court, I gave my mother such a shock that she fainted. Peter, she said, you’re dead! You’ve come back from the grave! And then she sat down on the nearest seat and rolled up her eyes and passed out. You cause trouble even by walking through a door! my father said to me.”
Jane was working it out. At that dreadful dinner that should have been for Sybil, Sir William Carew had mentioned a son, Peter, and had described him as a pert, forward brat who, when sent out in the world, had got himself demoted from page to stable boy because of misbehaviour. This must be the same Peter Carew. He seemed to be a sufficiently dignified and responsible young gentleman now. He couldn’t really be much older than Ralph. Was it the beard that made him seem so? No, it was something in the man himself. He had gone adventuring; he had seen the world and acquired experience. That was the difference.
Kate Howard was still listening. “I’m sure,” she said wickedly, “that you could cause all sorts of trouble if you wanted to.”
“Minx,” said Carew amiably, but kept his attention on Jane. “You haven’t been here long enough to realize, I suppose, but the court’s a strange place just now.”
“I know,” said Jane in a low voice.
“I like Queen Anna,” Carew said. “I was with the escort that went to meet her at Calais. But then…” He shook his head and ceased talking, because servants were coming around with dishes and could have overheard. Before supper, Mistress Lowe had warned Jane that some of the deferential persons now recommending a spicy mutton stew were paid to report questionable remarks and opinions to Thomas Cromwell, the king’s most trusted aide.
As the servers withdrew, Carew, as though he knew what Jane was thinking, remarked, “The man who has gone up to the king and is speaking to him now is Thomas Cromwell. He is a great power in the land.”
“The heavyset man in the dark clothes?”
“Yes. Not a fellow to cross, believe me,” said Carew.
“And the tall man three seats along from the king,” said Kate Howard, leaning across to interrupt, “the one with the long face and the long nose, is my uncle, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. I don’t like him.”
“Pert, that’s what you are,” said Carew. Turning back to Jane, he said quietly, “Cromwell isn’t as much in favour as he was. He did more than anyone to organize the marriage, and, well…”
“Perhaps it will be better when the queen has learned English,” said Jane. “It must be difficult when husband and wife can’t talk to each other properly.” The queen’s lady, Hanna, was seated near her mistress, probably so that she could act as interpreter. She seemed to be doing so now. Somewhat to Jane’s discomfort, she also kept glancing toward Jane herself.
Carew, who had not noticed, recalled Jane’s attention. “It’s not just that. There are feelings no one can command. As I was saying, I was in the escort that brought Queen Anna from Calais. We got her as far as Rochester, in Kent, and then King Henry arrived, galloping on horseback, dressed as a gentleman but not as a king. He wanted to surprise her, to play the passionate lover. He was as eager as a boy,” said Carew, still speaking low, though no one, surely, thought Jane, could think it treasonable to say that King Henry had romantic leanings.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Cromwell was with him, but the king was shown to her rooms on his own, as though he were just another noble visitor. When he came out… Well, I saw his face, and then I heard him say to Cromwell, I like her not. He didn’t mean her lack of English, Jane. He meant something—much more earthy. I suppose he did his best. He changed into more royal-looking clothes, had himself announced again, this time as the king, and went through the motions of being delighted with her.”
“I see,” said Jane, remembering what Sir Edmund had told them when she and her companions first arrived.
“He had to go through with it,” Carew said. “You can’t fetch the daughter of a powerful foreign duke over to England, then turn up your nose and send her back as though she were goods supplied on approval, and didn’t meet your standards. It could cause all kinds of diplomatic repercussions—even destroy alliances. Every king needs his allies, just in case. Besides, it would have been rude and unkind. King Henry can be chivalrous. Well, I think he tried to be,” said Carew, his voice now very cautious. “But not, I fancy, successfully, and however well she learns English—well, I fear he will end up risking the diplomatic upheavals. And, of course, there are all these absurd religious problems.”
He glanced at her face and laughed again. “Oh, what is it?” cried Kate Howard, abruptly interrupting her own right-hand neighbour, who had been trying to talk to her about an entertainment which was scheduled for the next day. “Do share the joke!”
“It’s no joke,” said Carew brusquely, and kept his eyes on Jane’s face. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? The point is that though the king has broken away from Rome, so that we have prayers in English instead of Latin and no more worshipping of idols in what we all now call the popish style, nevertheless, the church in England is still much what it was in other ways. The heresies of Martin Luther are still heresies. The queen has been docile in religious matters and worships just as the king does, but she comes from a Lutheran country. There are people who fear that her influence, if she were ever to acquire any, would be pernicious.”
“Oh, I see,” said Jane, who didn’t. Ralph’s father, Luke, was said to admire the teachings of a German called Martin Luther, but she had never been clear about what they were.
“Shhh!” said the man on Peter’s other side. “The king wants to say something.”
They looked toward the top table, whereupon Jane discovered that she and Kate Howard were the object of the royal attention. King Henry, in fact, was raising a goblet to them both.
“We have two young ladies here this evening who have not supped in our company before! Welcome, Mistress Kate Howard, Mistress Jane Sweetwater!”
“Stand up! Stand straight!” hissed Thomas Cromwell, suddenly appearing beside the lower table and making get up at once gestures at Kate and Jane.
“A toast!” boomed the genial monster in the seat of honour. “A toast to youth and beauty and gracious womanly charm. To Kate Howard, to Jane Sweetwater. Health and long life!”
Glasses and goblets were raised. The toast was drunk. “Sit down,” muttered Cromwell.
They sat, but His Majesty hadn’t finished. “Which one of you is Jane Sweetwater?” he demanded, and a prod from Cromwell brought Jane to her feet once more.
“My queen tells me that you play the virginals well,” rumbled King Henry. “This evening, dear Mistress Sweetwater, you must play once more, for both of us.”
Kate Howard, in her frivolous way, laughed again. It was a pretty and natural sound, different from the carefully cultivated laughter of many of the court ladies, who used mirth, as often as not, as a way of expressing polite scorn.
But three seats away from Henry, Kate’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, turned what his niece, accurately enough, had described as his long face and his long nose toward Jane, stared at her with cold dark eyes, and without either speaking or moving, exuded toward her the information that he at least did not wish her well.
It was an interminable evening. There was dancing immediately after supper, but the king danced only once with his wife. Jane, on the contrary, and to her alarm, was twice led onto the floor by King Henry. He smelt of rancid sweat and sandalwood soap—no doubt meant to disguise the sweat, which it hadn’t—and his big beefy hands were hot. Once more she saw Norfolk looking at her with dislike, although Kate Howard, too, was invited to dance twice. After that, both of them were bidden to accompany the queen to her quarters, where Henry presently joined them, and with Kate to turn the pages of the music for her, Jane was commanded to play.
Both