, these are great families in the far North o
f England, not that he has ever been there. ‘I need a little time,’ I bargain. ‘To accustom myself to joy.’

  He makes a little gesture with his pudgy hand to say that I can take all the time I like. I curtsey and walk backwards from the card table where he suddenly demanded the greatest stake that a woman can wager: a gamble with her life. It is against the law to turn a back to him: some people secretly joke that it is safer to keep an eye on him. Six paces backwards down the long gallery, the spring sunshine beating through the tall windows onto my modestly-bowed head, and then I curtsey again, lowering my eyes. When I come up he is still beaming at me, and everyone is still watching. I make myself smile and step backwards to the closed doors that lead to his presence chamber. Behind me, the guards swing them open for me to pass, I hear the murmur as the people outside, excluded from the honour of the royal presence, watch me curtsey again on the threshold, the great king watching me leave. I continue backwards as the guards close the double doors to hide me from his sight, and I hear the thud as they ground their halberds.

  I stand for a moment, facing the carved wooden panels, quite unable to turn and face the curious stares in the crowded room. Now the thick doors are between us, I find I am shaking – not just my hands, not just trembling in my knees, but shuddering in every sinew of my body as if I have a fever, shivering like a leveret tucked down in a wheat field hearing the swish of the blades of the reaping gang coming closer and closer.

  It is long past midnight before everyone is asleep, and I put a blue cloak over my night robe of black satin and dark as a shadow in the colours of the night sky, go quietly out of the women’s rooms and down the great stairs. No-one sees me pass, I have the hood pulled over my face, and, anyway, this is a court that has bought and sold love for years. No-one has much curiosity in a woman going to the wrong room after midnight.

  There are no sentries posted at my lover’s door; it is unlocked as he promised. I turn the handle and slip in, and he is there, waiting for me at the fireside, the room empty, lit only by a few candles. He is tall and lean, dark-haired, dark-eyed. When he hears me he turns, and desire illuminates his grave face. He grabs me, my head against his hard chest, his arms tightening around my back. Without saying a word, I am rubbing my forehead against him as if I would drive myself under his skin, into his very body. We sway together for a moment, our bodies craving the scent, the touch of the other. His hands clutch at my buttocks, he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around him. I am desperate for him. He kicks open the door of his bedroom with his booted foot, and carries me in, slamming it behind him as he turns and lays me down on his bed. He strips off his breeches, he throws his shirt to the floor as I open my cloak and robe and he presses down upon me and enters me without a single word said, with only a deep sigh, as if he has been holding his breath all day for this moment.

  Only then do I gasp against his naked shoulder: ‘Thomas, swive me all night; I don’t want to think.’

  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?’

  Th
ere is a bleak silence. He looks at my hands, clutched around my knees. I have started to tremble. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and feels me shudder. He looks aghast, as if we have just heard our death sentences.

  ‘He must never ever suspect you of this,’ he says, gesturing to the warm fire, the candlelit room, the rumpled sheets, the heady, betraying smell of lovemaking. ‘If he ever asks you – deny it. I will always deny it, I swear. He must never hear even a whisper. I swear that he will never hear one word from me. We must agree it together. We will never ever speak of it. Not to anyone. We will never give him cause to suspect, and we will swear an oath of secrecy.’

  ‘I swear it. They could rack me and I wouldn’t betray you.’

  His smile is warm. ‘They don’t rack gentry,’ he says and gathers me into his arms, with a deep gentle tenderness. He lays me down and wraps the fur rug around me, and he stretches out beside me, leaning over me, his head resting on his hand so that he can see me. He runs his hand from my wet cheek down my neck, over the curve of my breasts, my belly, my hips as if he is learning the shape of my body, as if he would read my skin with his fingers, the paragraphs, the punctuation, and remember it for ever. Then he buries his face against my neck and inhales the perfume of my hair.

  ‘This is goodbye, isn’t it?’ he says, his lips against my warm skin. ‘You’ve decided already, you tough little Northerner. You made up your mind, all on your own, and you came to say goodbye to me.’

  Of course it is goodbye.

  ‘I think I will die if you leave me,’ he warns me.

  ‘For sure, we will both die if I don’t,’ I say drily.

  ‘Always straight to the point, Kat.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie to you tonight. I’m going to spend the rest of my life telling lies.’

  He scrutinises my face. ‘You’re beautiful when you cry,’ he remarks. ‘Especially when you cry.’

  I put my hands against his chest. I feel the curve of his muscle and his dark hair under my palms. He has an old scar on one shoulder from a sword cut. I touch it gently, thinking I must remember this, I must remember every moment of this.

  ‘Don’t ever let him see you cry,’ he says. ‘He would like it.’