The Grandmother's Tale

by Alison Weir

  Copyright © 2018 Alison Weir

  The right of Alison Weir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in this Ebook edition in 2018 by

  HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters – except for the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5410 8

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Alison Weir

  Also by Alison Weir

  Praise

  About The Grandmother’s Tale

  The Grandmother’s Tale

  Read on for a glimpse of

  Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession

  Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen

  About Alison Weir

  ALISON WEIR is the top-selling female historian (and the fifth-bestselling historian overall) in the United Kingdom, and has sold over 2.7 million books worldwide. She has published seventeen history books, including The Six Wives of Henry VIII, The Princes in the Tower, Elizabeth the Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry VIII: King and Court, Katherine Swynford, The Lady in the Tower and Elizabeth of York. Alison has also published seven historical novels, including Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession, the second in her series of novels about the wives of Henry VIII, which began with the Sunday Times bestseller Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen. Alison is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and Sciences and an Honorary Life Patron of Historic Royal Palaces, and is married with two adult children.

  Also by Alison Weir

  The Six Tudor Queens series

  Katherine of Aragon: The True Queen

  Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession

  Arthur: Prince of the Roses (e-short)

  The Blackened Heart (e-short)

  The Tower is Full of Ghosts Today (e-short)

  The Chateau of Briis: A Lesson in Love (e-short)

  Fiction

  Innocent Traitor

  The Lady Elizabeth

  The Captive Queen

  A Dangerous Inheritance

  The Marriage Game

  Quick Reads

  Traitors of the Tower

  Non-fiction

  Britain’s Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy

  The Six Wives of Henry VIII

  The Princes in the Tower

  Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses

  Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII 1547–1558

  Elizabeth the Queen

  Eleanor of Aquitaine

  Henry VIII: King and Court

  Mary Queen of Scots and the Murder of Lord Darnley

  Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England

  Katherine Swynford: The Story of John of Gaunt and His Scandalous Duchess

  The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn

  Mary Boleyn: ‘The Great and Infamous Whore’

  Elizabeth of York: The First Tudor Queen

  The Lost Tudor Princess

  The Queens of the Conquest

  As co-author

  The Ring and the Crown: A History of Royal Weddings, 1066–2011

  Praise

  Praise for ANNE BOLEYN: A KING’S OBSESSION

  ‘This is Anne Boleyn as you have never seen her before. I could not put it down’ Tracy Borman

  ‘An unforgettable portrait of the ambitious woman whose fate we know all too well, but whose true motivations may surprise you’ Telegraph

  ‘A triumph of fine detail . . . a complex depiction of an endlessly fascinating woman’ Elizabeth Fremantle

  ‘The story of Boleyn has been told many times, and from many angles, but this could be the best adaptation so far. A cracking read’ Lady

  ‘Detailed, immaculately researched and convincing’ The Times

  ‘Alison Weir’s wonderfully detailed novel offers a spellbinding solution to the mystery of Anne’s true nature . . . At once an enthralling read, and a real contribution to our sense of the sixteenth century’ Sarah Gristwood

  ‘Alison Weir has brought English history’s most famous “other woman” compellingly to life . . . A must for all lovers of historical fiction’ Linda Porter

  ‘Simply a masterpiece’ Susan Ronald

  ‘Not only a world apart from any other novel on Anne Boleyn, it is also an exquisite work of literary art’ Nicola Tallis

  ‘Anne comes alive and leaps from the page, fascinating, enthralling, full blooded . . . A brilliant evocation of the period . . . Wonderful’ Kate Williams

  Praise for KATHERINE OF ARAGON: THE TRUE QUEEN

  ‘Well researched and engrossing’ Good Housekeeping

  ‘Weir is excellent on the little details that bring a world to life’ Guardian

  ‘Alison Weir brings Katherine of Aragon dazzlingly to life . . . A charismatic, indomitable and courageous heroine’ Tracy Borman

  ‘Yet again, Alison Weir has managed to intertwine profound historical knowledge with huge emotional intelligence, to compose a work that throws light on an endlessly fascinating historical figure. Yet her real gift in all of this is making it feel so fresh and alive’ Charles Spencer

  ‘Alison Weir is in command of her detail . . . her handling of Katherine’s misery and dignified response to her predicament is very touching’ Daily Mail

  ‘Weir’s undeniable strength is her immaculate description enabling the reader to be transported back to Tudor England’ Sun

  ‘A tender understanding of and genuine sympathy for this proud, much-loved and honourable Queen . . . I was gripped [from] start to finish’ Mavis Cheek

  ‘[An] ambitious, engrossing novel . . . Fascinating’ Sunday Express S Magazine

  About The Grandmother’s Tale

  The Grandmother’s Tale by historian Alison Weir is an e-short and companion piece to Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession, the second spellbinding novel in the Six Tudor Queens series.

  I see her from time to time, and I wish I didn’t, but I don’t say that. Nor do I tell my guests of my awful gift, or of how I kept seeing a sword over her head . . . Thomas once called me a witch. But witches practise their craft willingly. My visions come unbidden, and I have never been able to control them.

  As Anne Boleyn’s grandmother mourns the death of her granddaughter, she also mourns the loss of Hever as she once knew it – filled with the joy and happiness of her family.

  With Anne’s ghost still walking the halls, Margaret remembers her life in this grand house and the mysteries and rumours that line its walls. But with everything changed for ever, how long will Hever remain her home?

&nb
sp; Features the first chapter of Anne Boleyn: A King’s Obsession and Jane Seymour: The Haunted Queen.

  I can just about get around these days, and thank the good Lord for that, as I believe I really would go mad were I to be confined to that chair by the fire. They think I’m mad anyway, the servants who attend me; Thomas saw to that. There aren’t many of them left now – not like in the glory days when William and I first came to this place. It was heaving with servants then, and everything was new. Of course, his father had not long completed his building works – completed them and then departed to his rest. I never met old Sir Geoffrey. He died long before William and I wed. Oh, I was young then, and beautiful. The young do not realise how short a time beauty lasts.

  They are all gone now, those I loved best. Three children – of all my eleven – have been spared to me. Bitter Anne, sanctimonious James and pious William. I never see any of them these days, for they are all far away. How hard life has touched us all.

  Archbishop Cranmer came today, wearing his mournful face and the air of one doing a heavy duty. I know him well; he was once our family chaplain. I offered him dinner, and after some browbeating the servants resentfully placed a meal of sorts before us as we sat at the board in the hall, for I had insisted on keeping some ceremony. Surrounding us were the tangible benefits of Thomas’s riches: the fine tapestries, the Turkey carpet, the fine silver-gilt plate. All that, and he left me just a pittance of four hundred marks a year out of my estates!

  Well, much good did his wealth do him in the end. We brought nothing into this world, and we can take nothing out of it.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your grief so soon, my lady,’ the Archbishop said. ‘I felt it my duty to come and explain to you what will happen now.’

  ‘I’ve suffered so much grief these past years that I’m numbed to it,’ I told him.

  His eyes glittered with tears. He’s doing this for her, I realised.

  ‘The position is this,’ he said gently, mastering himself, ‘that your late son’s co-heirs are your granddaughter Mistress Stafford and the Crown.’

  The Crown. Of course. But it should have all gone to my grandson George or, failing him, to Anne and Mary, or Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth. Five years old now, if my memory serves me, which it often doesn’t. But George and Anne are no more, their share of their father’s wealth confiscated by an Act of Attainder passed after . . . No, I will not think of it now, although God knows their appalling fate haunts my nightmares. Poor Elizabeth. That one so young should suffer the stain of bastardy and being declared unfit to inherit, on top of the loss of her mother. It makes me want to weep.

  ‘The late Earl of Wiltshire’s property is to be divided,’ Cranmer said, taking a sip of pottage. Neither of us had much appetite, and I don’t eat much these days anyway.

  ‘So who gets what?’ I asked, wondering what was to become of me and hoping I could stay here at Hever. Mary’s in Calais, and if the castle came to her, she would not turn me out. She has a soft heart.

  ‘Hever Castle, the manor of Seal and Blickling Hall are to revert to the Crown,’ the Archbishop said. The news gave me a turn, and I felt my old heart miss a beat. I had feared the worst, and here it was. I was to be turned out of my home – the home I have lived in for thirty-three years.

  ‘The Crown may not wait to take what is rightfully its property,’ his Grace of Canterbury continued, ‘which is why I am here. Fortuitously, the King has granted me full jurisdiction and authority over many churches, villages and parishes in Kent, including Hever Castle. I intend to save some of the late Earl’s goods for your ladyship and Mistress Stafford, while there is still time.’

  ‘Bless you!’ I said. And then it happened again, that thing that visits me from time to time and so distresses me, and which twenty years ago gave Thomas grounds for declaring me insane, just so that he could appropriate my estates and live off my wealth. It was happening, and there I was, staring at the Archbishop and seeing his portly form surrounded by a glow of flames. It was only a momentary impression, but it so horrified me that I gasped.

  ‘Madam, are you all right?’ Cranmer asked, all concern, looking quite like himself again, to my relief.

  I could barely speak, for I had seen such visions before, and knew that they were portents. ‘It was the shock,’ I croaked.

  He patted my hand. ‘Do not worry, my lady. My men are here to remove any possessions you wish to keep. They can be stored at my house at Knole until your granddaughter comes home and decides what to do with them. She is in Calais, is she not?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. But what is to become of me? Where do I go?’

  Cranmer’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘If I have anything to do with it, you will stay here, my lady. Do not fret.’

  I spent the afternoon heaving myself around the house, showing my kind visitor what to take and what to leave. A nasty fall last winter did my aching bones no good, and I am now horribly lame and have to use a stick to get about.

  All the time, my vision was preying on my mind. I hardly dared look at Cranmer in case I saw it again, and I was inwardly praying that I was wrong, and that this good man would not have to die so horribly. I could not forget that I had not been wrong those other times.

  It was an effort going through everything, but worth it, and by supper time the carts lined up beyond the drawbridge are full of furnishings, hangings, plate, clothing and jewellery. The castle looks horribly bare. All that remains are the necessities of my daily life, a few sticks of furniture, and some tapestries that we felt it politic to leave, lest the King should accuse us of robbing him of his rich pickings. When the Archbishop says goodbye, I kiss him out of gratitude and because of what might lie in store for him, when the knowledge that he had eased an old woman’s last years might cheer his heart.

  Of course, he had done it for her. He had loved her from the first, and it was clear that he still grieved for her. But he dared not say so.

  Cranmer’s kindness yesterday came not a moment too soon. Today, I’ve just received a letter from Lord Cromwell, informing me that the King’s officers would soon be visiting me. He’s common scum, Cromwell, for all that he’s the King’s chief minister. His father was a blacksmith. He thinks he can barge in upon my grief, even though my son died only two weeks ago and is barely cold in his grave. If I could foresee some dire fate for Cromwell, it wouldn’t bother me one bit.

  I order that a message be sent to Thomas’s man of business, John Tebold, to come over from Seal to see me. He’s with me inside an hour, but is staring around him in dismay.

  ‘Where is everything?’ he wants to know. I tell him.

  He shakes his head, frowning. ‘I wish my lord of Canterbury had stayed his hand. There could be trouble. Do you have Lord Cromwell’s letter?’

  I hand it to him and he reads it, looking perplexed. ‘I’ll have to tell him,’ he says, clearly worried. He sits down at the table, calls for ink and paper, and begins to write. ‘They’re taking Seal too,’ he says. ‘My instructions were to keep everything in place until the King’s pleasure is known. I’ve got Sir Thomas Willoughby at Seal right now, taking an inventory. He’s one of the King’s chief justices. What on earth is he going to say about this?’

  ‘He’s our neighbour at Chiddingstone, and a good friend – and I think you’ll find that Archbishop Cranmer has the authority to do what he did, granted by the King himself.’ I relate what Cranmer said.

  ‘I think I’d better ask Willoughby to come over here now,’ Tebold says, and calls for a messenger.

  Sir Thomas arrives by supper time, a portly and urbane man of vast experience, and again I stir those lazy servants to prepare a passable dinner for us, over which I repeat what the Archbishop said.

  ‘I myself will write to Lord Cromwell this evening and assure him that I will aid Master Tebold in taking possession of Hever,’ Sir Thomas replies. ‘I shall not mention the rem
oval of your goods.’

  ‘Am I to be turned out?’ I ask, dismayed. ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Willoughby smiles. ‘His Grace the King is aware that you have been unable to manage your affairs these past twenty years. He has graciously said that you may live out your days here.’

  Never have I felt such relief. ‘God bless his Grace!’ I cry, from my heart.

  The men are smiling. And now the servants are approaching with platters of roasted meat and boiled fish, jugs of fragrant sauce and ewers of wine. They haven’t done us so badly after all.

  ‘I think I have cause for celebration,’ I say, pouring the wine. ‘Will you join me in a toast, sirs?’

  They raise their goblets. ‘To your ladyship’s long and happy life!’

  Long, I doubt. I’m sixty-nine, well past my grand climacteric. As for happy, no one could suffer the losses I’ve had and be happy. And my elation at my reprieve is tinged with sadness, for when I go, there will be no more Boleyns at Hever. I’d have liked to see Mary here with her children, and I suppose that fool varlet of a husband of hers, but fate – or the King – has decreed otherwise.

  ‘You’ve been living in these parts a long time,’ Sir Thomas observes.

  ‘About half my life,’ I tell them. ‘Before that, I lived in Norfolk, but I was born in Ireland, in Kilkenny Castle.’ In my mind I can see the great stronghold, set in the lush greenness of the land of my childhood. ‘My father was the Earl of Ormond, and I and my sister were his co-heiresses.’

  ‘A great inheritance indeed,’ Willoughby says.

  ‘We Butlers have an ancient lineage,’ I boast. ‘We are descended from King Edward the First. My father was one of the wealthiest nobles in the realm. He inherited a great fortune, and was lord of seventy-two English manors. He sat in Parliament as premier baron of England too! But before he came into his inheritance, he had no money. The Boleyns were the saving of him. His debts were paid with their help, and they were repaid in the lands I got as dowry. It’s largely on my account that my husband’s family became so wealthy.’