“You may question whom you like,” I say as bravely as I can. “I have nothing to hide. I live as the king bid me when we made our agreement. I live on my own; I entertain no more than is right and proper; my rents are collected and my bills are paid. As far as I can tell my servants are under good and sober discipline, and we attend church and pray according to the king’s rule.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” he says. He looks at my white face and smiles. “Please, do not be fearful. Only the guilty should show fear.”
I crack my lips into a smile, and I go to my chair and sit down. His eye turns to the fallen crucifix and the cloth pulled down from the prie-dieu, and he raises an eyebrow, shocked.
“You have thrown down the cross of Our Lord?” he whispers in horror.
“I had an accident.” Even to myself it sounds feeble. “Pick it up, Lotte.”
He exchanges a glance with one of the other men as if this is evidence to be noted, then he goes from the room.
Katherine, Syon Abbey,
Christmas 1541
Let me see, what do I have now?
I have my six gowns still, and my six hoods. I have two rooms with a view over the garden, which runs down to the river where I can now walk if I wish; but I don’t wish as it is freezing cold and rains all the time. I have a handsome fireplace of stone, and a good store of wood is kept in for me as the walls are cold and when the wind blows from the east it is damp. I pity the nuns who had to live here for all their lives, and I pray God that I shall be released soon. I have a copy of the Bible and the prayer book. I have a crucifix (very plain, no jewels) and a kneeler. I have the reluctant attendance of a pair of maids to help me dress and Lady Baynton and two others to sit with me in the afternoon. None of them are very merry.
I think that is all I have now.
What makes it worse is that it is Christmastime, and I so love Christmas. Last year I was dancing with Queen Anne at court, and the king was smiling at me. I had my pendant with the twenty-six table diamonds and my rope of pearls and Queen Anne had brought me my horse with violet velvet trappings. I danced with Thomas every evening, and Henry said we were the prettiest couple in all of the world. Thomas held my hand at midnight on Christmas Eve, and when he gave me a kiss on the cheek, he whispered in my ear: “You are beautiful.”
I can still hear it, I can still hear his whisper: “You are beautiful.” Now he is dead; they cut his sweet head from his body. I may be still beautiful, but I have not even a looking glass to comfort me with that.
It may be a stupid thing to say, but more than anything else I am so surprised how much things have changed in such a short time. The Christmas feast when I was newly married and the most beautiful queen in the world was only last year, just this time last year, and now here am I in the worst state that I have ever known, and perhaps the worst state that anyone could be in. I think now that I am learning great wisdom that comes from suffering. I have been a very foolish girl, but now I am grown to a woman. Indeed, I think I would be a good woman if I had a chance to be queen again. I really think I would be a good queen this time. And since my love, Thomas, is dead, I expect I would be faithful to the king.
When I think of Thomas dying for my sake, I can hardly bear it. When I think he is no longer here, he is just gone, I cannot understand it. I never thought of death before; I never realized that it is so very, very final. I cannot believe that I will never see him again in this world. It quite makes me believe in heaven, and I hope I will meet him there, and we will be in love again; only this time I won’t be married.
I am sure that when they release me everyone will see that I am a better person now. I have not been tried as poor Thomas was tried, or tortured as they tortured him. But I have still suffered, in my own foolish way. I have suffered thinking about him, and about the love we had, which has cost him his life. I have suffered thinking of his trying to keep our secret and fearing for me. And I miss him. I am still in love with him even though he is not in the world and cannot be in love with me. I am still in love with him even if he is dead, and I miss him like any young woman would miss her lover in the first few months of their love affair. I keep hoping to see him and then remembering that I will never see him again. This is more painful than I had thought possible.
Anyway, the only good thing to come out of this is that now there is no one to give evidence against me since Thomas and Francis are both dead. They were the only ones who knew what took place, and they cannot bear witness against me. This must mean that the king intends to release me. Perhaps in the New Year he will release me, and I shall have to go and live somewhere terribly dreary. Or perhaps the king will forgive me now that Thomas is dead, and he will let me be his sister like Queen Anne, and then at least I could come to court for the summer and for the Christmas feast. Maybe next Christmas I shall be happy again. Maybe I shall have wonderful presents next year, and I shall look back on this sorrowful Christmas and laugh at myself for being so silly as to think my life was over.
The days are terribly long, even though it gets light so late and dark so early. I am glad that I am being ennobled by suffering because otherwise it would seem such a waste of time. I am throwing away my youth in this dull place. I will be seventeen next birthday, practically an old woman. It is shocking that I should have to wait for week after week in this place, as my youth drags away. I have kept a little counter of the days on the wall by the window and when I look at the scratched marks they seem to march onward forever. Some days I miss a day and don’t put it on, so that the time does not seem so long. But that makes the count wrong, which is a nuisance. It is so stupid not to be able even to keep count of the days. But I’m not sure that I really want to know. What if he keeps me here for years? No, that can’t happen. I expect the king will spend Christmas at Whitehall, and after Twelfth Night he will order them to release me. But I won’t even know when that is, because I have muddled up my own counting. Sometimes I think my grandmother was right and I am a fool, and that is very dispiriting.
I am afraid the king will still be very displeased with me, though I am sure he will not blame me for everything as Archbishop Cranmer seems to do. But when I see him, I am sure he will forgive me. He is like the duchess’s old steward, who would tell us all that we should be punished for some naughtiness like jumping in the hay or breaking the boughs of the apple trees, and he would beat one or two of the boys. But when it came to me, and I would look up at him with tears in my eyes, he would pat my cheek and tell me that I must not cry, that it was all the fault of the older children. I expect the king will be like that when I actually get to see him. Surely, since he knows everything, he knows that I was always a silly girl and always very easily led astray? And surely, in his wisdom, he will understand that I fell in love and couldn’t help myself? Someone as old as he is must understand that a girl can fall in love and quite forget right and wrong? A girl can fall in love and think of nothing but when she can next see the boy she loves. And now that poor Thomas has been taken from me and I will never see him again, surely I have been punished enough?
Jane Boleyn, the Tower of London,
January 1542
And so we wait.
The king must be minded to forgive the whore his queen, since he waits for so long. And if he forgives her, he forgives me, and I escape the axe again.
Ha-ha! What a joke my life has become that I should end up here in the Tower where my husband was kept, awaiting the fate that met him, when I could have walked away from court and the court life, when I could have been safe and snug in Norfolk. I had escaped once, escaped with my title and a pension. Why ever did I rush to come back?
I did truly think I would set him free. I did think that if I confessed everything on his behalf, then they would see that she was a witch, as they called her, and an adulteress, as they called her, and they would see he was ensnared and enslaved and they would release him to be with me, and I should have taken him home to our house, Rochford Hall, and made
him well again, and we could have had our children and we could have been happy.
That was my plan; that was what should have happened. I did think that she would go to the block and he would be spared. I did think I would see her lovely neck hacked in two but that I would have my husband safe in my own bed at last. I thought I would comfort him for the loss of her and that he would come to see that she was no great loss.
Not really.
No, not really.
I suppose sometimes I thought that she would be killed and it would be her deserts for the scheming whore she was, and that he would die, too, and it would be her fault, and he would realize on the gallows that he should have left her and loved me. That I had always been his true wife and she was always a bad sister. I suppose I thought that if it took him to get to the very steps of the gallows to see what a false friend she was, then it was worth doing. I never really believed that they would die and I would never see them again. I never really believed that they could disappear from my life, from this life, and I would never see them again. How could one think that? That there could be a day when they would never stroll through the door, arm in arm, laughing at some private joke, her hood as high as his dark curly head, her hand on his arm, equally assured, equally beautiful, equally regal. The cleverest, wittiest, most glamorous couple at court. What woman, married to him, and looking at her, would not wish them both dead rather than walking forever, arm in arm, in their beauty and their pride?
Oh, God, I hope that spring comes early this year; the dark afternoons are like a nightmare that goes on forever in this little room. It is dark till eight in the morning and then dusk by three. Sometimes they forget to replace the candles, and I have to sit by the fire for light. I am cold all the time. If spring comes early and I can see the morning light coming up golden over the stone windowsill, then I will have lived through these dark days, and I can be sure that I will live to see others. By my reckoning – and who knows the king better than I? – if he does not have her beheaded by Easter, then he will not have it done at all.
If he does not have her beheaded by Easter, then I will escape, because why would he spare her and kill me, who is accused with her? If she keeps her wits about her and denies everything, then she could live. I hope that someone has told her that if she denies Culpepper but says that she was married in the sight of God to Dereham, then she can live. If she declares herself Dereham’s wife, then she has not then cuckolded the king but only Dereham; and since his head is on London Bridge, he is in no position to complain. I could laugh, it is such an obvious escape for her; but if no one tells her of it, then she might die for the lack of wit.
Dear God, why would I, who was sister to Anne Boleyn, ever plot with such a half-wit as that slut Katherine?
I was wrong to put my faith in the Duke of Norfolk. I thought that we were working together; I thought that he would find me a husband and that I would have a great match. I know now that he is not to be trusted. I should have known that before. He used me to keep Katherine in check, and then he used me again to put her in the way of Culpepper. And now he has gone to the country and his own stepmother, her son, and his wife are here in the Tower somewhere, and they will all die for their parts in entrapping the king. He will not lift a finger to save his stepmother; he will not lift a finger to save his little niece. God knows, he will not lift a finger to save me.
If I survive this, if I am spared this, I shall find some way to report him for treason, and I shall see him confined to one room, living in daily terror, waiting for the sound of their building the scaffold below the window, waiting for the Keeper of the Tower to come and say that tomorrow is the day, and tomorrow he will die. If I survive this, I shall make him pay for what he said to me, for what he called me, for what he did to them. He will suffer in this little room as I am suffering now.
When I think of this happening to me, I could go mad with terror. My only comfort, my only safety, is that if I go mad with terror, they will not be able to execute me. A madman cannot be beheaded. I could laugh if I were not afraid of the sound of my laughter echoing off the walls. A madman cannot be executed, so at the very end of this, if it goes as badly as it might, I shall escape the block where Katherine dies. I shall pretend to be mad, and they will send me back to Blickling with a keeper, and slowly I shall recover my wits.
Some days I rave a little so that they can see I have the tendency. Some days I cry out that it is raining, and I let them find me sobbing because the slates outside my window are shining with the wet. Some nights I cry out that the moon is whispering happy dreams to me. I frighten myself, to tell the truth. For some days, when I am not acting mad, I think that I must be mad, I must have been mad, quite mad, perhaps since my childhood. Mad to marry George, who never loved me, mad to love and hate him with such a passion, mad to find such intense pleasure in thinking of him with a lover, mad to bear witness against him, maddest of all to love him with such jealousy that I could send him to the gallows…
Stop, I must stop. I can’t think about this now. I cannot have this before me now. I am to act mad. I am not to drive myself mad. I am to pretend to madness, not feel it. I shall remember that everything I could do to save George, I did do. Anything anyone says against that is a lie. I was a good and faithful wife, and I tried to save my husband and my sister-in-law. And I tried to save Katherine, too. I cannot be blamed if the three of them were all as bad as one another. Indeed, I should be pitied for having such ill luck in my life.
Anne, Richmond Palace,
February 1542
I am seated in a chair in my room, my hands clasped in my lap, three lords from the Privy Council before me, their faces grave. They have sent for Dr. Harst at last, so this must be the moment of judgment after weeks of questioning my household, seeing my household accounts, and even talking to my stable boys about where I ride out and who goes with me.
Clearly, they have been inquiring as to whether I have secret meetings, but whether they suspect me of plotting with the emperor, with Spain, with France, or the Pope, I cannot know. They may suspect me of taking a lover; they may accuse me of joining a coven of witches. They have asked everyone where I have been and who regularly visits me. It is the company I keep that is the focus of their inquiry, but I cannot know what is their suspicion.
Since I am innocent of plotting, lust, or witchcraft, I should be able to hold my head up and declare my conscience clear, but there is a girl far younger than me on trial for her life, and there are men and women of absolute purity burned to death in this country merely for disagreeing with the king about the raising of the Host. Innocence is not enough anymore.
I hold up my head anyway, for I know that when a power far greater comes against me, whether it be my brother in his wanton cruelty, or the King of England in his vain madness, it is always better to keep my head up and my courage high and wait for the worst that can come. Dr. Harst, by contrast, is sweating; there are beads on his forehead, and every now and then he mops his face with a grubby handkerchief.
“There has been an allegation,” says Wriothsley pompously.
I look at him coolly. I have never liked him nor he me, but by God, he serves Henry. Whatever Henry wants this man will deliver to him with a veneer of legality. We shall see what Henry wants now.
“The king has heard that you have given birth to a child,” he says. “We were told that a boy was born to you this summer and has been hidden away by your confederates.”
Dr. Harst’s jaw drops almost to his chest. “What is this?” he asks.
I keep my own face completely serene. “It is a lie,” I say. “I have known no man since I parted from His Grace the king. And as you yourself proved then: I did not know him. The king himself swore I was a virgin then; I am a virgin still. You may ask my maids that I have not borne a child.”
“We have asked your maids,” he replies; he is enjoying this. “We have questioned every one of them, and we have received very different answers. You have some ene
mies in your household.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” I say. “And I am at fault for not keeping them in better order. Sometimes maids lie. But that is my only fault.”
“They tell us worse than this,” he says.
Dr. Harst has flushed scarlet; he is gulping for air. He is wondering, as I am, what could be worse than a secret birth? If this is the preparation for a show trial and an accusation of treason, then the case is being carefully built against me. I doubt that I can defend myself against sworn witnesses and someone’s newborn baby.
“What could be worse?” I ask.
“They say that there was no child, but that you pretended to give birth to a son, a boy, and that you have assured your confederates that this is the king’s child and heir to the throne of England. You plan with treasonous Papists to put him on the throne of England and usurp the Tudors. What do you say to this, Madam?”
My throat is very dry; I can feel myself searching for words, hunting for a persuasive reply, but nothing comes. If they want to, they can arrest me now, on this allegation alone. If they have a witness to say that I pretended to give birth, that I claimed it was the king’s child, then they have a witness to prove that I am guilty of treason and I shall join Katherine at Syon and we will die together, two disgraced queens on one scaffold.
“I say it is untrue,” I reply simply. “Whoever has told you this is a liar and a false witness. I know of no plot against the king, and I would be party to nothing against him. I am his sister and his faithful subject as he bid me to be.”
“You deny that you have horses waiting to take you to France?” he says in a sudden rush.
The Boleyn Inheritance Page 44