VIII

Cromwell, keeping a grip on his shoulders. I say, “I may have been tricked into this marriage.”
    “Tricked?”
    I nod. “By witchcraft. Seduced. She is…” I shake my head; start again. “I have seen her true nature. I believe I might take another wife.” I touch my gloved finger to Cromwell’s mouth. “Shh. Our secret.”
    He regards me thoughtfully. For a big man, he has small eyes – and they are as sharp as a rat’s. I suppose he is making quick calculations. He says, “Sir. One thing. In such a circumstance… would the Queen, do you think, retire quietly? To—” He pushes out his lower lip; a facial shrug. “To a life of honourable seclusion?”
    I look at him. In the distance I hear a double impact as a rider takes a blow and falls heavily to the floor.
    It is very cold, standing like this. Cromwell’s nose is red. I don’t answer his question. Instead I say, “There will be a further sign. She has told me she is pregnant again. This new child she is carrying will prove it. Surely? God will speak through this pregnancy.” And, patting Cromwell’s shoulder as I pass, I walk back to my horses.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  XIII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    Today, every step is painful. But movement is a distraction; it is worse to sit and rest. Using my stick, I try to put as little weight on my left leg as possible as I walk.
    Still, nothing prepares me for the pain that rips through me as I reach the middle of the room. I cringe against the nearest table, my weight on my elbows. I am panting, wondering if I will vomit, as saliva drips onto my hands. My attendants rush forward to help.
    “Get away from me!”
    They hover, uncertain. My stick has fallen; one of them makes a dash forward to pick it up. He slides it onto the table then backs off, fast.
    I turn, still leaning on one elbow, my legs still buckled, and swipe the stick round at the lot of them, but they are standing just out of reach. “Don’t treat me like a bloody invalid!”
    I snarl. “Leave me alone! Go and cower behind doors and spy on me through keyholes as I know you do!”
    They blink at me stupidly.
    “ Go on! ”
    Hesitantly at first, and then all in a rush, they beat a retreat.
    I am alone in the Privy Gallery, where I have come to try to walk off the pain. The old wound on my left leg is ulcerated and badly swollen. It needs to burst and discharge its evil humours. Until then it will not heal. Until then I am – intermittently – in agony.
    The gallery is a long space – my private walkway – where decorations twist and creep up every available surface. On an evening like this it is lit with wax candles on the fireplace and in the windows, and torches in sconces on the walls. Behind the windows’ shimmering reflections, the night is black and bitterly cold.
    For now the pain has subsided; I walk again, haltingly, to the end of the room, and stop, gathering the energy to turn.
    Which is when I hear it. The sound of a slow, shuffling tread on the stairs. And something like…
    A tapping. No, no – more like a scratching. Listen – there it comes again .
    Who said that once? My mother? I have no time to think. Fear makes my heart race; my head is pounding.
    The staircase lies at this end of the room – a small spiral of stone steps leading up directly from my private garden. The door at the top stands ajar. The one at the bottom is – or should be – locked, and checked regularly by the guards of the night watch.
    No one could possibly be climbing those stairs.
    I listen, not breathing. There is a moment of silence, as if whoever is on the stairs is listening too. And then the footsteps resume.
    I cannot move – and must move. I retreat crabwise, my eyes on the door.
    Slowly, the footsteps come nearer. It seems to take an eternity. Then I see thin fingers grasp the edge of the wood.
    As the figure slips through the gap, it turns to look first in the wrong direction, at the empty end of the gallery.
    I have a split second to see without being seen – and turn away.
    Leaning on my stick, my back to the door, it takes me a moment to regain control. Then I say, “The quivering rabbit. Are you still quivering?” I turn to face her. “Yes, you are. Why did the guards let you through?”
    The Seymour girl, Jane, has dropped into a deep curtsey. “I – I don’t know, Your Majesty,” she says. “My brother told me they would.”
    “How interesting.”
    Her brother, it seems, has convinced the guards I have