The Boleyn Inheritance

Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,
March 1540

That she is not happy is a certainty, but she is a discreet young woman, wiser by far than her years, and she cannot be led into confidences. I have been as kind and as sympathetic as I can to her, but I don’t want her to feel that I am probing for my own sake; and I don’t want to make her feel any worse than she must do already. For certain she must feel very friendless and strange in a country where she is only starting to grasp the language and where her husband shows such obvious relief when he can avoid her, and such blatant attention to another girl.

Then in the morning, after Mass, she comes to me as the girls are preening themselves before going to breakfast. “Lady Rochford, when will the princesses come to court?”

I hesitate. “Princess Mary,” I remind her. “But only Lady Elizabeth.”

She gives a little “ach” noise. “Yes. So. Princess Mary and Lady Elizabeth.”

“They usually come to court for Easter,” I say helpfully. “And then they can see their brother, and they can greet you. We were surprised that they did not greet you on your entry to London.” I stop myself. I am going too fast for her. I can see her frown as she struggles to follow my speech. “I am sorry,” I say more slowly. “The princesses should come to court to meet you. They should greet their stepmother. They should have welcomed you to London. Usually they come to court for Easter.”

She nods. “So. I may invite them?”

I hesitate. Of course, she can; but the king will not like her taking the power upon herself in this way. However, my lord duke will not object to any trouble between the two of them, and it is not my job to warn her.

“You can invite them,” I say.

She nods to me. “Please write.”

I go to the table and pull the little writing box toward me. The quills are ready-sharpened, the ink in the little pot, the sand in the sifter for scattering on the wet ink, and there is a stick of sealing wax. I love the luxury of court; I love to pick up the quill and take a sheet of paper and wait for the queen’s orders.

“Write to the Princess Mary that I should be glad to see her at court for Easter and that she will be welcome as a guest in my rooms,” she says. “Is that the right way to say it?”

“Yes,” I say, writing rapidly.

“And write to the governess of the Lady Elizabeth that I shall be glad to see her at court, too.”

My heart beats a little faster, like it does at a bearbaiting. She will walk straight into trouble if she sends these letters. These are an absolute challenge to the absolute power that is Henry. Nobody issues invitations in his household but he, himself.

“Can you send these for me?” she asks.

I am almost breathless. “I can,” I say. “If you wish.”

She puts out her hand. “I shall have them,” she says. “I shall show them to the king.”

“Oh.”

She turns to hide a little smile. “Lady Rochford, I would never do anything against the king’s wishes.”

“You have the right to have what ladies you please at your court,” I remind her. “It is your right as queen. Queen Katherine always insisted that she appoint her own household. Anne Boleyn, too.”

“These are his daughters,” she says. “So I shall ask him before I invite them.”

I bow; she leaves me with nothing to say. “Will there be anything else?” I ask her.

“You may go,” she says pleasantly, and I walk from the room. I am rather conscious that she tricked me into giving her bad advice, and she knew of it all along. I must remember that she is far more astute than any of us ever credit.

A page in Norfolk livery is idling outside the queen’s rooms. He passes me a folded note, and I step into one of the window embrasures. Outside, the garden is bobbing with yellow Lenten lilies, daffodils, and in a chestnut tree that is studded with fattening sticky buds there is a blackbird singing. The spring is coming at last, the queen’s first spring in England. The summer days of picnics and jousts and hunting and pleasure trips, boating on the river and the summer progress around the great palaces will start again. Perhaps the king will learn to tolerate her; perhaps she will find a way to please him. I shall see it all. I shall be in her rooms, where I should be. I lean against the polished paneling to read my note. It is unsigned, like every note from the duke.

The king will keep company with the queen only until the moment that France quarrels with Spain. It is agreed. Her time with us can be measured in days. Watch her. Gather evidence against her. Destroy this.

I look around for the boy. He is leaning against the wall and idly tossing a coin, catching one side up and then the other. I beckon him to me. “Tell your master that she wants the princesses at court,” I say quietly in his ear. “That is all.”