Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

The king won’t see me, and it’s as if I have offended him, which is tremendously unfair because I have been an absolutely charming wife for months and months without stopping, two months at least, and never a cross word from me, though God knows I have reason. I know well enough that he has to come to my room at night and I endure it without saying a word; I even smile as if I desire him. But does he really have to stay? All night? And does he really have to smell so very badly? It is not just the stink of his leg, but he trumps like a herald at a joust, and though it makes me want to giggle, it’s disgusting really. In the morning I throw my windows open to be rid of the stink of him, but it lingers in the bed linen and in the hangings. I can hardly bear it. Some days I think, I really think, I cannot bear another day of it.

But I have never complained of him, and he can have no complaint of me. So why will he not see me? They say that he has a fever and that he doesn’t want me to see him when he is unmanned. But I can’t help but be afraid that he is tired of me. And if he is tired of me, no doubt he will say that I was married to someone else and my wedding will be put aside. I feel very discouraged by this, and though Agnes and Margaret say that he could never tire of me, that he adores me and anyone can see that, they weren’t here when he put Queen Anne aside. That was done so easily and so smoothly that we hardly knew it was happening. Certainly, she didn’t know it was happening. They don’t realize how easy it is for the king to be rid of one of his queens.

I send a message to his rooms every morning, and they always send back and say that he is on the mend; and then I have a great fear that he is dying, which would not be surprising for he is so terribly old. And if he dies, what will happen to me? And do I keep the jewels and the gowns? And am I still queen even if he is dead? So I wait until the end of dinner and then beckon the king’s greatest favorite, Thomas Culpepper, to step up to the top table; he comes to my side at once, so deferential and graceful, and I say very seriously, “You may sit down, Master Culpepper,” and he takes a stool beside me. I say, “Please tell me truly, how is the king?”

He looks at me with his honest blue eyes; he is desperately handsome, it has to be said, and he says: “The king has a fever, Your Grace, but it is from weariness, not the wound on his leg. You need not fear for him. He would be grieved if he caused you a moment’s worry. He is overheated and exhausted, nothing more.”

This is so kind that I feel myself become quite sentimental. “I have worried,” I say a little tearfully. “I have been very anxious for him.”

“You need not be,” he says gently. “I would tell you if there was anything wrong. He will be up and about within days. I promise it.”

“My position-”

“Your position is impossible,” he exclaims suddenly. “You should be courting your first sweetheart, not trying to rule a court and shape your life to please a man as old as your grandfather.”

This is so unexpected from Thomas Culpepper, the perfect courtier, that I give a little gasp of surprise and I make the mistake of telling the truth, as he has done.

“Actually, I can only blame myself. I wanted to be queen.”

“Before you knew what it meant.”

“Yes.”

There is a silence. I am suddenly aware that we are before the whole of the court and that everyone is looking at us. “I may not talk to you like this,” I say awkwardly. “Everyone watches me.”

“I would serve you in any way I can,” he says quietly. “And the greatest service I can do for you now is to go right away from you. I don’t want to make grist for the gossips.”

“I shall walk in the gardens at ten tomorrow,” I say. “You could come to me then. In my privy gardens.”

“Ten,” he agrees, and bows very low and goes back to his table, and I turn and talk to Lady Margaret as if nothing in particular had happened.

She gives me a little smile. “He is a handsome young man,” she says. “But nothing compared to your brother Charles.”

I look down the hall to where Charles is dining with his friends. I have never thought of him as handsome, but then I hardly ever saw him until I came to court. He was sent away for his upbringing when he was a boy, and then I was sent to my step-grandmother. “What an odd thing to say,” I remark. “You surely cannot like Charles.”

“Good gracious, no!” she says, and she flushes up quite scarlet. “Everyone knows I’m not allowed even to think about a man. Ask anyone! The king would not allow it.”

“You do like him!” I say delightedly. “Lady Margaret, you sly thing! You are in love with my brother.”

She hides her face in her hands, and she peeps at me through the fingers. “Don’t say a word,” she begs me.

“Oh, all right. But has he promised marriage?”

She nods shyly. “We are so much in love. I hope you will speak for us to the king? He is so strict! But we are so very much in love.”

I smile down the hall at my brother. “Well, I think that’s lovely,” I say kindly. I so like being gracious to the king’s niece. “And what a wonderful wedding we can plan.”

I have had a letter from my brother, an utterly mad letter; it distresses me as much as it angers me. He complains of the king in the wildest of terms, and he commands me to return home, insist on my marriage, or never more be a sister to him. He offers me no advice as to how I am to insist on my marriage – clearly he does not even know that the king has remarried already – nor any help if I want to return home. I imagine, as he knew well enough when he gave me these impossible choices, that I am left with the single option of never more being a sister to him.

Little loss to me! When he left me here without a word, gave me an ambassador who was almost unpaid, failed to send adequate proof of the renunciation of the Lorraine betrothal, he was no good brother to me then. He is no good brother now. Least of all is he my good brother when the Duke of Norfolk and half the Privy Council come thundering down to Richmond in a rage, since they have, of course, picked up his letter almost from the moment it left his hand, copied it, translated it, and read it before it ever came to me. Now they want to know if I think my brother will incite the Holy Roman Emperor to war against England and Henry on my behalf?

As calmly as I can, I point out to them that the Holy Roman Emperor is not likely to make war at my brother’s behest and that (emphatically) I do not ask my brother to make war at my behest.

“I warn the king that I cannot rule my brother,” I say, speaking slowly and directly to the Duke of Norfolk. “William will do as he wishes. He does not take my advice.”

The duke looks doubtful. I turn to Richard Beard and speak in German. “Please point out to His Grace that if I could make my brother obey me, then I would have told him to send the document which showed that the betrothal to Lorraine was renounced,” I say.

He turns and translates, and the duke’s dark eyes gleam at my mistake. “Except it was not renounced,” he reminds me.

I nod. “I forgot.”

He shows me a wintry smile. “I know you cannot command your brother,” he concedes.

I turn to Richard Beard again. “Please point out to His Grace that this letter from my brother actually proves that I have honored the king, since it makes clear that he has so little faith in me that he threatens me with being cut off from my family forever.” Richard Beard translates, and the duke’s cold smile widens slightly.

“What he thinks and what he does, how he blusters and threatens me, is clearly not of my choosing,” I conclude.

Thank God. They may be the king’s council, but they do not share his unreasonable terrors; they do not see plots where there are none – except when it suits them, of course. Only when it suits them to be rid of an enemy like Thomas Cromwell, or a rival like poor Lord Lisle, do they exaggerate the king’s fears and assure him that they are real. The king is in perpetual anxiety about one conspiracy or another, and the council play on his fears like a master might tune a lute. Provided that I am neither threat nor rival to any one of them, they will not alert any royal fears about me. So the frail peace between the king and me is not broken by my brother’s intemperate speech. I wonder, did he even stop for a moment to think if his letter would put me in such danger? Worse still, I wonder, did he intend to put me in such danger?

“Do you think your brother will make trouble for us?” Norfolk asks me simply.

I answer him in German. “Not for my sake, sir. He would do nothing for me. He has never done anything for my benefit, except to let me go. He might use me as the excuse, but I am not his cause. And even if he meant to make trouble, I doubt very much that the Holy Roman Emperor would go to war with the King of England over a fourth wife, when the king has already helped himself to his fifth.”

Richard Beard translates this, and both he and Norfolk have to hide their amusement. “I have your word then,” the duke says shortly.

I nod. “You do. And I never break my word. I shall make no trouble for the king. I wish to live here alone, in peace.”

He looks around. He is something of a connoisseur of beautiful buildings. He has built his own great house, and he has torn down some fine abbeys. “You are happy here?”

“I am,” I say, and I am telling the truth. “I am happy here.”

I should have warned Lady Margaret Douglas not to meddle with a man who was certain to land her in trouble, but I was so absorbed with trying to keep Katherine Howard steady in her first days of marriage that I did not watch the ladies as I should have done. Besides, Lady Margaret is the king’s own niece, daughter of his sister. Who would have thought that his hard, suspicious gaze would fall on her? In the first days of his marriage? When he told us all that for the first time in his long life he had found happiness? Why, in those honeymoon weeks, should I have thought that he would plot his own niece’s arrest?