We are all giddy with nerves. They laugh as they go out, and I giggle, too. Then I turn back to Thomas and know the seriousness of what we are about to do.
“And are you sure?” I ask him in reply. “For the queen has quarreled with all her other heirs. Of all her kin I am the only one left at court. She might embrace us as family, or hate us. She might be glad that I have lost my great name; or she might hate me for my happiness. I cannot predict her.”
“I am sure,” he says. “Whatever comes. I am sure that I want to marry you.”
“Then let us begin,” says the priest. He starts the words of the marriage service that I thought I would never hear read for me. He holds out his prayer book to Thomas, who places a golden wedding ring on it, small enough for my finger, and Thomas and I promise to love each other and be faithful husband and wife till death parts us.
Of course, I think of my sister. She did not ask me to witness her wedding; she was protecting me just as I am protecting my kinswomen by leaving them outside the door. But I have read all the evidence from the trial of her marriage, and from the inquiry into her husband, and I know of Ned’s room with the wines and the food laid out, and Janey Seymour as their only witness, and how when the priest left them they went to bed together and fell asleep and had to jump up and dress each other and she had to run back to court. I know how much she loved him, and that nothing would have stopped her from marrying him. I know what it has cost her, and I know that I am choosing as she did—to marry a man for love, to live life to the full, and to take whatever comes from the malice of Elizabeth. Because I won’t learn to die, nor live my life as if it were half a life. I want to be a wife and perhaps a mother. I want Thomas as my husband more than I want to survive in this arid twilight court. I am twenty years old. I am ready for life. I want love, I want a real life, I want a husband.
We eat dinner together, Thomas’s family and mine. Thomas proudly presents his son from his first marriage, and I greet him as his new mother. Thomas introduces his brother and his best friend, who insisted on being a witness, and an old friend of his in service to the Bishop of Gloucester. They are a little in awe of me and my grand cousins, but crowded together in a small room, sharing a secret celebration, a feast with wine, any shyness melts away, and Thomas is so steady and warm and respectful that nobody can feel awkward. Very soon we are talking animatedly and laughing and saying, “Shh, shh,” though the court is far away, celebrating a grander wedding, though, I daresay, not one with more love.
His best friend says to me: “I have not seen him so happy ever. I never thought he would be happy again after the death of his first wife. I am so glad for him. Truly, you have blessed him.”
His son says to me: “I am so glad, we are all so glad that Father is happy again.”
Thomas says to me: “You are my own.”
Conscious of the time, and the possible return of the queen, they don’t stay after they have dined and drunk our health. Thomas sees them out of his gate, and his men are surprised that he is not keeping the gate until the queen returns. “Not tonight,” he says quietly, and no one questions him.
As he sees his guests through the front gate, and my kinswomen back to their rooms, I lock the door and undress. I don’t know whether to leave my smock on or off. I have brought a nightgown for this very night, which is rather fine, but I don’t know whether to sit in it before the fire or get into bed naked. I laugh at myself, worrying about such a thing, when I have married the man I love without the permission of a famously jealous queen, and I have far more to worry about than this; but still, I am a bride on my wedding night. It is natural for me to fret about these details. I want to please him, I want him to take a breath when he sees me, in embroidered silk at his fireside or half-naked in his bed. I want us to take joy in each other.
I am half in, half out of bed when he tries the door, and so I have to throw on my beautiful cherry-red silk nightgown, and hurry to open it, so when he comes in I am neither wanton in bed nor regal at the fireside, but blushing and flurried and unprepared.
He is carrying a tray of wine and some little cakes.
“Not more food!” I say.
“I am no small man,” he says with a smile. “I need to keep up my strength.”
“I like you just as you are,” I say. “God knows, I would think you would be enough for me as you are. I don’t mind you weak with hunger.”
“Try this,” he begs me, and it is the sweetest almond pastry from the queen’s own kitchen, whisked up for us as a favor by one of her own subtlety cooks.
“It’s delicious,” I say with my mouth full. “But does the cook know the occasion?”
“I said that I was dining with the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” Thomas said. “He offered himself to make her a little pastry.”
I sip the wine. Thomas looks at me.
“Shall I get into bed and you come to me?” he asks gently. “It shall be just as you command.”
I realize that I have been anxious. I realize that I have been nerving myself to be brave. I realize that I have been frightening myself about nothing, that here is a man who loves me truly. That here am I, who love him. Whatever comes of this wedding and bedding, we will meet it together, with true love.
“I am coming,” I say, and I untie the sash at the waist of my nightgown and drop it, fearlessly, to the floor. I see his eyes take in my rounded breasts, my tiny waist, the slight turn of my spine that forces one shoulder before another. Apart from that little twist, I am flawless, a beauty in miniature. I shake my head and my hair falls forward, hiding my blushing face, smelling of roses.
“Come at once,” he replies, and he strips off his breeches, pulls off his shirt, and holds out his hands to me. He lifts me, naked as I am, into the high broad bed. He comes after me, rolls towards me like a felled tree, takes me in his arms and holds me against his great chest. “My darling,” he says tenderly. “My love.”
I don’t stay all night with my husband. I am back in my own rooms by the time the court comes home and my ladies undress me and put me to bed without realizing that I only joined the court as they returned. Frances the maid takes my shoes without a flicker of expression. I think I will lie awake, sleepless from joy, but as soon as my head is on the pillow I fall asleep and I don’t wake until the girl comes into the room with the logs to make up the fire.
It is my morning to wait upon Elizabeth, and so I get washed and dressed and hurry to the royal rooms, and only when I am halfway there do I catch myself up and think: He loves me. He held me last night like a man drowned in the deepest of loves. He has married me. He loves me. I am his wife.
It is like a song that goes on and on in my mind all day. As Elizabeth sees ambassadors, rides out with Robert Dudley, comes back hungry for her breakfast, flirts with the Spanish ambassador in the hopes of persuading him that she has serious thoughts of marriage, and then wins money at cards before leading the court in to dinner, all day, I think only: he loves me. He held me last night like a man in the deepest of loves. He has married me. He loves me. I am his wife.
When the court has finished dinner and they are clearing the hall for dancing and a troop of tumblers, I go down to the front gate and there is Thomas, tall as a tree, admitting the citizens of London who have come to see the dancing.
“Good day, Lady Mary,” he says to me aloud. “Good day, Mrs. Keyes,” he says to me quietly.
“Good day, husband,” I say, smiling up at him. “I have come to see if I should come to your room secretly, when the court is asleep.”
“I should think so,” he says, pretending to take offense. “Indeed, I expect you. I expect very obedient behavior from my wife.”