The Boleyn Inheritance

Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,
October 1540

The king marches into her private rooms and jerks his head at the three of us ladies-in-waiting, and says, “Outside,” as if we were dogs for his ordering. We scuttle from the rooms like whipped hounds and linger at the half-closed door and hear the terrifying rumble of royal rage. The king, out of bed for only half a day, knows everything and is most displeased.

Perhaps Lady Margaret thought that Katherine would intercede for them before they were caught and that she could be persuasive enough. Perhaps the lovers thought that the king, rising out of his sickbed, returning to wallow in his own uxorious joy, would be forgiving to other lovers, to other Howard lovers. They are sadly mistaken. The king speaks his mind briefly and to the point and then strides out of her room. Katherine comes running after, white as her collar, flooded with tears, and says that the king is scenting plots and conspiracies and lush unchastity at the court of his rose, and he is blaming her.

“What shall I do?” she demands. “He asks if I cannot keep control of my ladies. How should I know how to keep control of my ladies? How should I command his own niece? She is the daughter of the Queen of Scotland; she is royal and six years older than me. Why would she ever listen to me? What can I do? He says he is disappointed in me and that he will punish her; he says the two of them will face his extreme displeasure. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” I tell her. “You can do nothing to save her.” What can be easier to understand than this?

“I cannot let my own brother be sent to the Tower!”

She says this, unthinking, to the woman, me, who saw her own husband go to the Tower. “I’ve seen worse happen,” I say dryly.

“Oh, then, yes.” She flaps her hand dismissively, and twenty diamonds catch the light and dazzle away the ghosts of them, Anne and George, going to the Tower without a word to save them. “Never mind then! What about now? This is Lady Margaret, my friend, and Charles, my own brother. They will expect me to save them.”

“If you so much as admit that you knew they were meddling with each other, then it could be you in the Tower as well as them,” I warn her. “He is against it now; you had better pretend you knew nothing of it. Why can you not understand this? Why should Lady Margaret be such a fool? The king’s ward cannot bestow her favors where she wishes. And the king’s wife cannot put her own brother into bed with a royal. We all know this. It was a gamble, a great and reckless gamble, and it has failed. Lady Margaret must be mad to risk her life for this. You would be mad to condone it.”

“But if she is in love?”

“Is love worth dying for?”

That stops her romantic little ballad. She gives a little shudder. “No, never. Of course not. But the king cannot behead her for falling in love with a man of good family and marrying him?”

“No,” I say harshly. “He will behead her lover, so you had better say farewell to your brother and make sure that you never speak with him again unless you want the king to think you are in a plot to supplant him with Howards.”

She blanches white at that. “He would never send me to the Tower,” she whispers. “You always think of that. You always harp on about that. It happened only once, to one wife. It will never happen again. He adores me.”

“He loves his niece, and yet he will send her to Syon to imprisonment and heartbreak, and her lover to the Tower and death,” I predict. “The king may love you, but he hates to think of others doing their own will. The king may love you, but he wants you like a little queen of ice. If there is any unchastity in your rooms, he will blame you and punish you for it. The king may love you, but he would see you dead at his feet rather than set up a rival royal family. Think of the Pole family – in the Tower for life. Think of Margaret Pole spending year after year in there, innocent as a saint and as old as your grandmother, yet imprisoned for life. Would you see the Howards go that way, too?”

“This is a nightmare for me!” she bursts out; poor little girl, white-faced in her diamonds. “This is my own brother. I am queen. I must be able to save him. All he has done is fall in love. My uncle shall hear of this. He will save Charles.”

“Your uncle is away from court,” I say dryly. “Surprisingly, he has gone to Kenninghall. You can’t reach him in time.”

“What does he know of this?”

“Nothing,” I say. “You will find that he knows nothing about it. You will find that if the king asks him, he will be shocked to his soul at the presumption. You will have to give up your brother. You cannot save him. If the king has turned his face away, then Charles is a dead man. I know this. Of all the people in the world: I know this.”

“You didn’t let your own husband go to his death without a word. You didn’t let the king order his death without praying for mercy for him!” she swears, knowing nothing, knowing nothing at all.

I do not say: “Oh, but I did. I was so afraid then. I was so afraid for myself.” I do not say: “Oh, but I did; and for darker reasons than you will ever be able to imagine.” Instead, I say: “Never mind what I did or didn’t do. You will have to say good-bye to your brother and hope that something distracts the king from the sentence of death, and if not, you will have to remember him only in your prayers.”

“What good is that?” she demands heretically. “If God is always on the king’s side? If the king’s will is God’s will? What good is praying to God when the king is God in England?”

“Hush,” I say instantly. “You will have to learn to live without your brother, as I had to learn to live without my sister-in-law, without my husband. The king turned his face away, and George went into the Tower and came out headless. And I had to learn to bear it. As you will have to do.”

“It isn’t right,” she says mutinously.

I take her wrists and I hold her as I would a maid whom I was about to beat for stupidity. “Learn this,” I say harshly. “It is the will of the king. And there is no man strong enough to stand against him. Not even your uncle, not the archbishop, not the Pope himself. The king will do what he wants to do. Your job is to make sure that he never turns his face from you, from us.”