The Boleyn Inheritance Read online

  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