The Boleyn Inheritance

by Philippa Gregory

  “I deny it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realize this is a mistake, for they will know that we have horses waiting.

  Sir Thomas smiles at me; he knows he has caught me. “You deny it?” he asks again.

  “They are waiting for me,” Dr. Harst says, his voice trembling. “I have debts, as you know; I am ashamed to say that I have many debts. I thought if my debtors became too pressing that I should go quickly to Cleves and speak to my master for more money. I have had the horses waiting in case my debtors came for me.”

  I look at him in absolute incredulity. I am amazed at the quickness of his lie, but they cannot know that. He bows. “I beg your pardon, Lady Anne. I should have told you. But I was ashamed.”

  Sir Thomas glances at the two other councillors; they nod to him. It is an explanation, if not the one they would have preferred.

  “So,” he says briskly. “Your two servants who made up this story against you have been arrested for slander and will be taken to the Tower. The king is determined that your reputation shall be unsullied.”

  The shift is almost too much for me. It sounds as if I am to be released from suspicion, and at once I think it is a trick. “I am grateful to His Majesty for his fraternal care,” I say carefully. “I count myself his most loyal subject.”

  He nods. “Good. We will go now. The council will want to know that your name has been cleared.”

  “You are leaving?” I ask. I know that they hope to catch me in a moment of relief. They do not know how deeply afraid I am. I don’t think I will ever celebrate my escape, for I will never trust it.

  In a dream I rise from my chair and walk with him from the room; we go down the great stairs to the front door, where his escort is waiting, mounted with the royal standard before them. “I trust the king is well,” I say.

  “His heart is broken,” Sir Thomas says frankly. “It is a bad business, a bad business indeed. His leg is giving him much pain, and Katherine Howard’s behavior has caused him great unhappiness. The whole court has been in mourning this Christmastide, almost as if she were dead.”

  “Will she be released?” I ask.

  He shoots me a quick, guarded look. “What do you think?”

  I shake my head; I am not such a fool to speak my thoughts, especially not when I have just been on trial myself.

  If I ever did tell the truth, I would say that I have thought for some months that the king is out of his wits and that no one has the courage to challenge him. He could release her and take her back as his wife, he could call her his sister, or he could behead her, as the mood takes him. He could summon me for marriage, or he could behead me for treason. He is a monstrous madman, and nobody but me seems to know it.

  “The king will be judge,” he says, confirming my silent thoughts. “He alone is guided by God.”

  Jane Boleyn, the Tower of London,

  February 1542

  I laugh, I skip about, sometimes I look out of the window and talk to the seagulls. There is to be no trial, no questioning, no chance to clear my name, so there is no advantage to having my wits about me. They do not dare put that idiot Katherine before a court, or she has refused to go; I don’t know which, and I don’t care. All I know is what they tell me. They speak very loudly to me, as if I were deaf or old, rather than mad. They say that parliament has passed an act of attainder against Katherine and against me for treason and conspiracy. We have been judged and found guilty without trial, without judge or jury or defense. This is Henry’s justice. I look blank and giggle, I sing a little song and ask when we shall go hunting. It can’t be long now. In a few days I expect them to fetch Katherine from Syon and then they will behead her.

  They send the king’s own doctor, Dr. Butt, to see me. He comes every day and sits in a chair in the center of my room and watches me from under thick eyebrows as if I were one of the beasts. He is to judge if I am mad. This makes me laugh out loud without pretense. If this doctor knew when someone was mad, he would have locked up the king six years ago, before he murdered my husband. I curtsy to the good doctor, and dance around him, and laugh at his questioning when he asks me for my name and for my family. I am absolutely convincing; I can see it in his pitying gaze. Undoubtedly he will report to the king that I am out of my wits, and they will have to release me.

  Listen! Listen! I hear it! The noise of saws and hammers. I peep out of the window and I clap my hands as if delighted to see the workmen building the scaffold: Katherine’s scaffold. They will behead her under my window. If I dare, I can watch it all happen. I shall have the best view of everyone. When she is dead, they will send me away, probably to my family at Blickling, and then I can quietly and secretly grow sane again. I shall take my time; I want no one inquiring after me. I shall dance about for a year or two, singing songs and talking to clouds, and at the end of it, when the new king, King Edward, is on the throne and the old scores forgotten I shall return to court and serve the new queen as well as I can.

  Oh! There’s a plank gone down with a clatter and a young man cuffed for carelessness. I shall set up a cushion on the window ledge and watch them all day; it is as good as a masque at court to see them measuring and sawing and building. What a fuss to make about building such a stage when the show will last for only a few minutes! When they bring me my dinner, I clap my hands and point, and the warders shake their heads and put down the dishes and go quietly away.

  Katherine, Syon Abbey,

  February 1542

  It is a morning like every other morning, quiet, nothing to do, no entertainment, no amusement, no company. I am so bored with everything and with myself that when I hear the tramp of feet on the path outside my window, I am absolutely delighted at the thought of something happening – I am beyond caring what. I run like a child to the tall window, and I look out, and there is a royal escort marching up the path through the garden from the river. They have come by barge, and there is my uncle the duke’s standard, and there are the men in his livery, and there he is himself, looking powerful and bad-tempered as always, at the head of them, and half a dozen Privy Councillors with him.

  At last! At last! I am so relieved that I could weep to see them. It is my uncle returned to me! My uncle come back to tell me what to do. At last I am to be freed. At last he has come for me, and I am to be released. I should think I shall be taken by my uncle to one of his houses in the country, which will not be very amusing, but better than here. Or perhaps I shall have to go far away, perhaps France. France would be wonderful, except I cannot speak French, or at any rate only “voilà!” but surely they must mostly all speak English? And if not, then they can learn?

  The door opens and the warden of my household comes in. His eyes are filled with tears. “Madam,” he says,“they have come for you.”

  “I know!” I say jubilantly. “And you needn’t pack my gowns either, for I don’t care if I ever see them again. I shall order new. Where am I going?”

  The door opens a little wider, and there is my uncle himself, looking stern as he must, for this is obviously to be a very solemn scene.

  “Your Grace!” I say. I can hardly stop myself giving him a wink. So we have got through, have we? Here we are again. Him, looking stern; and me, waiting for my orders. He will have some plan to have me back on the throne and forgiven within a month. I thought I was in grave trouble and that he had deserted me; but here he is, and wherever he goes, prosperity always follows. I take a good look at his face as I come up smiling out of my curtsy, and I see he is looking terribly solemn, so I look serious, too. I cast my eyes down, and I look wonderfully penitent. I am quite pale from being indoors all the time, and I really think that with my eyes down and my lips slightly pouting I must look utterly saintly.

  “Your Grace,” I say in a soft, mournful tone.

  “I bring you news of your sentence,” he says.

  I wait.

  “The king’s parliament has consulted and has passed a Bill of Attainder against you.”

  I
f I knew what this is, I would know better how to respond. As it is, I think it best just to widen my eyes and look agreeable. I suppose that a Bill of Attainder is some kind of official forgiveness.

  “The king has given his assent.”

  Yes, yes, but so what? What does this mean for me?

  “You will be taken to the Tower, and you will be executed in private on Tower Green as soon as may be. Your lands and goods are forfeit to the Crown.”

  I really have no idea what he is talking about. Besides, thanks to his poor protection of my royal fortune, I now have no lands and goods to speak of anyway. I haven’t forgotten Thomas Seymour taking my own jewels away from me as if they were still belonging to his sister.

  The duke looks a bit surprised at my silence. “Do you understand?”

  I say nothing but still look saintly.

  “Katherine! Do you understand?”

  “I don’t know what attainted means,” I confess. It sounds like a joint of meat that has gone off.

  He looks at me as if I am a half-wit. “Attainder,” he corrects me. “Not attainted. Attainder.”

  I shrug. Who cares how it is said? Does it mean that I go back to court?

  “It means that parliament has sentenced you to death and that the king has given his assent,” he says quietly. “It is to be done without trial. You are to die, Katherine. You will be beheaded on the green in the Tower.”

  “Die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  I look at him. He must have a plan. “What should I do?” I ask him in a whisper.

  “You should acknowledge your sins and ask for forgiveness,” he says promptly.

  I am so relieved I could almost weep. Of course I will be forgiven if I say I am sorry. “What should I say?” I demand. “Tell me exactly what I must say.”

  He produces a rolled sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket. He always has a plan. Thank God for him, he always has a plan. I unroll it and look at him. It is dreadfully long. He nods to me; apparently I have to read it all. I start to read out loud.

  The first paragraph is me acknowledging my very great crime against the king, against the most high God and the whole English nation, which I think is rather an exaggeration since all I did was what hundreds of other young women do every day, especially when they are married to old, disagreeable men; and in my case I had been very unkindly treated. Anyway, I read the words on the paper and the duke nods and the councillors with him nod, too, so it is obviously the right thing to say, and everyone is pleased with me, which is always the best way to be. I wish he had given me a copy of this earlier to practice with. I like to do things right when people are watching. I unroll the scroll to the next section and I say that I implore His Majesty not to impute my crime to my kindred and family but to extend his unbounded mercy and benevolence to them all so that they don’t suffer for my faults.

  I give my uncle a hard look at this, for it is clear to me that he is making sure that he does not suffer for my troubles. His expression is perfectly bland. Then I ask the king to give my clothing to my maids after my death as I have nothing else to give them. This is so sad that I find I can hardly read it aloud. Fancy that! Me, with all I have owned, with nothing to give! Fancy me giving my clothes away because I will never wear them again! And how ridiculous to think that I would care a groat about what happens to those vile six gowns, six pairs of sleeves, six kirtles, and six French hoods without a single jewel, in the most miserable colors I can imagine. They can burn them on a bonfire for all I care.

  But despite the gowns and my uncle saving his own skin, by the time I have finished my speech I am weeping at the sadness of it. All of the councillors look very grieved, and it is a poignant scene that they can report to the king; I have no doubt but that he will be moved at the thought of my begging pardon for others and giving away my little wardrobe. It is so sad that it makes me cry, although I know that it’s all make-believe. If I thought it was true, I would break down altogether.

  My uncle nods. I have done what he wants, and now it is up to him to persuade the king that I am utterly penitent and ready for death. That should be all anyone can ask for, I should think. They all troop off the way they came and I have to sit myself down in my one chair, in my dull gown, and wait for them to come back and tell me that since I am so very sorry I am quite forgiven.

  I am waiting for the barge this time, I am up at the window from terribly early in the morning. Usually, with nothing to get up for and nothing to do, I try to sleep through breakfast all the way till dinner, but today I am certain that they will come with my royal pardon and I want to look my best. As soon as it is light I ring for my maid to come and lay out my dresses. Hmm, such a choice I have before me! I have a gown of black, two of very dark blue, almost black, a gown of dark green that it is almost black, a gown of gray, and just in case I need two, another gown of black. So what shall I wear? However shall I choose? I take the gown of black, but I wear it with the dark green sleeves and a dark green hood that will symbolize my penitence and my love of Tudor green to those who take an interest in these things. It makes my eyes look beautiful as well, which is always a good thing.

  I don’t know how this will be done, and I always rather like to be prepared for these ceremonies. My Master of the Household always used to tell me where I should stand and how I should look, and I like to practice. It comes from being made queen while still quite young, and not really brought up to it. But as far as I know, no queen has ever been forgiven for adultery and treason and all the rest of it, so I suppose we shall just have to make it up as we go along. At any rate, that old wolf my uncle will no doubt guide me through it all.

  I am dressed and waiting by nine in the morning, but nobody comes. I hear Mass and take breakfast in sulky silence, and still nothing. But then, just before noon, I hear the welcome tramp of feet on the stones of the path, and I dash to the window, see my uncle’s black square hat bobbing along, the staves of office in the hands of the other councillors, the royal standard before them, and I rush back to my seat and sit down, put my feet together, my hands in my lap, and cast down my eyes in great penitence.

  They open the double doors, and everyone comes trooping in, dressed in their best. I rise to my feet and curtsy to my uncle as I should, since he is head of my house, but he no longer bows to me as his queen. I stand and wait. I am surprised he doesn’t look more relieved that this is all over.

  “We have come to take you to the Tower,” he says.

  I nod. I had thought we would go to Kenninghall but perhaps this is even better; the king often uses the Tower as his London palace, perhaps I am to meet him there. “As you wish, my lord duke,” I say sweetly.

  He looks a little surprised at my demure tone. I have to try very hard not to giggle.

  “Katherine, you are to be executed,” he says. “You will go to the Tower as a condemned traitor.”

  “Traitor?” I repeat.

  “I told you last time,” he says impatiently. “You were convicted by a Bill of Attainder. I told you. You are not required to stand trial; you understood that. You confessed your sins. That confession has been entered against your name. Now the time has come for the sentence.”

  “I confessed so that I would be forgiven,” I point out.

  He looks at me quite exasperated. “But you have not been forgiven,” he says. “All that was left to agree was the sentence.”

  “And?” I say a little pertly.

  He takes a deep breath as if to dispel his irritation. “His Grace has agreed that you shall be put to death.”

  “He will forgive me when I get to the Tower?” I suggest.

  To my increasing anxiety he shakes his head. “For God’s sake, girl, don’t be such an idiot! You cannot hope for that. There is no reason to hope for it. When he first heard what you had done, he drew his sword and said he would kill you himself. It is over, Katherine. You must prepare yourself for death.”

&
nbsp; “That can’t happen,” I say. “I’m only sixteen. Nobody could put me to death when I’m only sixteen.”

  “They can,” he says bleakly. “Believe me, they will.”

  “The king will stop them.”

  “It is his own wish.”

  “You will stop them.”

  His eyes are as cold as a fish on a marble slab. “I will not.”

  “Well, somebody must stop them!”

  He turns his head. “Take her,” he says.

  Half a dozen men march into the room, the royal guard who used to parade so handsomely for me.

  “I shan’t go,” I say. I am really afraid now. I stand to my tallest height, and I scowl at them. “I shan’t go. You can’t make me.”

  They hesitate a little, and look at my uncle. He makes a quick chopping gesture with his hand. “Take her,” he says again.

  I turn and run into my privy chamber, swinging the door behind me, but it delays them for only a moment; they catch it before it bangs, they are after me so quickly. I lay hold of one of the posts of the bed, and I latch my fingers around it. “I shan’t go!” I shout. “You can’t make me. You can’t touch me! I am Queen of England! Nobody can touch me!”

  One of the men grabs me around the waist. The other reaches forward and unlaces my hands; as soon as my hands are free I slap the first one round the face as hard as I can, and he lets me go. But a third man grabs me again, and the second has my hands this time so though I struggle, he forces them behind my back and I hear one of the sleeves tear. “Let me go!” I scream. “You can’t hold me. I am Katherine, Queen of England. You can’t touch me, my person is sacred. Let me go!”

  My uncle stands in the doorway, his face as dark as the devil. He nods to a man standing beside me, who bends down and grabs at my feet. I try to kick him, but he takes me as if I were a little bucking foal, and the three of them shuffle out of the room with me held between them. My ladies are in tears; the Warden of the Household is white with horror.