The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [27]

?’ She caught my look of dismay. ‘You are surprised I know of this? I surprise myself, sir. I soil my petticoat walking through your sordid little life, hmm?’ She lifted the hem of her gown as if in disgust, revealing a pair of exquisite red-heeled slippers, her plump feet bulging over the top.

There followed a short pause, while everyone pretended not to be mesmerised by the queen’s feet. And then she dropped her gown, and turned quite serious. ‘Well, Howard. Tell Mr Hawkins of your troubles.’

Mrs Howard folded her hands. ‘I humbly beg Her Majesty to first permit me to acknowledge the many kindnesses she has bestowed upon her most grateful servant? My pleasing suite of rooms, my position at court, the happy and contented life I lead here full of diverse entertainments and friendships – these are blessings indeed and I am most grateful for Her Majesty’s generosity.’

The words were spoken with a grave sincerity – and fell from Mrs Howard’s tongue with such fluency I was sure she must have spoken them a thousand times before. To my eye, Mrs Howard did not seem happy nor content, but sometimes words such as these must be spoken, by rote and ritual, to appease those with power over us.

The queen’s eyes were hooded. ‘You are indeed most fortunate, Howard,’ she acknowledged, ‘in your diverse friendships.’ She waved at her most grateful servant to continue.

‘My husband and I are estranged,’ Mrs Howard began.

‘Estranged! Aye, as a wolf is estranged from a rabbit,’ the queen interrupted. ‘You must know of course, sir, that Mr Howard was servant to the late king.’

I nodded. And how extraordinary this was, that such a turbulent, ill-tempered man should fawn about the court when it served him. I knew also – as the whole world knew – that the old king had fallen out violently with his son some years ago and the two courts had been torn in half as a consequence. Some had remained loyal to the king, others had followed the Prince of Wales into exile – a short stroll away in Leicester Fields. Mrs Howard had been an integral part of that secondary court. Had it been loyalty on her part to leave the old court behind? Or had she simply seized the chance to escape her husband?

‘Now he serves no one save himself,’ the queen said. ‘And has no income of his own. He has squandered it all – all of his inheritance, and his wife’s too. Every last penny.’ She dropped a macaroon in her mouth and bit down, closing her eyes in pleasure. Waved again at Mrs Howard to return to her story.

‘Mr Howard has made certain demands of His Majesty. And violent threats against me.’

The queen swallowed the confection, sucking the sugar from her teeth. ‘Demands and threats! Insolent rogue – he is abominable. D’you know, Mr Hawkins, when Mrs Howard was a young woman he abandoned her in some hovel in… I fear I cannot even pronounce it. Holl-born?’

‘Holborn, Your Majesty,’ Mrs Howard offered.

The queen threw me a mock-baffled look, as if Holborn might be somewhere upon the moon. ‘Abandoned her to starve along with their baby son, while he rollicked about the town with whores and scoundrels. Mrs Howard grew so desperate she even thought to sell her own hair. But you could not get a fair price for it, could you, Howard?’ She leaned forward, conspiratorial. ‘Mrs Howard is quite famed for her fine chestnut hair.’

I could not think what to say to this and so said nothing, glancing instead towards Mrs Howard in the hope I might offer some silent expression of sympathy. But her head was tilted in mild contemplation, her eyes cast softly to her feet – as if she were listening to a piece of light chamber music and not the horror that was her marriage.

And still I wondered: what did the queen want of me? I was beginning to suspect it involved Charles Howard – his certain demands and violent threats. In fact, I seemed to have blundered into a rather devious trap. Easy to miss in such a room, with its velvet curtains, its fine old portraits of grave old men covering the walls. The blazing fire and towering heaps of confectionery.

‘The truth is,’ the queen said, ‘I am concerned for my poor Howard. Her husband has always loathed her with a demonic passion but he has kept his temper and his distance for years – I never could fathom why. Now it transpires he was harbouring certain expectations, following His Majesty’s coronation. A position. An income. He has been disappointed in those expectations.’

‘He blames Mrs Howard for this,’ I guessed.

The queen bridled. ‘No, sir – fie! I should think not! Mr Howard knows full well – as the world knows full well – that his wife has no influence upon His Majesty. Not this much!’ She pinched her finger and thumb together, allowing no space between them.

I gave a hurried bow of understanding.

‘Mr Howard is determined to create scandal and disruption. He demands that his wife is returned to his… shall we say into his custody?’ She nodded grimly to herself. Custody. That seemed a fitting word for it.

‘But, forgive me – he cannot crave such a reunion.’

The queen slid her gaze towards Mrs Howard, and I thought I caught a flicker of fellow feeling. ‘No indeed. Mr Howard is more cunning than he seems. He was a soldier for many years, and a good soldier relies upon strategy more than brute strength. Mr Howard does not want his wife, but in law he may insist that she is returned to him. He has persuaded the Archbishop of Canterbury to write in support of his suit.’ She gave a sour look that made me very glad, in that moment, that I was not the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘It is all a game, naturally: to cause his wife distress and to force the king’s hand.’