The Queen of Subtleties. Suzannah Dunn

No wide-eyed plaything. Yes, I was younger than Catherine—but who wasn’t? She was forty, and seemed half as old again. It was all over, for her: the supposed bearer of heirs, she hadn’t been pregnant for a decade. She was a dead weight on Henry.

      And what a weight! What she lacked in stature, she made up for in girth. With all the health problems that you’d expect. And no wonder: all those failed pregnancies. And no wonder they failed, with everything that she put herself through: the ritual fasting, the rising during the small hours to pray, the arduous pilgrimages, trekking in all weathers, for weeks on end, to Walsingham. All this took a toll on her spirits, too. She retreated among her pious Spanish ladies and their Spanish priests. Ceased to live in the real world. But, then, in many ways, she never had. I’ll not deny what people say, that she always had a kind word for everyone. The problem was in understanding it. Despite all her years in England, she was hopelessly foreign.

      Why had Henry ever married her? Let’s not forget it was his choice. His father had died. Only just died, in fact, and there’s the answer: the marriage was Henry’s choice, his first; the first big decision of a new, seventeen-year-old king. Marrying Catherine, he all at once made his mark and a prudent political move, an alliance with Spain. And, anyway, Henry was a chivalrous man; big-hearted, and determined to do the right thing. He wanted to end Catherine’s misery: this kind, stoical, scholarly young woman, as he saw her, who was stuck in England, widowed, orphaned, and impoverished.

      Anyway, there they were, years later: an odd couple. They even looked mismatched: she was the shortest woman at court; he, probably the tallest man in England. She waddled, whereas he was one of the best tennis players in Europe. She played cards with her ladies and then retired early to her bed. He partied until the early hours. She’d become an old lady while he was still a young man. She was looking forward to grandchildren, he was still hoping for heirs. There was, too, a fundamental difference in their attitudes to their faith. Henry’s relationship with God was robust, direct. He didn’t so much kneel before priests, in Catherine’s manner, as clap them on the back and challenge them to debate.

      By the time that I was one of her ladies-in-waiting, her life revolved around that scrappy, priest-worshipping daughter of hers. A repulsively colourless child. It was ridiculous, the idea that the dwarf daughter of an old Spaniard from a defunct lineage could ever follow in Henry’s footsteps and rule England.

      When Henry made his first move on me, my attention was elsewhere, albeit reluctantly. I hadn’t bothered with love since Harry Percy. I didn’t seem to have the heart for it. I didn’t quite have the heart for Thomas Wyatt. Don’t get me wrong, I was very fond of him: we’d been friends since childhood, and he was probably one of the best friends I had. But as a lover? I wasn’t convinced. His feelings on this matter were unequivocal, though, and he was making them known. Easy, if you’re a poet; and he was—is—one of England’s finest. Everyone was reading the poems. No one could understand my reticence. The consensus among my friends was that Tommy was the ultimate catch: dashing, and clever; sensitive, and baby-blond.

      Henry made his first move with a gift: a sugar rosebud. Placed on my pillow. Someone had come into my room while I was out, and placed on my pillow a bud cast in molten sugar. Glassy; rosewater-tinted. I didn’t know it was from Henry until I read the tag, HR.

      The presents that started coming were sometimes sugar, sometimes gold, and sometimes the sugary-gold of marchepane. Brooches, emblems, statuettes; stars, unicorns, Venus herself. Of course I thanked him for every one of them. But I hated it. With every ounce of sugar and gold, he must have felt that he was putting down another payment. And I wasn’t for buying. Eventually I decided that something would have to be said, and asked him for a moment in private. I hated it, that I had to go and ask and he got what he wanted: word from me.

      I told him, ‘I don’t mean to seem ungrateful—and I’m not—but you should stop giving me presents.’

      He said, ‘Should I?’ Amused. Lofty and amused.

      Which annoyed me, although of course I was careful not to show it. Careful to act the gracious girl. Everything was always easy for him, nothing could ever compromise him: king, doing just as he pleased. ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘Oh? Why?’

      The honest answer? ‘Because it makes things difficult for me.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Yes. You, sailing through life, the rest of us eddying in your wake.

      He switched tactics, to wheedling. ‘I like giving you presents.’

       I commanded myself, Stay gracious. ‘And I like receiving them,’ and I did; of course I did, ‘But—’

      An imperious wave of that jewelled hand, No buts. ‘They suit you. Gold suits you. Presents suit you.’ A grin. ‘You’re a presents sort of person.’

      True. Damn. The hook, the reeling in.

      He said, ‘They’re only presents.’ Then, quieter, ‘I have to give you presents.’ Then, ‘Please.’

      It stopped nothing, my confrontation. On the contrary…The first letter came: I should explain…

      And what was it, that he explained? Oh, that he’d never known anyone like me. That kind of thing.

      So then I had to go to him about the letter. ‘Your letter—’

      ‘Yes?’

      Well? ‘Thank you for it.’

      ‘Oh. And?’

      And? ‘That’s all: thank you for your letter.’

      He laughed as if I’d made a joke. ‘You’ll write back to me?’ He was still amused, but there was another look, too: his eyes clear and steady.

      ‘Oh. Yes.’ Damn. ‘Yes, if you like.’

      ‘If you like.’

      I nodded while it sank in. ‘I do.’ But I had to, didn’t I.

      A week or so later, when I couldn’t put if off any longer, when he’d mentioned it several times, I wrote that letter. I can’t, I wrote. I’m touched and honoured but I can’t. It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t be anyone’s mistress, not even yours.

      He’d had mistresses; of course he had, married to Catherine. No surprise, there. The surprise was his discretion: Henry, the consummate showman, becoming low-key, cloak and dagger, keeping it all under wraps. There were times when everyone had suspected there was someone, but no one seemed to know who. A considerable achievement, such secrecy, at court. Other times, though, all was revealed and revelled in. Six or seven years before Henry wrote that first love letter to me, his mistress of the time had given birth to a baby boy. Mother of the king’s only son, Betsy Blount was fêted. Little Fitz was given a grand christening, with Cardinal Wolsey, no less, named as Godfather. Catherine attended, fixed with that serene smile. Gracious, people said. Stupid, would be another way of putting it.

      All my poor sister achieved was to have Henry name a battleship in her honour. Fitting, I imagine people said: Mary Boleyn, they probably said, has a lot of sailors in every port; Mary Boleyn rides the swell.

      Any mistress of his known to us—my sister no exception—was of a certain type. Giggly. Fun. Fun is what a mistress is; it’s what she’s for. Henry loved fun, in those days; nothing was more important, to him, so nothing was more important to us at court. Court seemed to exist solely for that purpose: Henry’s fun, day and night, summer and winter. Jousts, banquets, charades. Singing, hunting, gambling. And a mistress played her role. Knew her place, too. Fun while it—she—lasted. No misunderstandings. After Betsy had produced Fitz, in a residence provided for the purpose by the king, she never returned to court. Instead, she was married off to a man who was then favoured for various lucrative appointments. They’ve since had several children. My sister, too, in time, had had marital arrangements made on her behalf. Again, no problem: it was a happy marriage. No hard feelings, and no complications. For Henry, mistresses