Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

“So who would ill wish him?” he persists.

I shrug. Whoever I name should say their farewells, for if charged with witchcraft against the king, then they are dead. There can be no proof of innocence and no plea of not guilty; under the new laws any treasonous intent, any thought is a crime as grave as the deed itself. King Henry has passed a law against his people thinking, and his people dare not think that he is wrong. “I don’t know who would do such wickedness,” I say firmly. “I cannot imagine.”

“Does the queen entertain Lutherans?”

“No, never.” This is true; she is most careful to conform to English ways and takes Mass according to the rules of Archbishop Cranmer, as if she were another Jane Seymour, born to serve.

“Does she see Papists?”

I am astounded by this question. This is a girl from Cleves, the heartland of reform. She was raised to think of Papists as Satan on earth. “Of course not! She was born and bred a Protestant; she was brought here by the Protestant set. How would she entertain Papists?”

“Is Lady Lisle intimate with her?”

My swift glance to his face tells him of my shock.

“We have to be ready; we have to be prepared. Our enemies are everywhere,” he cautions me.

“The king himself appointed Lady Lisle to her household and Anne Bassett, her daughter, is one of his own favorites,” I say. “I have no evidence against Lady Lisle.” Because there is none, and there could never be any.

“Or Lady Southampton?”

“Lady Southampton?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yes.”

“I know of nothing against Lady Southampton either,” I say.

He nods. We both know that evidence, especially of witchcraft and ill wishing, is not hard to create. It is a whisper, and then an accusation, and then a shower of lies, and then a show trial and a sentence. It was done before to rid the king of a wife he did not want, a woman who could be sent to the block without her family lifting a finger to save her.

He nods, and I wait for long moments in silent dread, thinking that he may order me to frame evidence that will be the death of an innocent woman, thinking what I can say if he makes such a terrible demand of me. Hoping that I can find the courage to refuse him, knowing that I will not. But he says nothing, so I curtsy to him and move toward the door; perhaps he has finished with me.

“He will find evidence of a plot,” he predicts as my hand is on the brass latch. “He will find evidence against her, you know.”

At once I freeze. “God help her.”

“He will find evidence that either the Papists or the Lutherans have set a witch in his household to unman him.”

I try to keep my face expressionless, but this is such a disaster for the queen, perhaps such danger for me, that I can feel my panic rising at my uncle’s calm words.

“Better for us if he names Lutherans as the traitors,” he reminds me. “And not our party.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“Or if he does not seek her death, he will get a divorce on the grounds that she was precontracted; if that fails, he will get a divorce on the grounds that he did not desire her and so he did not consent to the wedding.”

“He said ‘I do’ before witnesses,” I whisper. “We were all there.”

“Inwardly, he did not consent,” he tells me.

“Oh.” I pause. “He says this now?”

“Yes. But if she denies that she was precontracted, then he can still claim that he cannot consummate the marriage because witchcraft by his enemies is working against him.”

“These Papists?” I ask.

“Papists like her friend Lord Lisle.”

I gasp. “He would be accused?”

“It is possible.”

“Or Lutherans?” I whisper.

“Lutherans like Thomas Cromwell.”

My face shows him my shock. “He is a Lutheran now?”

He smiles. “The king will believe what he wishes,” he says silkily. “God will guide him in his wisdom.”

“But who does he think has unmanned him? Who is the witch?”

It is the most important question to ask, especially for a woman. It is always the most important thing for a woman to know. Who will be named as the witch?

“Do you have a cat?” he asks, smiling.

I can feel myself grow icy with terror, as if my breath is snow. “I?” I repeat. “I?”

The duke laughs. “Oh, don’t look like that, Lady Rochford. No one will accuse you while you are under my protection. Besides, you don’t have a cat, do you? No familiar tucked away? No wax dolls? No midnight Sabbaths?”

“Don’t joke,” I say unsteadily. “It is not a laughing matter.”

At once he sobers. “You are right; it is not. So who is the witch who is unmanning the king?”

“I don’t know. None of her ladies. None of us.”

“Perhaps it might be the queen herself?” he suggests quietly.

“Her brother would defend her,” I gabble. “Even if you do not need his alliance, even if you have come home from France with a promise of their friendship, you surely cannot risk her brother’s enmity? He could raise the Protestant league against us.”

He shrugs. “I think you will find he may not defend her. And I have indeed secured the friendship of France, whatever happens next.”

“I congratulate you. But the queen is the sister of the Duke of Cleves. She cannot be named as a witch and strangled by a village blacksmith and buried at a crossroads with a stake through her heart.”

He spreads his hands as if he had nothing to do with these decisions. “I don’t know. I merely serve His Majesty. We will have to see. But you should watch her closely.”

“I am to watch her for witchcraft?” I can hardly keep the incredulity from my voice.

“For evidence,” he says. “If the king wants evidence, of anything, then we Howards will give it to him.” He pauses. “Won’t we?”

I am silent.

“As we always have done.” He waits for my assent. “Won’t we?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Thomas Culpepper, my kinsman, in the king’s service and high in his favor for no better reason than his pretty face and his deep blue eyes, is a rogue and a promise breaker, and I shall see him no more.

I first saw him years ago, when he came to visit my step-grand-mother at Horsham and she would make a fuss over him and swear he would go far. I daresay he didn’t even see me then, though now he swears that I was the prettiest maid at Horsham and always his favorite. It’s true that I saw him. I was in love with Henry Manox then, the nobody; but I could not help but notice Thomas Culpepper. I think even if I were betrothed to the greatest man in the land, I would notice Thomas Culpepper. Anybody would. Half the ladies of the court are driven mad for love of him.

He has dark curly hair and eyes that are very blue, and when he laughs his voice cracks on his laughter in a way that is so funny it makes me want to laugh, just for hearing it. He is the most handsome man at court, without doubt. The king adores him because he is witty and merry and a wonderful dancer and a great huntsman and as brave as a knight in a jousting tournament. The king has him at his side night and day, and calls him his pretty boy and his little knight. He sleeps in the king’s bedchamber to serve him in the night, and he has hands so gentle that the king would rather he dress the wound on his leg than any apothecary or nurse.

All the girls have seen how much I like him and they swear that we should marry, being cousins, but he has no money to his name and I have no dowry and so how would that ever serve us? But if I were to choose one man in the world to marry, it would be him. A naughtier smile I have never seen in my life, and when he looks at me, it feels as if he is undressing me and then stroking me all over.

Thank God that now I am one of the queen’s ladies and she such a strict and modest queen there will be none of that, though if he had come to the dormitory at Lambeth, I swear he could have come to my bed and found a warm welcome there. I should have thrown my handsome Francis back to Joan Bulmer if I had been given a chance at a boy like Tom Culpepper.

He is back at court after resting at his home from his wounding in the joust. He took a bad blow, but he says he is young, and young bones mend quickly. It is true, he is young and as filled with life as a hare, leaping for no reason in a spring field. You only have to look at him to see the joy going through his veins. He is like quicksilver; he is like a spring wind blowing. I am glad he has come back to court; even in Lent he makes the place more merry. But just this very morning he has made me wait an hour for him in the queen’s garden when I should have been in her rooms, and when he came late, he said he could not stay but had to run to wait upon the king.

This is not how I am to be treated, and I shall teach him so. I shall not wait for him again; I shall not even agree to meet him next time he asks me. He will have to ask me more than once, I swear it. I shall give up flirtation for Lent, and it will serve him right. Indeed, perhaps I shall grow thoughtful and serious and never flirt with anyone again.

Lady Rochford asks me why I am in such a temper when we go in to dine, and I swear to her that I am as happy as the day is long.

“Mind your smiles then,” she says as if she doesn’t believe me for a moment. “For my lord duke is back from France, and he will be looking for you.”

I lift my chin at once and smile at her quite dazzlingly, as if she has just said something very witty. I even give a little laugh, my court laugh, “ha ha ha,” very light and elegant, as I have heard the other ladies do. She gives a little nod.

“That’s better,” she says.

“What was the duke doing in France, anyway?” I ask.

“You are taking an interest in affairs of the world?” she asks quizzically.