The Boleyn Inheritance Read online

  She bows her head to hide her face. “As you say, the king is not capable of making a mistake.”

  “Do you think she was innocent?” I whisper.

  “I know she was not a witch; I know she was not guilty of treason; I am sure she was innocent of adultery with all those men,” she says firmly. “But I do not argue with the king. His Grace must know best.”

  “Was she very afraid?” I whisper.

  “Yes.”

  There seems nothing more to say. Lady Rochford comes into the room and takes in the sight of the two of us, head to head. “What are you doing, Catherine?” she asks irritably.

  Catherine looks up. “Sorting embroidery silks for Her Grace.”

  Lady Rochford gives me a long, hard look. She knows I am hardly likely to start sewing if there is no one watching. “Put them in the box carefully when you have finished,” she says, and goes out again.

  “But she was not charged,” I whisper, nodding to the door where her ladyship has gone. “And your mother was not charged. Just George.”

  “My mother was newly come to court.” Catherine starts to gather up the silks. “And an old favorite of the king. Lady Rochford was not charged for she gave evidence against her husband and the queen. They would not accuse her; she was their chief witness.”

  “What?” I am so astounded I give a little scream, and Catherine glances at the door behind us as if she fears someone hearing us. “She betrayed her own husband and sister-in-law?”

  She nods. “It was a long time ago,” she repeats. “My mother says that there is no value in thinking of old scores and old wrongs.”

  “How could she?” I am stammering with shock. “How could she do such a thing? Send her husband to his death? Accuse him – of that? How can Lady Rochford be so trusted by my uncle? If she betrayed her own husband and her queen?”

  My cousin Catherine rises from the floor and puts the silks in the box, as she was ordered. “My mother commanded me to trust nobody at court,” she observes. “She said, especially Lady Rochford.”

  All this leaves me with something to think about. I cannot imagine what it was like, all that long time ago. I cannot imagine what the king must have been like when he was a young man, a healthy young man, perhaps as handsome and desirable as Thomas Culpepper is now. And what must it have been like for Queen Anne my cousin, admired as I am admired, surrounded by courtiers as I am surrounded, confiding in Jane Boleyn, just as I do.

  I cannot think what this means. I cannot think what it means to me. As Catherine says, it was a long time ago, and everyone is different now. I cannot be haunted by these old, sad stories. Anne Boleyn has been a shameful secret in our family for so long it hardly matters whether she was innocent or not, since she died a traitor’s death in the end. Surely, it does not matter to me? It is not as if I have to follow her footsteps; it is not as if there is a Boleyn inheritance of the scaffold, and I am her heir. It is not as if any of this makes any difference to me. It is not as if I should learn from her.

  I am the queen now, and I shall have to live my life as I please. I shall have to manage as well as I can with a king who is no husband to me at all. He has hardly been out of his rooms for a month, and he will not admit me even when I go to his door for a visit. And since he never sees me, he is never pleased with me, and I have had nothing from him for months: not even a trinket. It is so rude of him and so selfish that I think it would quite serve him right if I were to fall in love with another man.

  I would not do so, nor would I take a lover, not for anything. But it would undoubtedly be his fault if I did so. He is a poor husband to me, and it is all very well everyone wanting to know if I am in good health and if there is any sign of an heir, but if he will not let me into his rooms, how am I to get a child?

  Tonight I am resolved to be a good wife and try again, and I have sent my page boy with a request that I might dine with the king in his chamber. Thomas Culpepper sends back a message to say that the king is a little better today, and more cheerful. He has risen from his bed and sat in the window to hear the birds in the garden. Thomas comes to my rooms himself to tell me that the king looked down from the window and saw me playing with my little dog and that he smiled at the sight of me.

  “Did he?” I ask. I was wearing one of my new gowns; it is a very pale rose pink to celebrate the end of Lent, at last, and I wore it with my Christmas pearls. To be honest, I must have looked quite enchanting, playing in the garden. If I had only known he was watching! “Did you see me?”

  He turns his head away as if he does not dare to confess. “If I had been the king I would have run down the stairs to be with you, pain or no pain. If I were your husband, I don’t think I’d ever let you out of my sight.”

  Two of my maids-in-waiting come in and glance curiously at us. I know that we are turned toward each other, almost as if we would kiss.

  “Tell His Majesty that I shall dine with him this evening, if he will allow it, and I shall do my best to cheer him,” I say clearly, and Thomas bows and goes out.

  “Cheer him?” Agnes remarks. “How? Give him a new enema?” They all laugh together as if this is great wit.

  “I shall try to cheer him if he is not determined to be miserable,” I say. “And mind your manners.”

  Nobody can say that I don’t do every duty as a wife, even if he is disagreeable. And at least tonight I shall see Thomas, who will fetch me to and from the king’s rooms, so we shall have moments together. If we can get somewhere where we cannot be seen, he will kiss me, I know he will, and I melt like sugar in a sauce pot at the thought of it.

  Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,

  April 1541

  “Very good,” says my uncle Howard to me. “The king’s wound is no better, but at least he is on speaking terms with the queen again. He has been to her bed?”

  “Last night. She had to take the man’s part on him, astride him, above him, working him up; she does not like it.”

  “No matter. As long as the deed is done. And he likes it?”

  “For certainty. What man does not?”

  He nods with a grim smile.

  “And she played your play to perfection? He is convinced that when he withdraws from court she breaks her heart at his absence and that she is always afraid that he will go back to the Cleves woman?”

  “I think so.”

  He gives a short laugh. “Jane, my Jane, what a wonderful duke you would have made. You should have been head of our house; you are wasted as a woman. Your talents are all twisted and crushed into a woman’s compass. If you had a kingdom to defend, you would have been a great man.”

  I cannot stop myself smiling. I have come a long, long way from disgrace when the head of the family tells me I should have been a duke like him.

  “I have a request,” I say, while I am in such high favor.

  “Oh, yes? I would almost say: ‘anything.’”

  “I know you cannot give me a dukedom,” I begin.

  “You are Lady Rochford,” he reminds me. “Our battle to keep your title was successful; you have that part of your Boleyn inheritance, whatever else we lost.”

  I don’t remark that the title is not much since the hall that carries my name is occupied by my husband’s sister and her brats, rather than me. “I was thinking I might seek another title,” I suggest.

  “What title?”

  “I was thinking I might marry again,” I say boldly now. “Not to leave this family, but to make an alliance for us with another great house. To increase our greatness and our connections, to improve my own fortune, and to get a higher title.” I pause. “For us, my lord. To advance us all. You like to position your women to their advantage, and I should like to be married again.”

  The duke turns to the window so I cannot see his face. He pauses for a long while, and then when he turns back, there is nothing to see; his expression is like a painting, it is so still and unrevealing. “Do you have a man in mind?” he asks. “A favorite?”

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