The queen’s ladies, delighted to return to England away from the hotly competitive French court, flaunt their French fashions and practice their French dances. Some of them have even assumed French accents that I find ridiculous, but are generally regarded as very sophisticated—or as they would say themselves: très chic. The most exotic and certainly the vainest of them all is Anne Boleyn, sister to Mary and George, who, thanks to her father’s charm, has spent her childhood at the French royal courts and quite forgotten any English modesty that she might have had. With her return from France we now have Sir Thomas’s full family at court: George Boleyn, his son who has served the king for almost all of his life; Elizabeth, his wife; and his newly married daughter Mary, who both serve with me in the queen’s rooms.
My cousin the Duke of Buckingham is increasingly excluded from this French-mad, fashion-mad court, and he is more protective of his family dignity, for my daughter Ursula has given him a grandson, and there is a new little Henry Stafford whose cradle linen is all embroidered with ducal strawberry leaves, and the duke is proud of another generation bearing royal blood.
There is one truly terrible moment when the king, washing his hands in a golden bowl before his dinner, steps to his throne under his cloth of estate and sits as the cardinal summons the server to his side, and dips his own fingers into the same gold bowl, into the king’s water. My cousin the duke bellows and knocks the bowl down, splashing water over the long red robes, raging like a madman. Henry turns at the noise, looks over his shoulder, and laughs as if it does not matter.
My cousin says something furious about how the dignity of the throne should not be usurped by upstarts, and Henry’s laugh stops short as he looks at my cousin. He looks at him with a long, level look as if he is thinking about something other than the spinning golden bowl which throws flashes of reflected light on the king’s riding boots, the cardinal’s splashed robe, my cousin’s stamping feet. For a moment, we all see it: at the word upstart Henry has the guarded, suspicious expression of his father.
I take leave from court for many of the days of this spring. I divide my time between supervising work on my London house, L’Erber, and staying with the Princess Mary. My duties as her Lady Governess should not really start until she enters the schoolroom, but she is such a clever little girl that I want her to begin lessons early and I love to read her bedtime story, to listen to her sing, to teach her prayers, and to dance with her in her rooms as my musicians play.
I am excused from court as the queen does not need me. She is happy in her rooms with her music and her reading, dining every night with the king and watching her ladies dance. She likes to know I am with her daughter, and often visits. The king is absorbed in a new flirtation but it is such a discreet affair that we only guess at it because he is writing love poetry, and every afternoon finds him bending over a blank page, nibbling at the end of his quill. Nobody knows who has caught his fancy this time. Neither the queen nor I can be troubled over the whimsical shifting of Henry’s attachments; there are so many girls, and they all smile and blush when the king looks at them, and he makes such a performance of his courtship, almost as if he wanted them to be reluctant. Perhaps one goes to his rooms for a private supper; perhaps she does not come back to the queen’s apartment till the early hours. Perhaps the king writes a poem or a new love song. The queen may not like it; but it hardly matters. It makes no real difference to the balance of power at court that is a deathly unstated struggle between the cardinal and the lords, between the cardinal and the queen, for the attention of the king. The girls are a diversion; they make no difference to this.
Besides, the king speaks strongly in favor of the sanctity of the holy sacrament of marriage. His sister Margaret, the Dowager Queen of Scotland, now sees the husband that she chose for love has turned into her enemy, and she wants to replace him in the country, and some say in her bed, with the Duke of Albany, her rival regent. Then we hear even worse. One of the northern lords writes to Thomas Wolsey to warn him bluntly that the king’s sister is asking her lover Albany to help her to get a divorce. The old commander predicts that there will be a murder, not an annulment.
Henry is greatly offended at the suggestion of loose behavior from his sister, and writes to her and her unwanted husband to remind them very grandly that the marriage bond is an indissoluble tie and marriage is a sacrament that no man can put asunder.
“However many laundry maids there may be,” I observe to Montague.
“Marriage is sacred,” Montague agrees with a little smile. “It cannot be set aside. And someone has to do the washing.”
I have much to do with my London house. The great vine that sprawls across the front is pulling down the masonry and threatening the roof. I have to put up a forest of wooden scaffolding to allow the workmen to get as high as the chimneys to trim the monster, and they take up saws and hatchets to hack through the thick boughs. Of course my neighbors complain that the road is blocked, and next thing I have a letter from the Lord Mayor bidding me keep the roadways clear. I ignore it completely. I am a countess, I can block all the roads in London if I want to.
The gardeners swear to me that this hard pruning will make the vine flower and fruit and I will be bathing in my own wine come the autumn. I laugh and shake my head. We have had such cold, wet weather in the last few years that I fear we will never make wine again in England. I don’t think we’ve had a good summer since my childhood. I seem to remember day after day of riding in glorious weather behind a great king, people coming out to wave and cheer for King Richard. We never seem to have summers like that anymore. Henry never makes a long progress through sunshine and acclaim. The golden summers of my childhood have gone; no one ever sees three suns in the sky anymore.
When we take the scaffolding down, I pave the road before my house so that the foul water the scullions throw into the street can run away. I make a great central ditch in the road and tell the lads in the stables that the dung is to be swept out of our courtyard and into the stream and from thence to the river. The stink of the town house is eased, and I am certain that we have fewer rats in the kitchen and the stores. It is obvious to anyone who walks down Dowgate Street that this is one of the greatest houses in London, as grand as a royal palace.
My steward comes to me as I am admiring my new paving stones and says quietly: “I would have a word with you, your ladyship.”
“Sir Thomas?” I turn to see Boleyn looking anxious at my elbow. “Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says shortly. He glances round. “I can’t speak here.”
I am reminded, with a sudden pang of fear, of the years where no one could speak in the street, where they checked the doors of their own houses before they would say a word. “Nonsense!” I say roundly. “But we may as well go inside, away from this noise.”
I lead the way into the shadowy hall and turn to the little door on the right. It is the downstairs records room for the steward of the household, so he can observe guests coming and going, receive messengers, and pay bills. There are two chairs, a table, and a double door so that no one can eavesdrop when he is giving instructions or reprimands. “There,” I say. “It’s quiet enough here. What’s the matter?”
“It’s the duke,” he says baldly. “Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.”
I seat myself in the chair behind the table, gesturing that he can sit opposite. “You want to speak to me about my cousin?” I ask.
He nods.
I have a sort of dread of what will come next. This is Ursula’s father-in-law; my grandson is in the Stafford cradle. “Go on.”
“He’s been arrested. In the Tower.”
Everything is suddenly very still, and quiet. I hear a rapid thudding noise and realize it is the sound of my heart beating, echoing in my ears. “For what?”
“Treason.”
The one word is like the whistle of an axe in the quiet room. Boleyn looks at me, his pale face filled with dread. I know that I a
m absolutely impassive, my jaw clamped shut to stop my teeth chattering with fear.
“He was summoned to London, to the king at Greenwich. He was getting into his own barge, going to His Grace, when the captain of the king’s yeomen stepped on board with his men and said that they were to go to the Tower. Just like that.”
“What do they say he has done?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Thomas begins.
“You do know,” I insist. “You said ‘treason.’ So tell me.”
He moistens his dry lips, swallows. “Prophesying,” he says. “He met with the Carthusians.”
This is no crime. I have met with the Carthusians, I worship in their chapels, we all do. They took Reginald into Sheen Priory and educated him, they raised him; they are a good order of religious men. “Nothing wrong with that,” I say stoutly. “Nothing wrong with them.”
“They said that they had a prophecy in their library at Sheen which says that people will acclaim the duke as king,” he goes on. “Parliament will offer him the crown as they did to Henry Tudor.”
I bite my lip and say nothing.
“The duke is supposed to have said that the king was accursed, and that there will be no legitimate son and heir,” Sir Thomas says very quietly. “He said that one of the queen’s ladies spoke of a curse on the Tudors. One of the queen’s ladies said that there would be no son.”
“Which lady? Do they have a name? For this indiscreet lady?” I can feel my hands start to tremble, and I hold them together in my lap before he sees. I remember that Sir Thomas is the Duke of Norfolk’s son-in-law, and it is the Duke of Norfolk as Lord High Steward who will try my cousin for treason. I wonder if Boleyn is here as my steward to warn me, or as the duke’s spy to report on me. “Who would say such a thing? Did your daughters speak of it?”
“Neither would say such a thing,” he says quickly. “It is the duke’s confessor, who has given evidence against him. And his steward, and his servants. Did your daughter ever speak of it?”
I shake my head at the riposte. The duke’s steward has stayed at my house; I have prayed with his confessor. My daughter lives with the duke and discusses everything with him. “My daughter would never hear or repeat such a thing,” I say. “And the duke’s confessor cannot speak against him. He is bound by the oath of the confessional. He cannot repeat what a man says in his prayers.”
“The cardinal now says that he can. It is a new ruling. The cardinal says that a priest’s duty to the king is greater than his oath to the Church.”
I am silenced. This cannot be. The cardinal cannot change the rules that protect the confessional, that make a priest as silent as God. “It is the cardinal gathering evidence against the duke?”
He nods. Exactly. Wolsey is destroying his rival for the king’s affection and attention. This has been a long campaign. The splash of water on the robe of cardinal red left a stain that will be blotted out, blood red. Wolsey wants revenge.
“What will happen to the duke?” I don’t need to ask because I know. I know the punishment for treason. Who would know better than I?
“If they find him guilty, he will be beheaded,” Boleyn says quietly.
He waits while I absorb the information that I know already. Then he says something even worse. “And, my lady, they are questioning others. They are suspicious that there is a plot. A faction.”
“Who? What others?”
“His family, his friends, his affinity.”
This is my family, these are my friends, this is my affinity. The accused is my cousin and friend, my daughter Ursula is married to his son.
“Who are they questioning, exactly?”
“His cousin and yours, George Neville.”
I take a little breath. “Is that all?”
“His son, your son-in-law, Henry Stafford.”
Geoffrey’s friend, Ursula’s husband. I take a little breath. “Anyone else?”
“Your son Montague.”
I choke. I can hardly breathe. The air in this tiny room is thick; I feel as if the walls are closing in. “Montague is innocent,” I say stoutly. “Has anyone named Arthur?”
“Not yet.”
We are intertwined like a plant: the Planta genista that we are named for. My daughter, Ursula, is married to the duke’s own son. He and I are cousins. My boys were raised in the house of my other cousin, George Neville, who is married to the duke’s daughter. My son Montague is married to Cousin George’s daughter. We could not be more closely related. It is the way of great families, marriage and intermarriage, working together as one force. This way we keep our wealth inside the families, concentrate our power, join our lands. But looked at with a critical eye, looked at with a suspicious, fearful eye, it gives the impression that we are a faction, a conspiracy.
At once I think of Geoffrey, serving as a page in the queen’s rooms. At least his loyalty must be unquestioned. He must be safe. If Geoffrey is safe, then I can face anything.
“No word against Geoffrey?” I say flatly.
He shakes his head.
“Will they question me?” I ask.
He turns just slightly away from me, a cold shoulder. “Yes. They are bound to. If there is anything in the house—”
“What do you mean?” I am furious with fear.
“I don’t know!” he bursts out. “I don’t know! How would I know? I don’t hold with prophecies and predictions and long-lost kings. I don’t have giants in my family tree, like you Nevilles. I don’t have three suns in the sky like you Yorks. I am not descended from a water goddess who comes out of a river to mate with mortals! When your family was founded, no one had ever heard of us. When your uncles were on the throne, mine were quiet City men. I don’t know what you might have, what you might have kept from those times—a banner or a standard, a bead-roll or letter. Anything that shows your descent, anything that shows your royal blood, any prophecy that you once had the throne and will have it again. But whatever you have, your ladyship, clear it out and burn it. Nothing is worth the risk of keeping.”
The first thing I do is send a message to Geoffrey and tell him to go at once to Bisham and stay there till he hears from me, to speak to no one and to receive no one. He is to tell the servants that he is sick, he is to give out that it might be the Sweat. If I know that he is safe, then I can fight for my other sons. I send my Master of Horse to the Tower of London to discover who is behind those high gray walls, and what is being said about them.
I send one of my ladies-in-waiting to Ursula and tell her to take her little son and go to L’Erber and stay there until we know what we should do. I send my page boy to Arthur and say that I am coming to court at once, that I will see him there.
I send for my barge and have them take me downriver. The court is at Greenwich and I sit quietly in my seat at the back of the barge with a couple of my ladies at my side and compose myself to be patient as the high towers come into sight over the tops of the fresh green trees.
The barge ties up at the pier and the rowers make a guard of honor with their oars as I step onshore. I have to wait until they are assembled and ready, and then I walk through them with a smile, controlling my desire to run to the queen’s rooms. I walk slowly up the graveled path and hear the noise from the stables as half a dozen riders come in and shout for their grooms. A guard swings open the private garden door to the queen’s stair. I nod my thanks and go up, but I don’t hurry, and my breath is steady and my heartbeat regular when I get to the top.
The guards outside her door salute me and stand aside as I go in to see the queen settled in the window seat, looking out at the garden, a beautifully embroidered linen shirt in her hands, one of her ladies reading from manuscript pages, the others sitting around and sewing. I see the Boleyn girls and their mother, I see Lord Morley’s daughter Jane Parker, the Spanish ladies, Lady Hussey, half a dozen others. They rise to curtsey to me as I curtsey to the queen, and then she waves them away and I kiss her on both cheeks and sit beside her.
&n
bsp; “That’s pretty,” I say, my voice light and indifferent.
She raises it up, as if to show me the detail of the black on white embroidery, so no one can see her lips as she whispers: “Have they taken your son?”
“Yes, Montague.”
“What’s the charge?”
I grit my teeth and manage a false smile, as if we were speaking of the weather. “Treason.”
Her blue eyes widen, but her face does not change. Anyone looking at us would think she was mildly interested in my news. “What does this mean?”
“I think it is the cardinal, moving against the duke: Wolsey against Buckingham.”
“I will speak with the king,” she says. “He must know this is baseless.” She hesitates as she sees my face. “It is baseless,” she says less certainly. “Isn’t it?”
“They say that he spoke of a curse on the Tudor line,” I tell her, my voice a thread of sound. “They say that a lady from your rooms spoke of a curse.”
She takes a little breath. “Not you?”
“No. Never.”
“Is your son accused of repeating this curse?”
“And my cousin,” I confess. “But, Your Grace, neither my sons nor my cousin George Neville have ever said or heard a word against the king. The Duke of Buckingham might be intemperate but he is not disloyal. If a great nobleman of this kingdom is going to be charged at the whim of an advisor, a man who is nothing more than one of the king’s servants, a man without birth or breeding, then none of us will be safe. There is always rivalry around the throne. But a loss of favor cannot lead to death. My cousin Edward Stafford is tactless; is he to die for it?”
She nods. “Of course. I will speak with the king.”
Ten years ago, she would have walked at once to his rooms and taken him to one side; a touch on his arm, a quick smile and he would have done what she told him. Five years ago she would have gone to his rooms, given him advice, and he would have been influenced by her opinion. Even two years ago she would have waited for him to come to her rooms before dinner and then told him the right thing to do and he would have listened. But now she knows that the king may be talking with the cardinal, he may be gambling with his favorites, he may be walking in the gardens with a pretty girl on his arm, whispering in her ear, telling her he has never, never desired a woman more, that her voice is like music, that her smile is like sunlight, and he has little interest in the opinions of his wife.
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