Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

The duke summons me to his rooms on New Year’s Eve as if we should toast the past and make new resolutions together. He talks first of Queen Anne and how pleasantly she behaves herself at court. He asks me how Catherine Carey, my niece, Mary’s child, is serving as a maid-in-waiting to her cousin.

“She does her duty,” I say shortly. “Her mother has taught her well, I have very little to do with her.”

He allows himself a smirk. “And you and Mary Boleyn were never the best of friends.”

“We know each other well enough,” I say of my self-regarding sister-in-law.

“Of course she has the Boleyn inheritance,” he says, as if to remind me, as if I ever forget. “We could not save everything.”

I nod. Rochford Hall, my house, went to George’s parents at his death and from them to Mary. They should have left it to me, he should have left it to me; but no. I faced all the danger and the horror of what had to be done and ended up saving only my title and earning only my pension.

“And little Catherine Carey? Is she another queen in the making?” he asks, just to tease me. “Shall we have her schooled to please Prince Edward? Do you think we can put her in a king’s bed?”

“I think you will find her mother has already forbidden it,” I say coldly. “She will want a good marriage and a quiet life for her daughter. She has had enough of courts.”

The duke laughs and lets it go. “So what of our present passport to greatness: our queen, Katherine?”

“She is happy enough.”

“I don’t really care if she is happy or not. Does she show any sign of being with child?”

“No, none,” I say.

“How did she mistake before, in the first month of marriage? She had us all in hopes.”

“She can barely count,” I say irritably. “And she has no sense of how important it is. I watch her courses now; there will be no mistake again.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is the king even capable?” he asks very quietly.

I do not need to glance toward the door; I know it must be secure or we would not be having this most dangerous conversation. “He can do the act in the end, though he labors overlong on it, and it exhausts him.”

“Then is she fertile?” he demands.

“She has regular courses. And she seems healthy and strong.”

“If she does not get with child, then he will look for a reason,” he warns me, as if there is anything I can do about the whims of a king. “If she is not with child by Easter at the latest, he will be asking why.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sometimes these things take time.”

“The last wife who took time died on the scaffold,” he says sharply.

“You need not remind me.” I am fired into defiance. “I do remember all of that, and what she did, and what she attempted, and the price she paid. And then the price we paid. And the price I had to pay.”

My outburst shocks him. I have shocked myself. I had promised myself I would never complain. I did my best. And so, in their terms, did they.

“All I am saying is that we should prevent the question coming into his mind,” he soothes me. “Clearly, it would be better for us all, for the family, Jane, for us Howards, if Katherine were to conceive a child before he has to wonder. Before a question even enters his head. This would be the safest course for us.”

“Bricks without straw,” I say coldly. I am still irritated. “If the king has no power to give her a child, then what can we do? He is an old man; he is a sick man. He has never been a fertile man, and what potency he has must be soured by his rotting leg and his locked-up bowels. What can any of us do?”

“We can assist him,” he suggests.

“How can we do more?” I demand. “Our girl already does every trick that a Smithfield whore might do. She works him as if he were a drunken captain in a brothel. She does everything a woman can do, and all he can do is lie on his back and moan: “Oh, Katherine, oh my rose!” There is no vigor left in him. I am not surprised there is no baby coming from him. What are we to do?”

“We could hire some,” he says, as sly as any pander.

“What?”

“We could hire some vigor,” he suggests.

“You mean?”

“I mean that if there were a young man, perhaps someone we know that we can trust, who would be glad of a discreet affair, we might allow him to meet her, we might encourage her to treat him kindly, they might give each other a little pleasure, and we might have a child to put into the Tudor cradle and no man any the wiser.”

I am horrified. “You would never do this again,” I say flatly.

His look is as cold as winter. “I have never done it before,” he specifies carefully. “Not I.”

“It is to put her head on the block.”

“Not if it is carefully done.”

“She would never be safe.”

“If she were carefully guided, and chaperoned. If you were to be with her, every step of the way, if you were ready to swear to her honor. Who would disbelieve you, who have been such a reliable witness for the king so many times?”

“Exactly. I have always borne witness for the king,” I say, my throat dry with fear. “I give evidence for the hangman. I am always on the winning side. I have never offered evidence for the defense.”

“You have always borne witness for our side,” he corrects me. “And you would still be on the winning side, in safety. And you would be kinswoman to the next King of England. A Howard-Tudor boy.”

“But the man?” I am almost panting with fear. “There is no one we could trust with such a secret.”

He nods. “Ah yes, the man. I think we would have to ensure that he was gone when he had done his duty, don’t you? An accident of some sort, or a sword fight? Or set upon by thieves? Certainly he would have to be removed. We could not risk another…” The duke pauses for the word. “Scandal.”

I close my eyes at the thought of it. For a moment, against the darkness of my eyelids I can see my husband’s face turned toward me, his expression quite incredulous as he saw me come into court and take my seat before the panel of judges. A moment of hope as he thought I was coming to save him. Then slowly, his dawning horror at what I was prepared to say.

I shake my head. “These are terrible thoughts,” I say. “And terrible thoughts to be shared by you with me. We, who have already seen such things and done such things-” I break off. I cannot speak for terror at what he will bring me to do.

“It is because you have looked at horror without flinching that I talk with you,” he says, and for the first time this evening there is a warmth in his voice; I almost think I hear affection. “Who would I trust better than you, with my ambitions for the family? Your courage and skill have brought us here. I don’t doubt but that you will take us forward. You must know a young man who would be glad of a chance at the queen. A young man who could easily meet with her, a dispensable young man who would be no loss later on. Perhaps one of the king’s favorites whom he encourages to hang around her.”

I am almost gagging with fear. “You don’t understand,” I say. “Please, my lord, hear me. You don’t understand. What I did then… I have put from my mind… I never speak of it; I never think of it. If anyone makes me think of it, I shall go mad. I loved George… Truly, don’t make me think of it; don’t make me remember it.”

He rises to his feet. He comes round from his side of the table, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. It would almost be a gentle gesture except that it feels as if he is holding me down in his chair. “You shall decide, my dear Lady Jane. You shall think about these matters and tell me what you think, on reflection. I trust you implicitly. I am certain that you will want to do what is best for our family. I have faith that you will always do what is best for yourself.”

I am home, and it is such relief to be here, I could laugh at myself for being a dull old spinster, shying away from society. But it is not just the pleasure of coming home to my own rooms and my own view from my windows and my own cook – it is the pleasure of escaping from the court, that court of darkness. Good God, it is a poisonous place that they are making for themselves, I wonder that anyone can bear to be there. The king’s mood is more unreliable than ever. In one moment he is passionate to Kitty Howard, fondling her like a lecher before everyone so that she blushes red and he laughs to see her embarrassment, then half an hour later he is raging against one of his councillors, flinging his cap to the ground, lashing out at a page, or silent and withdrawn, in a mood of quiet hatred and suspicion, his eyes darting round, seeking someone to blame for his unhappiness. His temper, always indulged, has become a danger. He cannot control it himself; he cannot control his own fears. He sees plots in every corner and assassins at every turn. The court is becoming adept at diverting him and confusing him; everyone fears the sudden turning of his moods into darkness.

Katherine runs to him when he wants her, and she shies away when his temper is bad, as if she were one of his pretty greyhounds. But the strain must tell on her in time. And she has surrounded herself with the silliest and most vulgar girls who were ever allowed in a gentleman’s house. Their dress is incredibly ostentatious with as much bare flesh and jewels as they can afford; their manners are bad. They are sober enough when the king is awake and in the court; they parade before him and bow to him as if he were a brooding idol. But the moment he is gone, they run wild like schoolgirls. Kitty does nothing to control them; indeed, when the doors of her rooms are shut, she is the ringleader. They have pages and young men of the court running in and out of her rooms all day, musicians playing, gambling, drinking, flirting. She herself is little more than a child, and it is a great joy to her to have a water fight in a priceless gown and then change into another. But the people about her are older and less innocent, and the court is becoming lax, perhaps worse. There is a great scurry into decorum when someone dashes in and says the king is coming, which Kitty adores, the schoolchild that she is; but this is now a court without discipline. It is becoming a court without morals.