The Boleyn Inheritance

by Philippa Gregory

  “I want my perfume!”

  “Leave it.”

  “I can’t see him like this.”

  “Shall I stop him at the door and tell him to go away again?”

  “No!”

  There is a little tap on the door, so soft that I could not have heard it if I had not the ears of a spy. “There he is now.”

  “Don’t let him in!” She puts a hand on my arm. “It’s too dangerous. Dear God, I shan’t lead him into danger.”

  “He only wants to talk,” I soothe her. “There can be no harm in that.” Quietly, I open the door to him. “It is all right,” I say to the sentry. “The king wants Master Culpepper.” I open the door wide, and Culpepper steps into the room.

  At the fireside, Katherine rises to her feet. The glow of the fire illuminates her face, gilds her gown. Her hair, tumbled about her face, glints in the light; her lips part to whisper his name, and her color rises. The ribbons of her gown tremble at her throat where her pulse thuds.

  Culpepper walks toward her like a man in a dream. He stretches out a hand to her, and she takes it and puts his palm at once to her cheek. He holds a handful of her hair, and his other hand blindly finds her waist; they slide toward each other as if they have been waiting for months to touch like this; indeed they have. Her hands go to his shoulders, he draws her closer, without a word being said, she gives him her mouth, and he bows his head and takes her.

  I turn the key on the outer door so the sentry cannot come in. Then I go back to the bedroom door and I stand with my back to it, my ears pricked for any noise from the king. I can hear the stertorous sound of his wheezy breath, and a loud wet belch. In the fire-light before me, Thomas Culpepper slides his hand inside the throat of her gown; I see her head drop back, resistless, as he touches her breast. She lets him caress her, and she runs her fingers through his curly brown hair, pulling his face down to her bared neck.

  I cannot tear my gaze away. It is as I always imagined it when I used to think of George with his mistress. A pleasure like a knife, desire as pain. He sits on the high-backed chair and draws her to him. I can see little more than the back of the chair and their silhouettes, dark against the glow of the fire. It is like a dance of desire as he takes her hips and pulls her astride him. I see her fumble with his hose as he pulls at the ribbons at the front of her gown. They are about to do it as I watch them. They are shameless: me in the same room, and her husband behind the door. They are so wanton and so helpless with their desire that they are about to do it here and now, in front of me.

  I hardly dare breathe; I must see everything. The sleeping king’s heavy breathing is matched by their quiet panting; they are moving together, then I see the gleam of her pale thigh as she pulls her nightgown aside, and I hear him groan and I know that she has straddled him and taken him in. I hear a little sigh of desire, and it is me, aroused with stolen lust. The chair creaks as she clings to the back and rocks forward and back on him; her breath is coming fast. He is thrusting up inside her; I hear her start to moan as her pleasure mounts, and I am afraid that they will wake the king. But nothing could stop them, not even if he were to wake and shout, not even if he were to try the door and come out; they are tied together by lust, and they cannot break free. I feel my own legs weaken with mirrored desire as Katherine’s little cries mount, and I slide down to the floor, to my knees, watching them but seeing George’s desirous face, and his mistress astride him, until Katherine suddenly lets out a gasp and falls to Thomas’s shoulder, at the same moment he groans and grips her, then they both subside.

  It feels like a long time before she gives a little murmur and stirs. Culpepper lets her go, and she rises from the seat, dropping the hem of her nightgown and smiling back at him as she goes to the fire. He rises from the chair and ties his laces again, then he reaches for her, wraps his arms around her from behind, nuzzles at her neck, her hair. Like a young girl in love for the first time, she turns in his arms and gives him her mouth. She kisses him as if she adores him; she kisses him as if this is a love that will last forever.

  In the morning I go to find my lord duke. The court is preparing to go hunting, and the queen is being lifted into the saddle by one of the king’s friends. The king himself, hauled to the back of his hunter, is in a merry mood, laughing at Culpepper’s new bridle of red leather and calling up his hounds. The duke is not riding today; he stands at the doorway, watching the horses and the hounds in the cool of the morning. I pause beside him as I go to my horse.

  “It is done,” I say. “Last night.”

  He nods as if I am telling him of the cost of the blacksmith. “Culpepper?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Will she have him again?”

  “As often as she can. She is besotted.”

  “Keep her discreet,” he says. “And tell me the moment she is with child.”

  I nod. “And my own affair?” I ask boldly.

  “Your affair?” he repeats, pretending he has forgotten.

  “My marriage,” I say. “I… I need to be married.”

  He raises his eyebrow. “Better to be married than to burn, my dear Lady Rochford?” he asks. “But your marriage to George did not prevent you from burning up.”

  “That was not my fault,” I say quickly. “It was her.”

  He smiles; he does not have to ask whose shadow fell on my marriage and set the fire that burned us all up.

  “What news of my new marriage?” I press him.

  “I am exchanging letters now,” he says. “When you tell me that the queen is with child, I shall confirm it.”

  “And the nobleman?” I ask urgently. “Who is he?”

  “Monsignor le Compte?” he asks. “Wait and see, my dear Lady Rochford. But believe me, he is wealthy, and he is young, handsome, and – let me think – no more than three, perhaps four, steps from the throne of France. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Completely.” I can hardly speak for excitement. “I shall not fail you, my lord.”

  Anne, Richmond Palace,

  June 1541

  I have a letter from the Lord Chamberlain to invite me to go on progress with the court this summer. The king is to go to his northern lands, which were so recently in revolt against him for his attack on the old religion. He is going to punish and reward; he has sent the hangman ahead of him, and he will follow safely behind. I sit for a long time with this letter in my hand.

  I am trying to weigh up the dangers. If I am at court with the king and he enjoys my company and I am high in his favor, then I secure my safety for perhaps another year. But equally, the hard-faced men of his court will see that he likes me again and they will put their minds to how to keep me from him. Katherine’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, will be anxious to keep his niece in high favor, and he will not like any comparison that is made between her and me. He will have kept the documents that prove that I was part of a Papist plot to destroy the king. He may have created evidence of worse: adultery or witchcraft, heresy or treason. Who knows what solemnly sworn statements he gathered when they thought they would put me to death? He will not have thrown them away when the king decided to divorce me. He will have kept them. He will keep them forever in case one day he wants to destroy me.

  But if I do not go, then I am not there to defend myself. If anyone says anything against me, links me with the northern conspirators, or with poor Margaret Pole the countess, with the disgraced Thomas Cromwell, or with anything my brother may do or say, then there is no one to speak in my favor.

  I tuck the letter in the pocket of my gown and walk to the window to look out at the bobbing branches in the orchards beyond the garden. I like it here, being my own mistress; I like being in command of my own fortune. The thought of going into the bear pit that is the English court and having to face the monstrous old terror that is the king is too much for me to dare. I think, pray God I am right, that I shall not go on progress with the king. I shall stay here and take the risk that they may speak against me. Better th
at than travel with him in constant danger of attracting envy. Better anything than travel with him and see those piggy eyes turn on me and realize that by some act – nothing I even know that I have done – I have fired his enmity and I am in danger.

  He is a danger, he is a danger, he is a danger to everyone who is near him. I shall stay at Richmond and hope that the danger that is Henry passes me by and that I can live here in safety and peace.

  I shall stay free of the frightened flock that is the court, I shall be alone like a gyrfalcon, solitary in the arching silence of the sky. I have reason to be fearful, but I will not live in fear. I shall take my chance. I shall have this summer to myself.

  Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,

  July 1541

  The duke has come to pay a visit to his niece before the start of the summer progress, and realizes, very quickly, that he could not have chosen a worse time. The queen’s rooms are in chaos. Not even the most experienced servants, not even the queen’s sister and stepmother, can make any sense of the orders, as Katherine swears she cannot go without her new gowns, and then remembers that she has had them packed and sent ahead, demands to see her jewel box, accuses a maid of stealing a silver ring, and then finds it again, almost bursts into tears at the quandary of whether or not to take her sables to York, and then finally pitches facedown on her bed and swears she will not go at all since the king hardly pays any attention to her anyway, and what pleasure will she have at York when her life is hardly worth living?

  “What the devil is going on?” the duke hisses at me, as if it were my fault.

  “It has been like this all day,” I say wearily. “But yesterday was worse.”

  “Why do her servants not take care of all this?”

  “Because she interrupts them and orders one thing and then another. We have had her chest of gowns packed and corded and ready for the wagon twice already. Her wardrobe mistress cannot be blamed; it is Katherine who pulls everything out for a pair of gloves that she cannot do without.”

  “It is impossible that the queen’s rooms should be so disorderly,’ he exclaims, and I see that for once he is genuinely disturbed. “These are the queen’s rooms,” he repeats. “They should be gracious. She should have dignity. Queen Katherine of Aragon would never-”

  “She was born and bred a queen, but these are a girl’s rooms,” I say. “And a spoiled, willful girl at that. She doesn’t behave like a queen; she behaves like a girl. And if she wants to turn the place upside down for a ribbon, she will do so, and no one can tell her to behave.”

  “You should command her.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Your Grace, she is the queen. You made this child Queen of England. Between her upbringing in your houses and the king’s indulgence, she has been taught no sense whatsoever. I shall wait until she goes to dinner, and then I shall have everything set to rights; tomorrow all this will be forgotten, and she will go on progress. Everything she needs will be packed, and anything she has left behind she will buy new.”

  The duke shrugs and turns from the room. “Anyway, it’s you I wanted to see,” he says. “Come out into the hall. I cannot stand this women’s noise.”

  He takes my hand and leads me out of the room. The sentry stands to one side of the door, and we move away so he cannot listen.

  “She is discreet with Culpepper at least,” he says bluntly. “No one has any idea. How many times has he bedded her?”

  “Half a dozen,” I say. “And I am glad that there is no talk of her in the court. But here in her rooms at least two of her women know that she loves him. She looks for him; her face lights up when she sees him. She has gone missing at least once in the last week. But the king comes to her rooms at night, and in the day there is someone always with her. Nobody could prove anything against them.”

  “You will have to find a way for them when they are on progress,” he says. “Traveling from one house to another, there must be opportunities. It is no good for us if they can meet only seldom. We need a son from this girl; she has to be serviced until she is in pup.”

  I raise my eyebrows at his vulgarity, but I nod in agreement. “I will help her,” I say. “She can plan no better than a kitten.”

  “Let her plan like a bitch in heat,” he says. “As long as he beds her.”

  “And my affair?” I remind him. “You said that you were thinking of a husband for me?”

  The duke smiles. “I have written to the French count. How would you like to be Madame la Comtesse?”

  “Oh,” I breathe. “He has replied?”

  “He has indicated an interest. There will be your dowry to be considered and any settlement on your children. But I can promise you this, if you can get that girl with child by the end of the summer, then I shall kiss your hand as Madame la Comtesse by winter.”

  I am almost panting in my eagerness. “And is he a young man?”

  “He is about your age, and with a good fortune. But he would not insist on your living in France; I have already asked. He would be happy that you remain as lady-in-waiting to the queen and would only ask that you have a house in both England and France.”

  “He has a château?”

  “All but a palace.”

  “Have I met him? Do I know him? Oh, who is he?”

  He pats my hand. “Be patient, my most useful of all the Boleyn girls. Do your work, and you shall have your reward. We have an agreement, do we not?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We do. I shall keep my side of the bargain.” I look at him expectantly.

  “And I shall keep mine, of course.”

  Katherine, Lincoln Castle,

  August 1541

  I had feared it would be terribly dull, traveling round the country while people turn out to stare and offer us loyal addresses at every market cross. The king sits in state in every town hall in the country and I grit my teeth to stop myself yawning while fat aldermen in gowns address him in Latin – at least I suppose it’s Latin. Thomas is very naughty and swears it is Ethiopian because we have got lost and are in Africa – but actually, it’s tremendous fun. The speeches are very dull indeed, but as soon as they are over there’s a masque or a dance or an entertainment or a picnic or something of the sort, and it is much more fun being the queen on progress than being the queen at court because every few days we move to another castle or house, and I have no time to get bored.

  Here at Lincoln the king commanded that I and all my ladies should dress in Lincoln green, and it was like a masque when we entered the town. The king himself was in dark green with a bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder and a rakish bonnet with a feather.

  “Is he Robin Hood, or is he Sherwood Forest?” Thomas Culpepper whispered to me, and I had to put my gloves to my mouth to smother a laugh.

  Everywhere we have gone there has been Tom Culpepper, catching my eye and making me giggle so even the most tedious loyal address is a moment when I can feel his eyes on me. And the king is much better in both health and temper, which is a relief for all of us. He was very irritated by the rebellion in the North, but that seems to be defeated now, and of course he beheaded the poor Countess of Salisbury, which upset me very much at the time, but now all the wicked people are defeated or dead and we can sleep easily in our beds again, he tells me. He has made an alliance with the emperor against the King of France that will defend us from France, he tells me – they are our enemies now, voilà! – and this is a good thing, too.

  I should not waste my time grieving for the countess for she was very old, after all, as old as my grandmother. But best of all, when we get to York, we are going to meet with the Scots court and with the king’s nephew King James of Scotland. The king is looking forward to this, and I am, too, for there will be a great meeting of the two countries and jousting and tournaments, and the English knights are certain to win for we have the bravest men and the best fighters. Tom Culpepper will wear his new suit of armor, and I will be Queen of the Joust, with my new curtains on the royal box. I cannot wait t
o see it.

  I have practiced everything. I have practiced walking down the steps into the box and looking round to smile. I have practiced sitting in the box, and I have practiced my gracious queen face, one that I shall put on when people cheer for me. And I have practiced how I shall lean over the box and hand out the prizes.

  “You might as well practice how to breathe,” Joan Bulmer says rudely.

  “I like to get things right,” I say. “Everyone will be looking at me. I like to do it right.”

  There will be more than a hundred English knights jousting, and I believe every single one of them has asked to carry my favor. Thomas Culpepper took the opportunity to come to my presence chamber at Lincoln Castle, to kneel to me and ask if he could be my knight.

  “Has the king ordered you to ask me?” I say, knowing very well that he has not.

  He has the grace to look down, as if embarrassed. “This is my own suit from my own beating heart,” he says.

  “You are not always so humble,” I say. I am thinking of a very hard kiss and his hand clutching at my buttocks as if he would lift me onto his cock then and there in the gallery before we left Hampton Court.

  He glances up at me, one quick, dark glance, and I know that he is thinking of that, too. “Sometimes I dare to hope.”

  “You certainly act like a hopeful man,” I say.

  He giggles and ducks his head. I put my gloves to my lips to bite them so I don’t laugh aloud.

  “I know my mistress and my queen,” he says seriously. “My heart beats faster when she just walks past me.”

  “Oh, Thomas,” I whisper.

  This is so delightful that I wish it could go on all day. One of my ladies comes toward us, and I think she is going to interrupt. But Lady Rochford says something to her, and she is distracted, and pauses.

  “I always have to walk past,” I say. “I can never pause for as long as I would wish.”