So Charles is safe away in France, waiting for the king to die. In some ways his life is better than ours. He is exiled from his home and his family but he is free; we are here, but scarcely dare to breathe. Lady Margaret is back in her old prison of Syon Abbey. She cried very bitterly when she knew the king was imprisoning her again. She says she has three rooms to walk in, and a corner view of the river. She says she is only twenty-one and the days are dreary for her. She says the days pass very slowly and the nights go on forever. She says all she wants is to be allowed to love a good man, to marry him, and to be happy.

We all know that the king will never allow this. Happiness has become the scarcest commodity of all in the kingdom this winter. No-one shall be happy but him.

KATHERINE, HAMPTON COURT,

CHRISTMAS 1540

Now, let me see, what do I have now?

I have the Seymour inheritance, yes, all of it. All the castles, lordships and manors that were given to Jane Seymour are now given to me. Imagine how furious the Seymours are? One moment the greatest landholders in England; next, up jump I; and all of Jane’s lands are mine.

I have most of the lands that belonged to Thomas Cromwell, now executed for treason, which is good riddance to bad rubbish, my uncle tells me. My uncle tells me that although he was a commoner, Thomas Cromwell kept his lands in very good heart and I can expect a handsome revenue from them. Me! A handsome revenue! As though I ever knew what a plough was for! I even have tenants, think of that!

I am to have the lands from Lord Hungerford who was condemned to death for witchcraft and buggery, and the lands of Lord Hugh, the Abbot of Reading. As usual with the king, it is not very pleasant to have lands that were owned by people now dead, and some of them dead to oblige me. But as Lady Rochford pointed out, and I do remember (though some people say that nothing stays in my head for longer than a moment), everything comes from dead people and there is no point in being too squeamish.

This is no doubt true, and yet I cannot help but think that she, for one, seems to inherit the goods of dead men with good cheer. She relishes her Boleyn inheritance of a title and wishes she had the house to go with it. I am sure if I were a widow I would be much more sad and reflective than she is; but she hardly mentions her husband at all. Not once. If ever I say to her, ‘Is it not odd being in my rooms that were your sister-in-law’s?’ she looks at me almost sternly and says, ‘Hush’. Now, is it likely that I would chatter all over the court that I am the second Howard girl to wear the crown? Of course not. But I would have thought that a widow would welcome a little thoughtful reflection on those she had lost. Especially if it is done sensitively, as I do it.