Free The Taming of the Queen by Philippa Gregory

silent prayer. ‘My husband, Herbert, says that God’s hand is over you,’ she says.
    ‘You must perfume my room,’ I decide. ‘Send to the apothecary for some dried herbs and perfume. Rose oil, lavender, strong perfumes. I can’t stand the smell. The one thing I cannot stand is the smell. I really can’t sleep with it. You’ve got to get this done. It’s the only thing I really can’t bear.’
    She nods. ‘Is it his leg?’
    ‘His leg and his wind,’ I say. ‘My bed smells of death and shit.’ She looks at me, as if I have surprised her. ‘Of death?’
    ‘Of the corruption of the body. Of a corrupting body. Of the plague. I dream of death,’ I say shortly.
    ‘Of course, the queen died here.’
    I cry out in horror, and as my ladies turn to look, I try to turn it into a cough. At once someone brings me a glass of small ale to sip. When they have stepped back I turn on Nan. ‘Which queen?’ I demand, thinking wildly of the child Katherine Howard. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    ‘Queen Jane, of course,’ she says.
    I knew that she died after giving birth to the prince, but I had not thought it was in these rooms, in my rooms. ‘Not here?’
    ‘Of course,’ she says simply. ‘In this bedroom.’ When she sees my aghast face she adds: ‘In this bed.’
    I shrink back, clutching my rosary. ‘In my bed? That bed? Where we slept last night?’
    ‘But, Kateryn, there’s no need to take on. It was over five years ago.’
    I shiver and find that I cannot stop. ‘Nan, I can’t do this. I can’t sleep in his dead wife’s bed.’
    ‘Dead wives,’ she corrects me. ‘Katherine Howard slept here. It was her bed too.’
    I don’t cry out this time. ‘I can’t bear it.’
    She takes hold of my shaking hands. ‘Be steady. It is God’s will,’ she says. ‘God’s calling. You have to do this, you can do this. I will help you and God will bear you up.’
    ‘I can’t sleep in the dead queen’s bed and mount her husband.’
    ‘You have to. God will help you. I pray to Him, I pray every day
God help and guide my sister
.’
    I nod convulsively: ‘Amen, amen. God keep me, amen.’
    It is time for me to be dressed. I turn to let them take the night robe from my shoulders and wash me with the scented oils and pat me dry, and then I step into my beautifully embroidered linen shift. I stand like a doll while they tie the ribbons at my throat and at my shoulders. The ladies-in-waiting bring gowns and a choice of sleeves and hoods, and hold them before me in attentive silence. I choose a gown in dark green, sleeves of black and a hood of black.
    ‘Very modest,’ my sister remarks critically. ‘You’re out of black now. You’re a bride, not a widow. You should wear gowns of brighter colours. We’ll order some for you to choose.’
    I love fine clothes, she knows that.
    ‘And shoes,’ she says temptingly. ‘We’ll have the cobblers come to you. You can have all the shoes you want now.’ She sees my face and she laughs. ‘Now, you have much to do. You’ll have to arrange your household. I have half of England wanting to send their daughters to serve you. I’ve got a list of names. We can go through them after Mass.’
    One of my ladies steps forward. ‘If you will forgive me, I have a favour to ask. If I may.’
    ‘We’ll look at all the requests together, after chapel,’ my sister rules.
    I step into the gown and stand still while they tie the skirt, the bodice, and then hold the sleeves in place and thread the laces through the holes.
    ‘I’ll send for our brother, William,’ I say quietly to Nan. ‘I’ll want him here. And our uncle Parr.’
    ‘Apparently we have family we never knew before. From all over England. Everyone wants to claim kinship to the new Queen of England.’
    ‘I don’t have to give them all places, do I?’ I ask.
    ‘You’ll need people who depend on you around you,’ she says. ‘Of course you would reward your own family. And I assume you’ll send for