{"product_id":"the-fifth-queen-isbn-9780307744913","title":"The Fifth Queen","description":"Ford Madox Ford’s novel about the doomed Katharine Howard, fifth queen of Henry VIII, is a neglected masterpiece.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat Howard—intelligent, beautiful, naively outspoken, and passionately idealistic—catches the eye of Henry VIII and improbably becomes his fifth wife. A teenager who has grown up far from court, she is wholly unused to the corruption and intrigue that now surround her. It is a time of great upheaval, as unscrupulous courtiers maneuver for power while religious fanatics—both Protestant and Catholic—fight bitterly for their competing beliefs. Soon Katharine is drawn into a perilous showdown with Thomas Cromwell, the much-feared Lord Privy Seal, as her growing influence over the King begins to threaten too many powerful interests. Originally published in three parts (\u003ci\u003eThe Fifth Queen, Privy Seal, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Fifth Queen Crowned\u003c\/i\u003e), Ford’s novel serves up both a breathtakingly visual evocation of the Tudor world and a timeless portrayal of the insidious operations of power and fear in any era.“Ford’s last \u003ci\u003eFifth Queen\u003c\/i\u003e novel is amazing. The whole cycle is a noble conception.” —\u003cbr\u003eJoseph Conrad\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The best historical romance of this century.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Times Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e (London) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Fifth Queen \u003c\/i\u003eis a magnificent bravura piece.” —Graham Greene\u003cp\u003eFord Madox Ford was born Ford Hermann Hueffer in England in 1873. In 1919 he changed his name to Ford Madox Ford in honour of his grandfather, the Pre-Raphaelite painter Ford Madox Brown, whose biography he had written. Ford was well-known for both his fiction and his criticism. He founded two influential journals, \u003ci\u003eThe English Review\u003c\/i\u003e in 1908 and \u003ci\u003eThe Transatlantic Review\u003c\/i\u003e in 1924, in which he championed many of the leading modernist writers of the day. His most famous novels include the tetralogy \u003ci\u003eParade’s End \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Good Soldier, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich are still ranked among the greatest literary works of the twentieth century. Ford died in 1939, at age sixty-five, in France.\u003c\/p\u003e9780307744913|excerpt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford \/ THE FIFTH QUEEN\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e part one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Coming\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e i\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Magister Nicholas Udal, the Lady Mary’s pedagogue, was very      hungry and very cold. He stood undecided in the mud of a lane in      the Austin Friars. The quickset hedges on either side were only      waist high and did not shelter him. The little houses all round      him of white daub with grey corner beams had been part of the old      friars’ stables and offices. All that neighbourhood was a maze of      dwellings and gardens, with the hedges dry, the orchard trees bare      with frost, the arbours wintry and deserted. This congregation of      small cottages was like a patch of common that squatters had      taken; the great house of the Lord Privy Seal, who had pulled down      the monastery to        make room for it, was a central mass. Its gilded vanes were in the      shape of men at arms, and tore the ragged clouds with the banners      on their lances. Nicholas Udal looked at the roof and cursed the      porter of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘He could have given me a cup of hypocras,’ he said, and muttered,      as a man to whom Latin is more familiar than the vulgar tongue, a      hexameter about ‘pocula plena.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had reached London before nine in one of the King’s barges that      came from Greenwich to take musicians back that night at four. He      had breakfasted with the Lady Mary’s women at six off warm small      beer and fresh meat, but it was eleven already, and he had spent      all his money upon good letters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He muttered: ‘Pauper sum, pateor, fateor, quod Di dant fero,’ but      it did not warm him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The magister had been put in the Lady Mary’s household by the Lord      Privy Seal, and he had a piece of news as to the Lady’s means of      treasonable correspondence with the Emperor her uncle. He had      imagined that the news—­which would hurt no one because it was      imaginary—­might be worth some crowns to him. But the Lord Privy      Seal and all his secretaries had gone to Greenwich before it was      light, and there was nothing there for the magister.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You might have known as much, a learned man,’ the porter had      snarled at him. ‘Isn’t the new Queen at Rochester? Would our lord      bide here? Didn’t your magistership pass his barge on the river?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Nay, it was still dark,’ the magister answered. The porter      sniffed and slammed to the grating in the wicket. Being of the Old      Faith he hated those Lutherans—­or those men of the New      Learning—­that it pleased his master to employ.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Udal hesitated before the closed door; he hesitated in the lane      beyond the corner of the house. Perhaps there would be no barges      at the steps—­no King’s barges. The men of the Earl Marshal’s      service, being Papists, would pelt him with mud if he asked for a      passage; even the Protestant lords’ men would jeer at him if he      had no pence for them—­and he had none. He would do best to wait      for the musicians’ barge at four.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then he must eat and shelter—­and find a wench. He stood in the      mud: long, thin, brown in his doctor’s gown of fur, with his black      flapped cap that buttoned well under his chin and let out his      brown, lean, shaven and humorous face like a woodpecker’s peering      out of a hole in a tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The volumes beneath his arms were heavy: they poked out his gown      on each side, and the bitter cold pinched his finger ends as if      they had been caught in a door. The weight of        the books pleased him for there was much good letters there—­       a book of Tully’s epistles for himself and two volumes of        Plautus’ comedies for the Lady Mary. But what among his day’s      purchases pleased him most was a medallion in silver he had bought      in Cheapside. It showed on the one side Cupid in his sleep and on      the other Venus fondling a peacock. It was a heart-­compelling      gift to any wench or lady of degree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He puckered up his deprecatory and comical lips as he imagined      that that medal would purchase him the right to sigh dolorously in      front of whatever stomacher it finally adorned. He could pour out      odes in the learned tongue, for the space of a week, a day, or an      afternoon according to the rank, the kindness or the patience of      the recipient.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something invisible and harsh touched his cheek. It might have      been snow or hail. He turned his thin cunning face to the clouds,      and they threatened a downpour. They raced along, like scarves of      vapour, so low that you might have thought of touching them if you      stood on tiptoe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If he went to Westminster Hall to find Judge Combers, he would get      his belly well filled, but his back wet to the bone. At the corner      of the next hedge was the wicket gate of old Master Grocer Badge.      There the magister would find at least a piece of bread, some salt      and warmed mead. Judge Combers’ wife was easy and bounteous: but      old John Badge’s daughter was a fair and dainty morsel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He licked his full lips, leered to one side, muttered, ‘A curse on      all lords’ porters,’ and made for John Badge’s wicket. Badge’s      dwelling had been part of the monastery’s curing house. It had      some good rooms and two low storeys—­but the tall garden wall of      the Lord Privy Seal had been built against its side windows. It      had been done without word or warning. Suddenly workmen had pulled      down old Badge’s pigeon house, set it up twenty yards further in,      marked out a line and set up this high wall that pressed so hard      against the house end that there was barely room for a man to      squeeze between. The wall ran for half a mile, and had swallowed      the ground of twenty small householders. But never a word of      complaint had reached the ears of the Privy Seal other than      through his spies. It was, however, old Badge’s ceaseless grief.      He had talked of it without interlude for two years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e †††\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Badges’ room—­their houseplace—­was fair sized, but so low      ceiled that it appeared long, dark and mysterious in the winter      light. There was a tall press of dark wood with a face minutely      carved and fretted to represent the portal of Amiens Cathedral,      and a long black table, littered with large sheets of printed      matter in heavy black type, that diffused into the cold room a      faint smell of ink. The old man sat quavering in the ingle. The      light of the low fire glimmered on his silver hair, on his black      square cap two generations old; and, in his old eyes that had seen      three generations of changes, it twinkled starrily as if they were      spinning round. In the cock forward of his shaven chin, and the      settling down of his head into his shoulders, there was a      suggestion of sinister and sardonic malice. He was muttering at      his son:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘A stiff neck that knows no bending, God shall break one day.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His son, square, dark, with his sleeves rolled up showing immense      muscles developed at the levers of his presses, bent his black      beard and frowned his heavy brows above his printings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Doubtless God shall break His engine when its work is done,’ he      muttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You call Privy Seal God’s engine?’ the old man quavered      ironically. ‘Thomas Cromwell is a brewer’s drunken son. I know      them that have seen him in the stocks at Putney not thirty years      ago.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The printer set two proofs side by side on the table and      frowningly compared them, shaking his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘He is the flail of the monks,’ he said abstractedly. ‘They would      have burned me and thousands more but for him.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Aye, and he has put up a fine wall where my arbour stood.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The printer took a chalk from behind his ear and made a score down      his page.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘A wall,’ he muttered; ‘my Lord Privy Seal hath set up a wall      against priestcraft all round these kingdoms——­’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Therefore you would have him welcome to forty feet of my garden?’      the old man drawled. ‘He pulls down other folks’ crucifixes and      sets up his own walls with other folks’ blood for mortar.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The printer said darkly:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Papists’ blood.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The old man pulled his nose and glanced down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘We were all Papists in my day. I have made the pilgrimage to      Compostella, for all you mock me now.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He turned his head to see Magister Udal entering the door      furtively and with eyes that leered round the room. Both the      Badges fell into sudden, and as if guilty, silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Domus parva, quies magna,’ the magister tittered, and swept      across the rushes in his furs to rub his hands before the fire.      ‘When shall I teach your Margot the learned tongues?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘When the sun sets in the East,’ the printer muttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Udal sent to him over his shoulder, as words of consolation:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘The new Queen is come to Rochester.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The printer heaved an immense sigh:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘God be praised!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Udal snickered, still over his shoulder:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You see, neither have the men of the Old Faith put venom in her      food, nor have the Emperor’s galleys taken her between Calais and      Sandwich.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Yet she comes ten days late.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Oh moody and suspicious artificer. Afflavit deus! The wind hath      blown dead against Calais shore this ten days.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The old man pulled his long white nose:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘In my day we could pray to St Leonard for a fair wind.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was too old to care whether the magister reported his words to      Thomas Cromwell, the terrible Lord Privy Seal, and too sardonic to      keep silence for long about the inferiority of his present day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘When shall I teach the fair Margot the learned tongue?’ Udal      asked again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘When wolves teach conies how to play on pipes,’ the master      printer snarled from his chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘The Lord Privy Seal never stood higher,’ Udal said. ‘The match      with the Cleves Lady hath gained him great honour.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘God cement it!’ the printer said fervently.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The old man pulled at his nose and gazed at nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘I am tired with this chatter of the woman from Cleves,’        he croaked, like a malevolent raven. ‘An Anne she is, and a      Lutheran. I mind we had an Anne and a Lutheran for Queen before.      She played the whore and lost her head.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Where’s your niece Margot?’ Udal asked the printer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You owe me nine crowns,’ the old man said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘I will give your Margot ten crowns’ worth of lessons in Latin.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Hold and enough,’ the printer muttered heavily. ‘Tags from Seneca      in a wench’s mouth are rose garlands on a cow’s horns.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘The best ladies in the land learn of me,’ Udal answered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Aye, but my niece shall keep her virtue intact.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You defame the Lady Mary of England,’ Udal snickered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The old man said vigorously, ‘God save her highness, and send us      her for Queen. Have you begged her to get me redress in the matter      of that wall?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Why, Providence was kind to her when it sent her me for her      master,’ Udal said. ‘I never had apter pupil saving only one.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Shall Thomas Cromwell redress?’ the old man asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘If good learning can make a good queen, trust me to render her      one,’ Udal avoided the question. ‘But alas! being declared      bastard—­for very excellent reasons—­she may not——­’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘You owe me nine crowns,’ old Badge threatened him. He picked      irritably at the fur on his gown and gazed at the carved leg of      the table. ‘If you will not induce Privy Seal to pull down his      wall I will set the tipstaves on you.’With an Introduction by A.S. 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