The Boleyn Inheritance

Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,
April 1541

“Very good,” says my uncle Howard to me. “The king’s wound is no better, but at least he is on speaking terms with the queen again. He has been to her bed?”

“Last night. She had to take the man’s part on him, astride him, above him, working him up; she does not like it.”

“No matter. As long as the deed is done. And he likes it?”

“For certainty. What man does not?”

He nods with a grim smile.

“And she played your play to perfection? He is convinced that when he withdraws from court she breaks her heart at his absence and that she is always afraid that he will go back to the Cleves woman?”

“I think so.”

He gives a short laugh. “Jane, my Jane, what a wonderful duke you would have made. You should have been head of our house; you are wasted as a woman. Your talents are all twisted and crushed into a woman’s compass. If you had a kingdom to defend, you would have been a great man.”

I cannot stop myself smiling. I have come a long, long way from disgrace when the head of the family tells me I should have been a duke like him.

“I have a request,” I say, while I am in such high favor.

“Oh, yes? I would almost say: ‘anything.’”

“I know you cannot give me a dukedom,” I begin.

“You are Lady Rochford,” he reminds me. “Our battle to keep your title was successful; you have that part of your Boleyn inheritance, whatever else we lost.”

I don’t remark that the title is not much since the hall that carries my name is occupied by my husband’s sister and her brats, rather than me. “I was thinking I might seek another title,” I suggest.

“What title?”

“I was thinking I might marry again,” I say boldly now. “Not to leave this family, but to make an alliance for us with another great house. To increase our greatness and our connections, to improve my own fortune, and to get a higher title.” I pause. “For us, my lord. To advance us all. You like to position your women to their advantage, and I should like to be married again.”

The duke turns to the window so I cannot see his face. He pauses for a long while, and then when he turns back, there is nothing to see; his expression is like a painting, it is so still and unrevealing. “Do you have a man in mind?” he asks. “A favorite?”

I shake my head. “I would not dream of it,” I say cleverly. “I have merely brought the suggestion to you so that you might think what alliance might suit us: us Howards.”

“And what rank would suit you?” he asks silkily.

“I should like to be a duchess,” I say honestly. “I should like to wear ermine. I should like to be called Your Grace. And I should like lands to be settled on me, in my own right, not held for me by my husband.”

“And why should we consider such a great alliance for you?” he asks me, as if he already knows the answer.

“Because I am going to be the kinswoman to the next King of England,” I whisper.

“One way or another?” he asks, thinking of the sick king on his back with our slight girl working her hardest above him.

“One way or another,” I reply, thinking of young Culpepper, slowly making his way toward the queen’s bed, thinking he is following his desires, not knowing he is following our plan.

“I will think about it,” he says.

“I should like to marry again,” I repeat. “I should like a man in my bed.”

“You feel desire?” he asks, almost surprised to learn that I am not some kind of cold-blooded snake.

“Like any woman,” I say. “I should like a husband, and I should like to have another child.”

“But unlike most women, you would only want that husband if he is a duke,” he says with a small smile. “And presumably wealthy.”

I smile back. “Well, yes, my lord,” I say. “I am not a fool to marry for love like some we know.”