The Boleyn Inheritance

by Philippa Gregory

  Katherine, Hampton Court,

  April 1541

  It is springtime. I have never noticed a season so much in my life before; but this year the sun is so bright and the birdsong so loud that I wake at dawn and I lie awake with every inch of my skin like silk, and my lips moist, and my heart thudding with desire. I want to laugh without cause; I want to give my ladies little gifts to make them happy. I want to dance, I want to run down the long allées of the garden and twirl around at the bottom and fall on the grass and smell the pale scent of the primroses. I want to ride all day and dance all night and gamble the king’s fortune away. I have an enormous appetite; I taste all the dishes that come to the royal table and then I send the best, the very best, to one table or another – but never, never to his.

  I have a secret; it is a secret so great that some days I think I can hardly breathe for the way it burns on my tongue, hot for telling. Some days it is like a tickle that makes me want to laugh. Every day, every night and day, it is like the warm, insistent pulse of lust.

  One person knows it, only one. He looks at me during Mass when I peer over the balcony of the queen’s box and see him down below. Slowly, slowly his head turns as if he can feel my gaze on him; he looks up, he gives me that smile, the one that starts at his blue eyes and then moves to his kissable mouth, and then he gives me the cheekiest, quickest flash of a wink. Because he knows the secret.

  When we are riding, his horse comes alongside mine in the hunt and his bare hand brushes my glove, and it is as if I am scalded by his touch. I dare not even look at him then, he does no more than this, the gentlest touch, just to tell me that he knows the secret; he knows the secret, too.

  And when we are dancing and the steps bring us together and we are handclasped and we should, according to the rules of the dance, lock gazes as we go round, then we drop our eyes, or look away, or seem quite indifferent. Because we dare not be too close; I dare not have my face near his; I dare not look at his eyes, his warm mouth, the temptation of his smile.

  When he kisses my hand to leave my rooms, he does not touch my fingers with his lips; he breathes on them. It is the most extraordinary sensation, the most overwhelming feeling. All I can feel is the warmth of his breath. In his gentle grasp he must feel my fingers stir like a sweet meadow beneath a breeze, under that slightest touch.

  And what is this secret that wakes me at dawn and keeps me quivering like a hare until darkness when my fingers tremble at the warmth of his breath? It is such a secret that I never even name it to myself. It is a secret. It is a secret. I hug it to myself in the darkness of the night when King Henry is at last asleep and I can find a little patch of the bed that is not heated by his bulk nor stinking of his wound, then I form the words in my head but I do not even whisper them to myself: I have a secret.

  I pull my pillow down toward me, and I stroke back a lock of hair from my face. I smooth my cheek against the pillow and am ready for sleep. I close my eyes: I have a secret.

  Anne, Richmond Palace,

  May 1541

  My ambassador, Dr. Harst, brings me the most shocking, the most pitiful news that I think I shall ever hear. As he told me I started to shake at the very words. How could the king do such a thing? How could any man do such a thing? The king has executed Margaret Pole, the Countess of Salisbury. The king has ordered the death of an innocent, nearly seventy-year-old woman, for no reason in the world. Or at the very least, if he has a reason, it is the one that governs so many of his actions: nothing but his own insane spite.

  Good God, he is becoming a terrifying man. In my little court here at Richmond I hug my cloak around me and tell my ladies that they need not come, that the ambassador and I are going to walk in the garden. I want to make sure that no one can see the fear in my face. Now I know for sure how lucky I have been to escape so lightly, to escape so well. Thank God in his mercy that I was spared. There was every reason to fear the king as a murderous madman. They all warned me, and although I was afraid, I did not know how vicious he could be. This wickedness, this mad malice against a woman old enough to be his own mother, the ward of his grandmother, the dearest friend of his wife, the godmother of his own daughter, a saintly woman, innocent of any crime – this proves to me once and for all that he is a most dangerous man.

  That he should have a woman of nearly seventy years old dragged from her bed and beheaded – and for no reason! No reason at all except to break the heart of her son, her family, and those who love them. This king is a monster; for all that he smiles so sweetly on his little bride, for all that he is now so kind and generous to me, let me remember this: Henry of England is a monster and a tyrant, and no one is safe in his realm. There can be no safety in the country when there is a man like this on the throne. He must be mad to behave so. That can be the only answer. He must be mad, and I am living in a country ruled by a mad king and dependent on his favor for my safety.

  Dr. Harst lengthens his pace to keep up with me; I am striding along as if I could get away from this kingdom on foot. “You are distressed,” he says.

  “Who would not be?” I glance around. We are speaking in German and cannot be understood, and my page boy has fallen behind us. “Why should the king have Lady Pole executed now? He has held her in the Tower for years. She could hardly be plotting against him! She has seen no one but her jailers for years, he has already killed half her family and taken the rest into the Tower.”

  “He does not think she was plotting,” he says quietly. “But this new uprising in the North is to restore the old religion; they are calling for the Pole family to be kings again. The family are faithful Papists and much loved. They come from the North; they are the royal family of York, the Plantagenets. They are of the old faith. The king will not tolerate any rival. Even an innocent rival.”

  I shudder. “Then why does he not take a mission against the North?” I demand. “He could lead an army to defeat the rebels. Why behead an old lady in London for their rebellion?”

  “They say that he has hated her since she took Queen Katherine of Aragon’s side against him,” he says quietly. “When he was a young man, he admired her and respected her, and she was the last Plantagenet princess, more royal than he is himself. But when he put the queen aside, Lady Pole took her side and declared for her.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “He does not forget an enemy.”

  “Why not fight the rebels as he did before?”

  He lowers his voice. “They say he is afraid. Just as he was afraid before. He never fought them; he sent the duke, Thomas Howard, before. He will not go himself.”

  I stride out, and the ambassador keeps pace with me; my page boy falls behind even more. “I shall never be really safe,” I say, almost to myself. “Not while he lives.”

  He nods. “You cannot trust his word,” he says shortly. “And if you offend him, he never forgets it.”

  “Do you think all this” – my gesture takes in the beautiful park, the river, the wonderful palace – “all this is just a sop? Something to keep me quiet, to keep my brother quiet, while the king makes his son on Katherine? And when she gives birth, and he crowns her queen, and he knows the deed is done, then he arrests me for treason or heresy or whatever offense he chooses to invent, and murders me, too?”

  The ambassador goes gray with fear at my suggestion. “God knows, I pray not. But we cannot know for sure,” he says. “At the time I thought he wanted a lasting settlement, and a lasting friendship with you. But we cannot know. With this king one can know nothing. Indeed, he could have intended friendship then, and he could change tomorrow. That is what they all say about him. That he is fearful and changeable; they never know who he will see as his enemy. We cannot trust him.”

  “He is a nightmare!” I burst out. “He will do anything he wishes; he can do anything he wishes. He is a danger. He is a terror.”

  The sober ambassador does not correct me for exaggeration. Chillingly he nods. “He is a terror,” he agrees. “This
man is the terror of his people. Thank God you are away from him. God help his young wife.”

  Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,

  June 1541

  The king, though he looks older and drawn, is at least returned to court and lives like a king instead of a sickly patient once more. His temper is a curse to his servants, and his rages can shake the court. The poison in his leg and in his bowels spills over into his nature. His Privy Council tiptoe in fear of offending him; in the morning he will say one thing, and in the evening be a passionate advocate of the opposite course. He acts as if he cannot remember the morning, and nobody dares to remind him. Whoever disagrees with him is disloyal, and the accusation of treason hangs in the air like the stink from his wound. This is a court of habitual turncoats, but I have never before seen men fling away their opinions with such speed. The king contradicts himself every day, and they fall into agreement with him, whatever he thinks.

  His execution of the Countess of Salisbury has shaken us all, even the most hard-hearted. All of us knew her; all of us were proud to be her friend when she was the great friend and ally of Queen Katherine, and the last of our royal family of York. Easy enough to forget her when she fell from favor and was out of sight in the country. Harder to ignore her silent presence when she was in the Tower and everyone knew that she was ill housed, and cold, and underfed, mourning her family, as even her little grandsons disappeared into the locked rooms of the Tower. Unbearable, when the king moves without warning against her, has her dragged from her bed without notice and butchered on the block.

  They say she ran from the axe; she did not make a dignified speech and lie down for him. She confessed nothing but insisted on her innocence. She fell on the scaffold and crawled to get away and the axeman had to run after her, raining down blows on her neck. It makes me shudder to hear it; it makes me sick to my soul to hear it. She crawled away from the same block that they brought out for Anne. How many women’s heads will he put on it? Who will be next?

  Katherine copes with this new irritable Henry better than one might hope. She has no interest in either religion or power, so he does not speak to her of his policy and she does not know that his morning decisions are overturned by nightfall. Without an idea in her head she never argues with him. He treats her like a little pet, a lapdog, there for his caress, that can be sent away when it annoys him. She responds well to this and has the sense to hide her feelings for Culpepper under a veil of wifely devotion. Besides, what master would bother to ask a lapdog if she dreams of something better?

  He pulls her about before the whole court; he is without embarrassment in his treatment of her. When they are at dinner, before everyone, he will reach over and tweak at her breast and watch the color rise to her face. He asks her for a kiss, and when she offers him her cheek, he will suck on her mouth, and we can see his sly hand pat her rump. She never pulls away from him; she never steps back. When I look very carefully I can see her stiffen at his touch, but she never does anything that could enrage him. For a fifteen-year-old girl she does very well. For a girl passionately in love with another man she does very well indeed.

  Whatever secret moments she manages to snatch with Culpepper between dinner and dancing, midnight finds her always in her bed, her gorgeous nightgown loosely tied, her white nightcap making her eyes look large and luminous: a sleepy angel, waiting for the king. If he is late coming to her bed, she sometimes falls asleep. She sleeps like a child and has a habit of smoothing her cheek across the pillow as she lies down her head; it is very endearing. He comes in his nightshirt with his thick robe around his broad shoulders, his bad leg heavily bandaged but the stain of the pus seeping through the white dressing. Most nights Thomas Culpepper is at his side, the heavy royal hand leaning heavily on the young man’s shoulder for support. Culpepper and Katherine never exchange so much as one look when he brings her old husband to her bed. He gazes up at the bedhead behind her, where the king’s initials are carved, entwined with hers, and she looks down at the silky embroidered sheets. He takes the king’s cape from his fat shoulders, while a groom of the bedchamber raises the sheets. Two pages haul the king upward to the bed and steady him as he balances on his only good leg. The stench of the suppurating wound fills the bedchamber, and Katherine never flinches. Her smile is steady and welcoming, and the king’s groan as he gets into bed, as they gently thrust his legs under the covers, does not shake her composure. We all leave, reverently stepping backward, and only when we have closed the door on them do I glance across to Thomas Culpepper and see that his young face is twisted with a scowl.

  “You want her,” I say quietly to him.

  He glances at me with a denial on his lips, but then he shrugs and says nothing.

  “She wants you,” I volunteer.

  At once he snatches me by the elbow and draws me so that we are in the window bay, almost wrapped up in the thick curtain. “She says this to you? She has told you this in so many words?”

  “She has.”

  “When has she said such a thing to you? What did she say?”

  “She comes out of her bedroom when the king has fallen asleep most nights. I take off her nightcap and brush her hair; sometimes she is almost crying.”

  “He hurts her?” he asks, shocked.

  “No,” I say. “She is crying with lust. Night after night she labors over him to give him pleasure, and all she can do for herself is to wind herself up tighter and tighter, like a bowstring ready to snap.”

  Culpepper’s face is a picture; if I were not doing my work for my lord duke, I would not be able to contain my laughter. “She cries with lust?”

  “She could scream with it,” I say. “Some nights I give her a sleeping powder; other nights she takes mulled wine and spices. But even so, some nights she cannot sleep for hours. She paces round the chamber pulling at the ribbons of her nightgown, saying that she is burning up.”

  “She always comes out after the king is asleep?”

  “If you were to come back in an hour, she would be coming out then,” I whisper.

  He hesitates for a moment. “I dare not,” he says.

  “You could see her,” I tempt him. “When she comes from his bed with her desire unslaked, longing for you.”

  His face is a portrait of hunger.

  “She wants you,” I remind him. “I stroke her hair, and she drops back her head and whispers, ‘Oh, Thomas.’”

  “She whispers my name?”

  “She is mad for you.”

  “If I were to be caught with her, it would be her death, and mine,” he says.

  “You could just come to talk to her,” I say. “Soothe her. It would be a service to the king to keep her steady. How long can she go on like this? The king pulling her about every night, stripping her naked, running his eyes and then his hands all over her, touching every inch of her and yet never giving her a moment of peace? She is wound up tight, I tell you, Master Culpepper, tight like a lute string overstrung.”

  His throat contracts as he swallows at the picture. “If I could just talk to her…”

  “Come back in an hour and I will let you in,” I say. I am almost as breathless as him, as excited by my words as he is. “You can talk to her in her privy chamber; the king will be asleep in the bedroom. I can be here with the two of you, all the time. What complaint could anyone make if I am there, with the two of you, all the time?”

  Oddly, he is not reassured by my friendship; he pulls back and stares at me suspiciously. “Why would you so serve me?” he demands. “What benefit for you?”

  “I serve the queen,” I say quickly. “I always serve the queen. She wants your friendship; she wants to see you. All I do is make that safe for her.”

  He must be mad with love if he thinks that anyone could make their meeting safe. “In an hour,” he says.

  I wait by the fire as it dies down. I am doing my duty for the duke, but I find my mind straying all the time to my husband, George, and to Anne. He used to wait for her to come from
the king’s bed, just as I am waiting now, just as Culpepper will wait for the queen. I shake my head. I have sworn not to think of them anymore; I have sworn to put the thought of them away from me. I drove myself quite mad thinking about them before; now that they are gone, I need not torment myself about them anymore.

  After a little while, the door to the bedchamber opens and Katherine comes out. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her face is pale. “Lady Rochford,” she says in a little whisper as she sees me. “Do you have my wine ready?”

  I am recalled to the present. “It’s ready.” I seat her in the chair nearest the fire.

  She puts her bare feet up on the fender. She shudders. “He disgusts me,” she says inconsequentially. “Dear God, I disgust myself.”

  “It is your duty.”

  “I can’t do it,” she says. She closes her eyes and tips back her head. A tear creeps out from under her closed eyelids and runs down her pale cheek. “Not even for the jewels. I can’t go on doing it.”

  I pause for a moment and then I whisper: “You will have a visitor tonight.”

  At once she sits up, alert. “Who?”

  “Someone you will want to see,” I say. “Someone you have longed for, for months, perhaps even years. Who would you most want to see?”

  The color floods into her cheeks. “You cannot mean…” she starts. “Is he coming?”

  “Thomas Culpepper.”

  She gives a little gasp at his name and she leaps up. “I have to dress,” she says. “You must do my hair.”

  “You cannot,” I say. “Let me turn the key in the bedroom door.”

  “And lock the king inside?”

  “Better that than he wakes and comes out. We can always find an excuse.”