The Boleyn Inheritance

Jane Boleyn, Pontefract Castle,
August 1541

The two young men, and half a dozen others, each of them with good reason to believe that he is the queen’s favorite, circle her every day and the court has all the tension of a whorehouse before a brawl. The queen, excited by the attention she gets at every corner, at every hunt and breakfast and masque, is like a child who has stayed up too late; she is feverish with arousal. On the one hand she has Thomas Culpepper, holding her when she dismounts from her horse, at her side for dancing, whispering in her ear when she plays cards, first to greet her in the morning and last to leave her rooms at night. On the other she has young Dereham, appointed to wait for her orders, at her right hand with his little writing desk, as if she ever dictated a letter to anyone, constantly whispering to her, stepping forward to advise, ever present where he need not be. And then, how many others? A dozen? Twenty? Not even Anne Boleyn at her most capricious had so many young men circling her, like dogs slavering at a butcher’s door. But Anne, even at her most flirtatious, never appeared to be a girl who might bestow her favors for a smile, who might be seduced by a song, by a poem, by a word. The whole court begins to see that the queen’s joy, which has made the king so happy, is not that of an innocent girl whom he so fondly believes adores only him, it is that of a flirt who revels in constant male attention.

Of course there is trouble; there is almost a fight. One of the senior men at court tells Dereham that he should have risen from the dinner table and gone, since he is not of the queen’s council and only they are sitting over their wine. Dereham, loose-mouthed, says that he was in the queen’s council long before the rest of us knew her, and will be familiar with her long after the rest of us are dismissed. Of course: uproar. The terror is that it might get to the king’s ears, and so Dereham is summoned to the queen’s rooms and she sees him, with me standing by.

“I cannot have you causing trouble in my household,” she says stiffly to him.

He bows, but his eyes are bright with confidence. “I meant to cause no trouble; I am yours: heart and soul.”

“It is all very well to say that,” she says irritably. “But I don’t want people asking what I was to you, and you were to me.”

“We were in love,” he maintains staunchly.

“This should never be said,” I interpose. “She is the queen. Her previous life must be as if it had never been.”

He looks at her, ignoring me. “I will never deny it.”

“It is over,” she says determinedly; I am proud of her. “And I will not have gossip about the past, Francis. I cannot have people talking about me. I shall have to send you away if you cannot keep silent.”

He pauses for a moment. “We were husband and wife before God,” he says quietly. “You cannot deny that.”

She makes a little gesture with her hand. “I don’t know,” she says helplessly. “At any rate, it is over now. You can have a place at court only if you never speak of it. Can’t he, Lady Rochford?”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?” I ask. “Never mind all this never denying it nonsense. You can stay if you can keep your mouth shut. If you are a braggart, you will have to go.”

He looks at me without warmth; there is no love between us. “I can keep my mouth shut,” he says.