Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

Listen! Listen! I hear it! The noise of saws and hammers. I peep out of the window and I clap my hands as if delighted to see the workmen building the scaffold: Katherine’s scaffold. They will behead her under my window. If I dare, I can watch it all happen. I shall have the best view of everyone. When she is dead, they will send me away, probably to my family at Blickling, and then I can quietly and secretly grow sane again. I shall take my time; I want no one inquiring after me. I shall dance about for a year or two, singing songs and talking to clouds, and at the end of it, when the new king, King Edward, is on the throne and the old scores forgotten I shall return to court and serve the new queen as well as I can.

Oh! There’s a plank gone down with a clatter and a young man cuffed for carelessness. I shall set up a cushion on the window ledge and watch them all day; it is as good as a masque at court to see them measuring and sawing and building. What a fuss to make about building such a stage when the show will last for only a few minutes! When they bring me my dinner, I clap my hands and point, and the warders shake their heads and put down the dishes and go quietly away.

It is a morning like every other morning, quiet, nothing to do, no entertainment, no amusement, no company. I am so bored with everything and with myself that when I hear the tramp of feet on the path outside my window, I am absolutely delighted at the thought of something happening – I am beyond caring what. I run like a child to the tall window, and I look out, and there is a royal escort marching up the path through the garden from the river. They have come by barge, and there is my uncle the duke’s standard, and there are the men in his livery, and there he is himself, looking powerful and bad-tempered as always, at the head of them, and half a dozen Privy Councillors with him.

At last! At last! I am so relieved that I could weep to see them. It is my uncle returned to me! My uncle come back to tell me what to do. At last I am to be freed. At last he has come for me, and I am to be released. I should think I shall be taken by my uncle to one of his houses in the country, which will not be very amusing, but better than here. Or perhaps I shall have to go far away, perhaps France. France would be wonderful, except I cannot speak French, or at any rate only “voilà!” but surely they must mostly all speak English? And if not, then they can learn?

The door opens and the warden of my household comes in. His eyes are filled with tears. “Madam,” he says,“they have come for you.”

“I know!” I say jubilantly. “And you needn’t pack my gowns either, for I don’t care if I ever see them again. I shall order new. Where am I going?”

The door opens a little wider, and there is my uncle himself, looking stern as he must, for this is obviously to be a very solemn scene.

“Your Grace!” I say. I can hardly stop myself giving him a wink. So we have got through, have we? Here we are again. Him, looking stern; and me, waiting for my orders. He will have some plan to have me back on the throne and forgiven within a month. I thought I was in grave trouble and that he had deserted me; but here he is, and wherever he goes, prosperity always follows. I take a good look at his face as I come up smiling out of my curtsy, and I see he is looking terribly solemn, so I look serious, too. I cast my eyes down, and I look wonderfully penitent. I am quite pale from being indoors all the time, and I really think that with my eyes down and my lips slightly pouting I must look utterly saintly.

“Your Grace,” I say in a soft, mournful tone.

“I bring you news of your sentence,” he says.

I wait.

“The king’s parliament has consulted and has passed a Bill of Attainder against you.”

If I knew what this is, I would know better how to respond. As it is, I think it best just to widen my eyes and look agreeable. I suppose that a Bill of Attainder is some kind of official forgiveness.

“The king has given his assent.”

Yes, yes, but so what? What does this mean for me?

“You will be taken to the Tower, and you will be executed in private on Tower Green as soon as may be. Your lands and goods are forfeit to the Crown.”

I really have no idea what he is talking about. Besides, thanks to his poor protection of my royal fortune, I now have no lands and goods to speak of anyway. I haven’t forgotten Thomas Seymour taking my own jewels away from me as if they were still belonging to his sister.

The duke looks a bit surprised at my silence. “Do you understand?”

I say nothing but still look saintly.

“Katherine! Do you understand?”

“I don’t know what attainted means,” I confess. It sounds like a joint of meat that has gone off.

He looks at me as if I am a half-wit. “Attainder,” he corrects me. “Not attainted. Attainder.”

I shrug. Who cares how it is said? Does it mean that I go back to court?

“It means that parliament has sentenced you to death and that the king has given his assent,” he says quietly. “It is to be done without trial. You are to die, Katherine. You will be beheaded on the green in the Tower.”

“Die?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

I look at him. He must have a plan. “What should I do?” I ask him in a whisper.

“You should acknowledge your sins and ask for forgiveness,” he says promptly.

I am so relieved I could almost weep. Of course I will be forgiven if I say I am sorry. “What should I say?” I demand. “Tell me exactly what I must say.”

He produces a rolled sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket. He always has a plan. Thank God for him, he always has a plan. I unroll it and look at him. It is dreadfully long. He nods to me; apparently I have to read it all. I start to read out loud.

The first paragraph is me acknowledging my very great crime against the king, against the most high God and the whole English nation, which I think is rather an exaggeration since all I did was what hundreds of other young women do every day, especially when they are married to old, disagreeable men; and in my case I had been very unkindly treated. Anyway, I read the words on the paper and the duke nods and the councillors with him nod, too, so it is obviously the right thing to say, and everyone is pleased with me, which is always the best way to be. I wish he had given me a copy of this earlier to practice with. I like to do things right when people are watching. I unroll the scroll to the next section and I say that I implore His Majesty not to impute my crime to my kindred and family but to extend his unbounded mercy and benevolence to them all so that they don’t suffer for my faults.

I give my uncle a hard look at this, for it is clear to me that he is making sure that he does not suffer for my troubles. His expression is perfectly bland. Then I ask the king to give my clothing to my maids after my death as I have nothing else to give them. This is so sad that I find I can hardly read it aloud. Fancy that! Me, with all I have owned, with nothing to give! Fancy me giving my clothes away because I will never wear them again! And how ridiculous to think that I would care a groat about what happens to those vile six gowns, six pairs of sleeves, six kirtles, and six French hoods without a single jewel, in the most miserable colors I can imagine. They can burn them on a bonfire for all I care.

But despite the gowns and my uncle saving his own skin, by the time I have finished my speech I am weeping at the sadness of it. All of the councillors look very grieved, and it is a poignant scene that they can report to the king; I have no doubt but that he will be moved at the thought of my begging pardon for others and giving away my little wardrobe. It is so sad that it makes me cry, although I know that it’s all make-believe. If I thought it was true, I would break down altogether.

My uncle nods. I have done what he wants, and now it is up to him to persuade the king that I am utterly penitent and ready for death. That should be all anyone can ask for, I should think. They all troop off the way they came and I have to sit myself down in my one chair, in my dull gown, and wait for them to come back and tell me that since I am so very sorry I am quite forgiven.

I am waiting for the barge this time, I am up at the window from terribly early in the morning. Usually, with nothing to get up for and nothing to do, I try to sleep through breakfast all the way till dinner, but today I am certain that they will come with my royal pardon and I want to look my best. As soon as it is light I ring for my maid to come and lay out my dresses. Hmm, such a choice I have before me! I have a gown of black, two of very dark blue, almost black, a gown of dark green that it is almost black, a gown of gray, and just in case I need two, another gown of black. So what shall I wear? However shall I choose? I take the gown of black, but I wear it with the dark green sleeves and a dark green hood that will symbolize my penitence and my love of Tudor green to those who take an interest in these things. It makes my eyes look beautiful as well, which is always a good thing.

I don’t know how this will be done, and I always rather like to be prepared for these ceremonies. My Master of the Household always used to tell me where I should stand and how I should look, and I like to practice. It comes from being made queen while still quite young, and not really brought up to it. But as far as I know, no queen has ever been forgiven for adultery and treason and all the rest of it, so I suppose we shall just have to make it up as we go along. At any rate, that old wolf my uncle will no doubt guide me through it all.