But his prowess in battle does not mean my brother is a perfect ruler. I feel quite certain now that I shall never send this letter, Minuette, for I am treading on dangerous ground. But I must give voice, even if only once, to my overriding concern about William’s choice of bride.
Dare I write what I will not say to his face? William is thinking of himself alone when he should be thinking of his kingdom.
Were I queen, I cannot envision a circumstance in which I would sacrifice my people’s good for my own happiness, as William is so lightly doing. I love you, Minuette, as I have never loved another friend, but you are not the queen England needs. If my brother persists in his romantic obsession, I fear he will split the kingdom in two, and the rifts his birth was meant to heal will never be mended.
With that, I close this rebellious letter and will consign it to the fire. If only I could as easily wipe away my doubts and fears. For you, as well as for William, for you are nearly my sister, and I do not want you hurt as I believe you will be one way or another. And in the coming weeks I will watch my words and my expressions. It is not my place to undermine the king’s will. And perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you are precisely what William needs.
But I fear you are not. And I fear England will pay the price.
Your loving sister in all but blood,
Elizabeth
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. In the opening chapter of the novel, Minuette writes: “William has commanded [John Dee] to give a private reading of our stars. Only the four of us—for it would not do to let our secrets, past or future, slip into wider circulation.” Yet, she keeps a journal that details many of their secrets. Do you think it is dangerous for her to do so? Would you, in her place?
2. When they meet with John Dee, Minuette reflects, “We all have motives that are less than pure.” Do you agree? Do you think that the nature of the court made it impossible to be anything but self-serving at heart?
3. At one point Dominic says to Minuette, “Give me the word, and I’ll go straight to William myself and tell him the truth.” To which Minuette responds, “We can’t just throw this in his face. He’s not ready to hear it.” Why do you think Minuette is so set against being honest with William? Is it solely because she wishes to spare his feelings? Was there ever a moment when Minuette or Dominic could have (or should have) told William about their relationship?
4. Ironically, though she is against confessing to William, it is Minuette who proposes the di praesenti marriage, arguing that “the court live[s] by its own rules.” Do you think she is being rational, or hopelessly naïve? What’s your opinion on how they handled the situation, and how do you predict the news of their secret marriage will be met by William? By Elizabeth?
5. It is interesting that Dominic and Minuette never turn to Elizabeth for help or advice on their situation, especially given her ability to be incredibly rational and less volatile than her brother. Why do you think this is?
6. Elizabeth excuses herself for “keeping her own counsel,” because she realizes that William too has “confidences kept,” even from her. Each of the “holy quartet” has their reasons for keeping secrets, some trivial, some life-altering—do you think these secrets will ultimately rip them apart? Or are secrets sometimes necessary in order to keep people together?
7. Robert Dudley is an interesting character because, despite how involved he is in court life, he also does his best to keep his head down and his nose clean, unlike his father. Do you think this is wise? What do you make of his relationship with Elizabeth? With William?
8. The title of the book is The Boleyn Deceit. To whom or what do you think the title applies? Who are the deceivers? Who are the deceived?
9. Do you think that a true, balanced friendship can ever really exist between two people who are on vastly different playing fields of power, as William and Dominic are? Why or why not?
10. If given a choice, would you rather be the one in power (William), or serving the one in power? Why?
11. Do you see any parallels between William and Elizabeth’s relationship and that of Anne and George Boleyn?
12. How do the feelings between Dominic, Minuette, William, and Elizabeth shift over the course of the book? Compare their standing at the end of The Boleyn Deceit to their relationship as it was in The Boleyn King. Of the quartet, who do you sympathize with most?
13. During a conversation about political strategy, Will’s uncle opposes him, to which William replies, “Do tell, Lord Rochford: if being king isn’t about me, then whom is it about?” Do you think this is the right attitude to have? Does your opinion of William change over the course of the book?
14. There have been many books written about the Tudors, not to mention the popularity of films and television shows about this time. What do you think is so fascinating about this particular era, and this particular family (for you personally, and in more general cultural terms)?
If you were enchanted by The Boleyn Deceit,
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THE BOLEYN RECKONING
Laura Andersen’s dazzling conclusion to the tale of
the Tudor king that never was.
PRELUDE
July 1536
“My lady.”
Mary refused to acknowledge the greeting, for Archbishop Cranmer’s avoidance of her true title was an insult to her birth and position.
“My lady Mary,” the impertinent man pressed, “I bring with me a letter from the king, your father.”
That she could not refuse to acknowledge. Wordlessly, she extended her hand and the heretic archbishop handed over the letter. They were alone in a small antechamber at Hatfield House, where Mary fulfilled her duty as lady-in-waiting to her tiny half sister. If Elizabeth were her half-sister; Mary would have liked to believe that the child was not Henry’s at all. But in her heart she knew they were sisters. They shared some of the same colouring, and even at not yet three years old, the precocious Elizabeth had a fearsome will that shouted her royal parentage.
Mary’s chest constricted at her father’s familiar and beloved handwriting. But it was the message itself that closed off her throat and sent wings of panic fluttering through her body. The queen is safely delivered of a son. England at last has a Prince of Wales as God intended.
How could God have intended this? Mary wondered. How could he have allowed her own mother—Henry’s true and loyal wife—to die barren and alone while the Boleyn whore bewitched the king? How could such a woman be granted a living son when Catherine of Aragon had been denied? Mary felt for the rosary at her waist and then remembered that she was forbidden to wear it at Hatfield.
“What do you want of me?” she demanded of Cranmer. “Congratulations? I am always glad for my father’s happiness, but I cannot congratulate him on a mistaken pride in a son who is not legitimate. How can he be Prince of Wales, when my father has never truly been married to that woman?”
“My lady,” and despite herself, Mary recognized the kindness beneath the archbishop’s inflexibility, “your honour for your mother’s memory does you great credit. But your father wishes nothing more than to be reconciled with you. Why separate yourself from the comfort of the king’s love and care when you need not? What he asks is so little.”
“I know what he asks—that I proclaim my mother’s marriage a lie, her virtue a hoax, her faith an inconvenience. The king asks me to brand myself a bastard for the sake of that woman’s children.”
“The king asks you to accept the inevitable. My lady, this is a fight you cannot win. Ask yourself—does God wish you to go on in defiance against your father’s wishes? To live out your life in rebellion and servitude? Whatever the state of your parents’ marriage, you were conceived in good faith and were born for better things.”
Mary thought of how much she hated Hatfield, being in a house of Protestants who despised not only her and her mother but the Church as well. With Cranmer being so reasonable and soft-spoken, Mary asked, “W
hat would I receive in return?”
“In return for your signature, your father will grant you the manor of Beaulieu for life. There, you will be permitted to retain a single confessor and attendants of your own choosing.”
A confessor … Mary closed her eyes and shivered. Henry knew his women—he knew how much she longed for a household of her own again, where she could wear her rosary and pray without the sneers of heretics and be counseled by a true priest. But to sign away her rights … the rights her mother had died upholding …
“Your father is also prepared to consider the wisdom of a proper marriage, providing your behavior is acceptable.”
And that was the final blow to her resistance. Though her intellect knew that “consider” was not the same thing as “arranging” or “allowing,” it was considerably better than her current state. She was twenty years old and had been betrothed often in her childhood. But there was no chance she would ever be allowed to marry while she continued in defiance of the king’s wishes. With each year, she would grow older. And even more than marriage, Mary wanted children.
Mother, she offered up silently, what should I do?
The words were so immediate and clear to her mind that Mary knew at once it was her answer. Do what you must for now—and wait for your moment. God means you to turn England back to Him.
Mary opened her eyes, her pride screaming but her conscience unwavering. “I will sign.”
And then I will wait, she vowed silently. And when my moment comes—I will act.
CHAPTER ONE
18 March 1556
Richmond Palace
Today the Duke of Northumberland stands trial at Westminster Hall. Dominic traveled to London yesterday to take part, though I know he is conflicted. Robert Dudley has told him that someone other than his father is behind all the twists of treachery these last two years, but Robert will say no more to Dominic. He has asked, rather, to see Elizabeth. Dominic asked me to help persuade her, but I did not try very hard. Why should she go? Whether there is one traitor or twenty in this, it was Northumberland himself who held Elizabeth and me prisoner. And for that alone he must answer.
Besides, all Elizabeth can think of just now is William. It has been three months since the nightmare of his smallpox and the effects … linger.
Perhaps the resolution of Northumberland’s fate will release us all from this sense that we are snared in the moment before action. The tension of waiting is almost more than I can bear.
In the absence of an Earl Marshal of England (a post which William had not filled since the death of the old Duke of Norfolk more than a year ago), the trial of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, was presided over by George Boleyn, Duke of Rochford and Lord Chancellor of England.
Dominic took his place with the other peers who would sit in judgment of Northumberland today, but all his attention was given to Rochford himself. Three months ago the imprisoned Robert Dudley had made an enigmatic accusation aimed at the Lord Chancellor but had thus far refused to provide any details. Robert seemed to believe that even if his father were convicted today, William would be merciful as to the sentence and so there would be time to consider the matter.
Dominic was not so certain.
The doors at the back of the hall opened and Northumberland was escorted in. The hall at Westminster was a rich backdrop to today’s trial. A stage had been erected in preparation, hung with tapestries and a canopy, beneath which was a bench for Northumberland. Dominic viewed the tableau with a cynicism that he had learned from Rochford—the trappings might argue respect for the accused, but he knew all too well they were mostly meant to remind those watching how far the man had fallen.
Northumberland conducted himself with gravity, three times reverencing himself to the ground before the judges. Dominic thought wryly it was the most humility he’d ever seen from John Dudley.
The hall was crowded with spectators, including members of London City’s guilds as well as diplomats and foreign merchants who would no doubt be taking careful notes and sending word of the proceedings far and wide across Europe. England had been the subject of intense Continental scrutiny for quite some time—what with her young and untried king, her inflammatory religious divide, and her highly desirable and unwed royal princess. England may not be the powerhouse that France or Spain was, but it was very often the critical piece that decided the dangerous balance of power.
And now a peer of the realm was being tried for his life. Not to mention that a mere five months ago—despite a peace treaty—a French army had engaged English troops in battle on the Scots border and since that time England’s king had been mostly absent from public view. Everyone in England and Europe knew that William had been ill and some had correctly guessed at the smallpox that had driven him to seclusion. Now even his own people were beginning to grow restless. They had waited years for William to grow old enough to take his father’s place as a reigning monarch. They were not content to leave the government in the hands of men like Rochford and Northumberland, rightly distrusting the motives of such powerful men. The people wanted their king.
This trial was the first step in giving them what they wanted. Northumberland was hugely unpopular—though Dominic had not been in London when the duke and his sons were paraded through the streets to the Tower, he had heard countless versions of how they had been booed and mocked, pelted with rotten fruit and even stones. With William not quite ready to return to public view yet, Northumberland’s trial for high treason was a distraction.
It was also, in large part, a sham. The original plan had been to have Parliament pass an Act of Attainder against Northumberland, thus avoiding a public trial and allowing the Crown to quickly confiscate the duke’s lands. Granting him a trial instead in no way meant that Northumberland stood a chance of acquittal. There could be no doubt of the verdict; this trial was for the sole purpose of placating the populace.
Rochford opened the trial with a reading of the charges, none of which Dominic could dispute: the calculated secret marriage between Northumberland’s son Guildford and Margaret Clifford, a cousin to the king and thus in line to England’s throne. That disastrous marriage had been annulled after Margaret had given birth to a boy, but Northumberland’s impudence could not be overlooked in the matter. And then there was the damning charge of “with intent and malice aforethought confining Her Highness, Princess Elizabeth, against her will”: Dominic had seen firsthand the duke’s intent to keep hold of Elizabeth in his family castle until William was forced to listen to him. Related to that last was also the charge of raising troops against the king—again indisputable. For the last two charges alone, Northumberland’s life was forfeit.
But Dominic was less easy about some of the other charges considered behind the scenes. That Northumberland had conspired to bring down the Howard family two years ago, that he had offered alliance with the Low Countries, even claiming in writing that Elizabeth would be a more amenable ruler than her brother … Dominic had been the one to find those damning letters in Northumberland’s home. He just wasn’t sure how much he believed in them. Papers could be forged. Letters could be planted. Witnesses could be co-opted to a certain testimony. And it hadn’t escaped his attention that those particular charges were not being tried in court today.
“We’ll keep it simple,” Rochford had said. “Leave out the messier aspects of Northumberland’s behavior.”
And that was why Dominic kept a wary eye on Rochford. Because the messy aspects of this business were also the most open to other interpretations. More than eighteen months ago, the late Duke of Norfolk had died in the Tower after being arrested for attempting to brand the king a bastard and have his half sister, Mary, crowned queen. Dominic now believed, as most did, that the Duke of Norfolk’s fall had been cleverly manipulated.
“What say you, John Dudley?” Rochford asked after the reading of the charges.
“My Lord Chancellor,” Northumberland responded, rising. “My lords all,” he addressed
the others of the jury, “I say that my faults have ever only been those of a father. I acknowledge my pride and ambition and humbly confess that those sins have led me to a state I do greatly regret. But I have not and could never compass a desire to wish or inflict harm upon His Most Gracious Majesty. My acts were those of a desperate father to a willful son. Guildford’s death is greatly to be lamented, but I do desire nothing more than to be reconciled to our king and his government.”
Northumberland was led out after his speech, and the jury retired to discuss their verdict. It took far less time than Dominic was comfortable with and the outcome was never in doubt. Rochford and the twenty-year-old Duke of Norfolk (grandson of the man who had died in a false state of treasonable disgrace) were the most vehement of Northumberland’s enemies, but every other lord on the jury had cause to resent the duke’s arrogance and ambition. And as Dominic studied each man there, he was aware of an undercurrent of fear, deeply hidden perhaps, but real. There was not a single peer present whose family title was older than Henry VII, and most of them had been ennobled by Henry VIII or William himself. The Tudors had broken the back of the old hereditary nobility, raising instead men whose power resulted from their personal loyalty and royal usefulness. Just consider Dominic himself—grandson of a king’s daughter, true, but in more practical terms only the son of a younger son with no land or title at all until William had granted them to him.
Or consider Rochford, who might have been only a talented diplomat or secretary if his sister had not been queen.
The problem with being raised up by personal loyalty was that one could as easily be unmade. And thus it was today—the jury would find Northumberland guilty because William wished it as much as because it was right. And after all, Dominic would vote guilty without more than a slight qualm, for he had ridden through the midst of Northumberland’s army last autumn. He knew that it had been but a hair’s breadth of pride and fear from open battle against the king.
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