overheard, rather than indignation at her naughtiness. “You will go to bed right now and stay there for the rest of the day.” Jane’s lower lip trembled, and she turned without a word and went up the stairs.
I looked at Mrs. Zouche. “I hope to God she didn’t hear all that.”
“Or that she doesn’t repeat it,” replied Mrs. Zouche. “My lady would kill me if she found out I’d been saying such things in the Lady Jane’s hearing.”
Chastened by the thought, we turned our talk to other, less contentious matters.
Later in the evening, I look in on Jane. She is wide-awake, and in her eyes I can detect both surprise and puzzlement.
“I’ve come to say good night,” I tell her. “Would you like a drink, Jane?”
She sits up in bed, still looking at me in that disturbing way, and again I wonder just how much she overheard this afternoon. Her next words confirm my worst fears.
“Why does the Queen smell, Nurse? And why did the King feel her all over? That’s horrid. If I were Queen, I should not allow it. Can the King send her away because she smells bad?”
I sit down beside her on the bed.
“You should not have been listening, child. But since you were, and you heard things that were not fit for a little girl’s ears, I shall do my best to explain. The King does not like the Queen, I hear. Perhaps she does smell. If so, it’s because she doesn’t wash very often. And it may be that the King will send her away, but it won’t be because she smells bad. He will have to find a good reason for it, and because he’s the King, he will.”
That seems to satisfy Jane. Fortunately, being so young a child, her mind is soon concentrated on something else. She asks me no more about the matter, and I congratulate myself on having deflected her more embarrassing questions.
“Now, Jane, we must never say anything bad about the King, whom God has sent to rule over us; it is wrong to do so, and we might be punished for it. You must promise that you will not repeat what you have heard today, to anyone. Will you do that?”
“I will,” she says solemnly. “I promise.”
“Then good night.” I tuck her in and kiss her. “God bless you.”
It is midsummer, and my lady is close to her time, when we hear that the King has had his marriage to Anne of Cleves annulled; and for her eager compliance—which I hear he found rather unflattering—she has been rewarded with fine palaces and a handsome annuity, as well as the dubious privilege of being able to call herself His Majesty’s dearest sister. Next thing we hear is that, within a month of the marriage being dissolved, our besotted monarch has married Katherine Howard, whose buxom charms he cannot refrain from caressing, even in public.
I try to explain what has happened to Jane, as we sit in the garden making daisy chains.
“You see, Poppet, the King’s marriage to the Lady Anne was not a proper marriage, and therefore the Archbishop of Canterbury has said they are free to part and can marry other people.” I omit, of course, to say what a proper marriage is and desist from making any reference to the Lady Anne’s personal hygiene and His Majesty interfering with her person. But Jane’s mind is keen.
“Couldn’t the Archbishop of Canterbury have made the Lady Anne wash?” she asks solemnly, which makes me rock with laughter. My, my. The things this little maid utters! She’s a sweet pip with the sharpness of the lemons that come to the kitchens from Spain, and she never ceases to amaze me.
Lady Dorset did not return to court to wait upon the new Queen because she was great with child. Instead, she has been bustling about the house, rearranging rooms here, or ordering new furnishings there, and driving us all to distraction with a constant stream of instructions.
“It’s the nesting instinct,” observes Mrs. Zouche. “She’ll be brought to bed shortly, you mark my words.”
Despite the upheaval in the house, I love this time
I looked at Mrs. Zouche. “I hope to God she didn’t hear all that.”
“Or that she doesn’t repeat it,” replied Mrs. Zouche. “My lady would kill me if she found out I’d been saying such things in the Lady Jane’s hearing.”
Chastened by the thought, we turned our talk to other, less contentious matters.
Later in the evening, I look in on Jane. She is wide-awake, and in her eyes I can detect both surprise and puzzlement.
“I’ve come to say good night,” I tell her. “Would you like a drink, Jane?”
She sits up in bed, still looking at me in that disturbing way, and again I wonder just how much she overheard this afternoon. Her next words confirm my worst fears.
“Why does the Queen smell, Nurse? And why did the King feel her all over? That’s horrid. If I were Queen, I should not allow it. Can the King send her away because she smells bad?”
I sit down beside her on the bed.
“You should not have been listening, child. But since you were, and you heard things that were not fit for a little girl’s ears, I shall do my best to explain. The King does not like the Queen, I hear. Perhaps she does smell. If so, it’s because she doesn’t wash very often. And it may be that the King will send her away, but it won’t be because she smells bad. He will have to find a good reason for it, and because he’s the King, he will.”
That seems to satisfy Jane. Fortunately, being so young a child, her mind is soon concentrated on something else. She asks me no more about the matter, and I congratulate myself on having deflected her more embarrassing questions.
“Now, Jane, we must never say anything bad about the King, whom God has sent to rule over us; it is wrong to do so, and we might be punished for it. You must promise that you will not repeat what you have heard today, to anyone. Will you do that?”
“I will,” she says solemnly. “I promise.”
“Then good night.” I tuck her in and kiss her. “God bless you.”
It is midsummer, and my lady is close to her time, when we hear that the King has had his marriage to Anne of Cleves annulled; and for her eager compliance—which I hear he found rather unflattering—she has been rewarded with fine palaces and a handsome annuity, as well as the dubious privilege of being able to call herself His Majesty’s dearest sister. Next thing we hear is that, within a month of the marriage being dissolved, our besotted monarch has married Katherine Howard, whose buxom charms he cannot refrain from caressing, even in public.
I try to explain what has happened to Jane, as we sit in the garden making daisy chains.
“You see, Poppet, the King’s marriage to the Lady Anne was not a proper marriage, and therefore the Archbishop of Canterbury has said they are free to part and can marry other people.” I omit, of course, to say what a proper marriage is and desist from making any reference to the Lady Anne’s personal hygiene and His Majesty interfering with her person. But Jane’s mind is keen.
“Couldn’t the Archbishop of Canterbury have made the Lady Anne wash?” she asks solemnly, which makes me rock with laughter. My, my. The things this little maid utters! She’s a sweet pip with the sharpness of the lemons that come to the kitchens from Spain, and she never ceases to amaze me.
Lady Dorset did not return to court to wait upon the new Queen because she was great with child. Instead, she has been bustling about the house, rearranging rooms here, or ordering new furnishings there, and driving us all to distraction with a constant stream of instructions.
“It’s the nesting instinct,” observes Mrs. Zouche. “She’ll be brought to bed shortly, you mark my words.”
Despite the upheaval in the house, I love this time
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