Innocent Traitor by Alison Weir Page B

and is approaching fluency in most of these, as well as devouring many classical authors.
    I was ready to lavish sympathy on Elizabeth, remembering the terrible circumstances in which she had lost her mother, but she is not a child for cuddling or cosseting, and if she has any insecurities or fears, she hides them under a self-confident, proud exterior. Yet although she is not the most demonstrative of children, I know she has grown quite fond of me.
    “I hope, madam, that unlike my other stepmothers, you are here to stay,” she announced in her imperious way the other day, as I came upon her at her desk and watched her bent over her books, her quill flying over a sheet of paper. And so, I prayed inwardly, do I. I know that I am embarked upon a perilous sea.
    With Prince Edward, who is nearly six, the King has been rather more cautious. The poor child is kept isolated in his spotlessly clean residences, guarded by an army of servants. In my opinion, Henry is being a little overprotective of his son, whose every waking moment is subject to a rigorous routine. I ask as often as I dare if Edward might come to court, but…
    “Kate,” Henry tells me, holding up my hands to his lips and kissing them, “I should prefer it if the boy did not come here because of the risk of his catching some infectious disease. He may visit occasionally, but it is my pleasure that he live in the country. Now, if I had other sons…”
    He regards me archly. There is a great unspoken disappointment between us. I do appreciate that the Prince’s life is especially precious since in him alone lies England’s future security and the continuance of the Tudor dynasty. But if only Henry and I could have a son, how different Edward’s life would be. And mine. I should not then have to live with the fear that my own position can never be secure.
    I would dearly love a child, of either sex, but my womb has never yet quickened with a man’s seed. I am thirty-one, still at an age for bearing children, but I often wonder if I am barren. It is hard to tell, for my first husband, the ancient Lord Borough, took me to wife when I was just fourteen and was kind to me, but our marriage was never consummated because he did not have the vigor. Lord Latimer was equally kind, but he too was no longer young, and sexual congress between us was infrequent. God must have chosen me to comfort the elderly and give them solace in their infirmity!
    Now, for my sins, and not through choice—although I’ve come to think I’ve not done too badly after all, for there are many benefits to being Queen, not least the manors and estates that the King has bestowed on me and, most important of all, the opportunity to do some good and make a difference to people—I am the wife of another aging man, who, although he too is an indulgent and considerate husband, is rarely capable of the act of love. I lie there patiently, legs spread, letting him do what he will with me, as is my duty, and trying not to notice his pathetic flabby rolls of flesh, wasted muscles, and putrid leg. (It’s my wifely task to dress that leg, and I do it with good grace and as much gentleness as I can muster, trying not to gag at the awful stench of rotting flesh emanating from the ulcerated, suppurating wound. Fortunately, I hide my revulsion well; poor old soul, it’s not his fault he has this vile malady, and he is so grateful for my ministrations.)
    All too often, however, as we lie in the vast bed with the arms of England embroidered on tester, pillows, and counterpane, along with the initials H and K, our coming together ends in failure. Henry heaves his great bulk on top of me, so that I can hardly breathe, and presses his member against me, but it is usually only half-aroused, and it is often as much as he can do to accomplish an entry. Then he thrusts desperately, grunting and puffing, before desire withers and he withdraws from the fray, disappointed and ashamed. It is, I realize, utterly