Daughter of Time

August 1540

Hampton Court

Great swathes of silks and satins rustle like an echo in the Queen's chamber, all fashioned in the French style, that would make any stranger think they had landed on French shores, rather than the English court.

My cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas, has been appointed one of her chief attendants and confides in her letters that the King has never had a wife who made him spend such lavish amounts; even her ladies are dressed extravagantly and as I enter her presence chamber, I can see that this was no exaggeration. Margaret privately calls her "the girl Queen." A girl she is indeed. She is at least five years younger than I am.

Little Kathryn, for her part, is dressed in a gown of purple silk and gold lace parchment, dripping in jewels. Her gown looks very fine, and it does make her look older than her fifteen years. However, the excessive display of jewels looks vulgar and distasteful. As if she has been handed them and could not decide which would make her look more regal, and in her indecisiveness, has chosen to wear them all.

I take a deep breath and force myself to sweep a curtsey to this ridiculous girl, who now occupies the place that once belonged to my mother.

She studies me momentarily as if she unsure of whether to greet me.

With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she flings herself up from her chair, the diamonds around her neck, rattle at her rapid movement.

"Lady Mary," She kisses me firmly on both cheeks. "I welcome you to court, on behalf of myself and my husband the King, your father. And I embrace you as my daughter."

She has obviously been coached in this ludicrous speech. The idea of having to call this girl mother would be laughable if it was not so insulting when I had the honour of being the daughter to the greatest and bravest Queen this country has ever seen.

"Thank you, madam," I reply, but I know my words are stiff and awkward and she senses this. She does not look offended or even hurt, just simply displeased. Her mouth purses into a little pout. She gives me one last look before she returns to her chair. "Please, sit down," she says evenly. Her heavily ringed fingers gesture to the bench beside her dais.

I know, try as I might that I will not love Queen Kathryn as I did Queen Jane. Even if I could look beyond her complete unsuitability for the role of Queen of England I cannot ignore or forget the grasping family from she comes.
Just as they slinked away after that woman was executed, they have returned to capitalise on the rise of their latest protege. Everywhere I turn at court I see one or other of them. With their dark hair and dark eyes, there is no mistaking their lineage.
Even the Architecture of the king's palace reflects the changes taking place. The badges and emblems that once bore the Insignia of the Duchess of Cleves have been replaced with those of the new queen. Even the emblems of the late Queen Jane have been painted over. Gone are the emblems of phoenixes and golden escarbuncles. No in their place is her emblem, the tudor rose on its stem, without its thorns.

It is this influence that makes me fearful for my position. Queen Kathryn exerts a great influence over the King, yet it is with the voice of the Duke of Norfolk that she speaks. I can recall only too well the violent nature of the Duke and his ungodly ambitions. What's more his influence is absolute. For just as the king has discarded his marriage to the Duchess of Cleves so to has he discarded the man who brought her to him. His longtime creature Thomas Cromwell went to the block on the day of the wedding accused of high treason.
I know that I should be glad that heretic of such a prominent position is no longer able to poison the Kings mind with heresy. Loathesome as he was, Secretary Cromwell kept the Duke of Norfolk under semblance of control.
Now with free reign to the king and controlling the young girl Queen, I fear dangerous times once more will come to England.
Queen Kathryn is pleasant enough when she speaks to me, which these days is often. I am invited almost daily to her rooms, which as custom dictates, cannot be refused without a reasonable excuse. Therefore, I sit, wasting my days, in complete idleness in the confines of her rooms.
She does nothing productive, she does not order sewing to be done for the poor, arrange for alms to be distributed. She does not hawk, or hunt, nor patronise any artists or musicians. The musicians that play in her rooms are the Kings own.
She joins the King at Mass whenever he attends, but she does not choose to go at any other time, and I suspect that she hardly attends Matins. Her religious devotions are as scant as her decorum.
She likes to host dancing parties in her chambers with her ladies, who have developed the habit of throwing her chamber doors open, and selecting their gentlemen favourites and inviting them in. She does not conform to the same formalities that my mother and Queen Jane did.
She is too girlish to handle the role she has been called to. She does not seem to understand that to be a Queen is to be graceful, serene and formal.
She has dressmakers in her company constantly, and when they ask whether I am to be fitted for a gown also, she will answer, "Of course, my daughter will be fitted." She insists on referring to me as her "daughter," to anyone who will listen.
I try to refrain myself from screaming at her that she is not my mother, nor is she fitting replacement for her in my heart, nor at court.

"Lady Mary," The child Queen calls to me. "Come and dance with us."

Not another dance. She has been dancing these past two hours. Five times I have interrupted my sewing to join in the dances, but even my love is dancing is being tested by the copious amounts the happen in the Queen's chambers.

"Forgive me, madam, if I do not. Afternoon prayers will be beginning shortly, and I do not wish to be late."

"If you are late, you can run quickly, you will not miss much," She protests. "Truly this is the most wonderful piece."

"I have never been late for afternoon prayers in my life, madam," I exclaim, indignant at such a suggestion. "With your permission, I will take my leave now."

"Go then," she snaps and turns from me. All too soon, she is eloped in a whirl of colour, costly fabrics, and the noise of her shoes, tapping on the floor begins once again.

For once, I am happy to leave behind the sound of music and dancing. I think I have more than I can tolerate today.