Boleyn Traitor, page 28
I put a hand on his arm. ‘I know you wouldn’t hurt her,’ I say earnestly. ‘She’s very young. Her father is dead; her brother doesn’t protect her. She’s not even fluent in our language. She could be easily entrapped by a bad advisor. But it was you who brought her to England, Lord Essex, and she has done nothing wrong. You would not hurt her.’
He puts his hand over mine. His hands are still callused from hard work, though he has sat among the nobility for years. ‘I won’t hurt her,’ he promises. ‘But she has to help me to set her free. You have to help me free her from this marriage.’
IT IS LIKE the other May Day. I have the same swirling sense of darkness behind my eyes, and I seem to be running wherever I go, though I don’t really know where to go, and certainly I should not be seen running and breathless.
I skid to a halt before the double doors of the queen’s rooms as they are opened, and I curtsey as the queen and her ladies come out for mass, their heads veiled, holding their prayer books. I snatch up a scarf to veil my head and step into the procession behind the queen.
In the royal chapel, everything is comfortingly unchanged: the king in his balcony, his foot propped on a stool, half-listening to the priest, who is saying the prayers in Latin although today the Bible readings are in English. The king holds a pen as Cromwell, steady as a turning water wheel, bends forward, slides a paper before him, whispers in his ear, and the king signs without reading. Behind Cromwell, his clerk scatters the new signatures with sand to dry the ink, before putting them in the great wooden box. Kneeling in prayer on one side of the king is his new favourite, Thomas Culpeper; on the other side is his brother-in-law, Thomas Seymour, and standing at the back of the balcony, Sir Anthony Browne.
Everything is as it always is, as it always will be. Except that I know that this time next year, there will be a new queen beside me, looking over at the king and bowing with respect, sliding to her knees and praying earnestly that God will give her a son, as the king cannot. Today, the fate of this queen lies in my hands, and Thomas Cromwell has shown me a way to bring her out of the valley of the shadow of death into safety and freedom.
I kneel beside her, and I proffer my missal for her to share. I have knelt close before, to prompt her in the ritual which is strange to her, but this time I whisper: ‘I have to advise you, Your Grace.’ I speak in German, so none of the English ladies will understand if they overhear us.
She is no fool. Not a flicker of an expression crosses her face. She keeps her eyes on the words of the service, her lips moving in prayer; she does not even steal a glance at me.
‘The king’s minister is going to end your marriage,’ I say. I don’t know the word for annulment in German, and this would sound more tactful in French; but we are safer in her language. ‘Please stay still and quiet.’
She keeps her eyes on the altar. She says: ‘Amen,’ to the end of a collect, and I take it as agreement.
‘There are two ways this can be done. One is very bad for you. Very bad.’ I wait until I see her half nod. She knows what ‘very bad’ means for a queen in England. ‘The other way gives you a pension, two beautiful houses. You would be a single woman, an Englishwoman, as free and as wealthy as a rich widow. You would be respected.’
She has gone very white; I am afraid that she is going to faint. Under the shelter of the velvet shelf where our prayer books are resting, I clasp her hand. She does not take her eyes from the officiating priest but she minutely nods. ‘Sprechen,’ she whispers. ‘Speak.’
‘They will ask if you were betrothed to the Duke of Lorraine.’
‘They asked me already. I told them no.’
‘I know. But they will ask again, and this time you must answer differently. Don’t deny it this time. Just say that you don’t know. You were only a little girl – you don’t know what your father agreed. And now your father is dead, you can’t ask him. How would you know?’
‘Because I have seen the contract of release,’ she says simply. ‘I swore on my honour I was free to marry the king, my husband.’
‘You have to say that you may be mistaken,’ I tell her. ‘On your life – for your life – you have to do this.’
‘But it is a lie,’ she observes quietly, her gaze on the crucifix on the altar.
‘I know. But you must say it, and then the churchmen will inquire, and they will decide that you were married before and your marriage to the king is invalid.’
‘So, I am married to the Duke of Lorraine?’ she confirms quietly. ‘And I have been married to him since I was eleven years old?’
‘It doesn’t matter that this makes no sense. It is a pretence, like a masque. But it’s going to save your life.’
Again, she goes a terrible waxy white.
I pinch her soft palm. The priest has started the bidding to mass. I don’t have long to make her understand. ‘You have to say that the marriage to the king has not been consummated,’ I whisper. I have no idea of the word ‘consummated’ in German. ‘You have to say he hasn’t swived you. No bed. No bed. No fuck. No baby. You understand?’
‘Because he is old?’ she whispers. ‘He cannot?’
‘No, no! Never, never say he cannot. If you say it, they will say there is a witch – an overlooking – evil magic. You say that you don’t know what should be done in bed. You are a maid. You know nothing about it. He kisses you goodnight and good morning, and you thought that was all that was needed to make a baby.’
‘He knows better …’ she observes.
‘Yes, but he says that he does not do it, he chooses not to do it, because he knew as soon as he met you that you are the wife of the Duke of Lorraine.’
Even in this terrible danger, she has a sense of the ridiculous. She lowers her eyelids to hide the gleam of amusement in her dark-brown eyes. ‘How does he know this?’ she whispers in English.
‘God told him,’ I say without a smile.
She hides her face in her hands as if praying.
‘Whatever you think, whatever the truth, it has to be done this way,’ I say sternly.
The priest has started the confessional; the ladies behind me follow the strange English words in a whispered chorus.
I hold up the prayer book to hide the queen’s face from the officiating priest. ‘You have to agree that the king has not bedded you; then the marriage can be annulled, and you can get your pension and your lands, and you will be safe. You have to agree that you were precontracted; you have to say that you’re still a virgin; you have to agree that the king has slept by your side but never touched you. You didn’t know there was more. You kiss goodnight and good morning, and that is all.’
‘It’s not true,’ she says flatly. ‘Everyone will know it is not true.’
‘If you don’t say this lie, then the king will say he is impotent, and others will say it was caused by witchcraft.’ I press my words into the side of her hood with my lips, as if I would force them into her head. ‘They will say someone put a spell on him, to make sure that he never had a baby with you. They may even say that you knew, that you wanted the king unmanned. They may even say it is you who is the witch.’
I thought she might be frightened, but under her heavy gown, I see her shoulders make a tiny shrug. ‘Is as stupid as the other,’ she says in English, and if we were not in chapel with the king opposite and Cromwell putting down death warrants before him, she would have shocked me into laughter.
THE WEATHER IMPROVES, and May is a merry month of arrests. Lord Hungerford is taken into the Tower for questioning. It is announced that he foretold the king’s death with a witch, and they produce the poor old woman and his priest and his doctor, too. They are all accused of plotting with the dead rebel pilgrims for the return of the old royal family – Reginald Pole and Arthur, Lord Lisle. Such wickedness earns them all the death sentence. Justice must be swift, and there is no need for a trial; they will be executed by a writ of attainder, nodded through by an appalled House of Parliament.
The queen’s lord chamberlain Thomas Manners Earl of Rutland comes to me in the middle of June and says that the king’s council advise that there is illness in London.
‘Not plague?’ I ask.
‘Alas, yes,’ he says, glassy-eyed. ‘The council thinks it would be best if Her Grace moved to Richmond Palace.’
We both know that if there were plague in London, the king would be in Windsor by now. But we have our parts to play. ‘Richmond Palace? Will the king join us there?’
‘In a few days,’ he lies, so smoothly that only I – another smooth liar – would detect it. ‘Please do explain to Her Grace that the palace is known for its healthy air.’
‘I will,’ I say.
I have not spoken to her since the morning in the chapel. I hope she understands the arrest of Lord Hungerford and his witch is part of the plot that could bring her down, but I don’t know what she is thinking, nor if she has plans of her own. She cannot get a secret message to her brother in Cleves; any letter would immediately be delivered to Thomas Cromwell’s dark chamber for opening, translating, and reading, and only sent on if it suits his plans. The queen’s ambassador, newly arrived from Cleves, has no money and speaks no English. He can be no help. The people of London liked her on sight, but they can do nothing, and she knows nobody in England but her ladies. Her most trusted friend is me – and I am plotting for the annulment of her marriage and her shame.
I curtsey to the lord chamberlain and go slowly into the queen’s rooms.
Queen Anne is playing cards with Catherine Carey and red-eyed Anne Basset. I am hoping that Anne’s tearful face will remind the queen of her danger. If a royal cousin like Lord Lisle can be arrested, a friendless young foreign duchess can disappear overnight. A lie to save yourself is allowed by God, Jews call it the pikuach nefesh. The most faithful Roman Catholic Christian in England, Lady Mary, swore that she was a bastard. If Lady Mary can lie, this Lutheran surely can.
The girls at the card table try to smile when I come in.
‘Ach, Lady Rochford,’ the queen says. ‘These girls are robbing me.’
‘They are terrible thieves!’ I say, laughing, and Anne Basset flushes red. I rush on: ‘I have just spoken to your lord chamberlain, Your Grace, and we are to move to Richmond Palace tomorrow. I think you will like the palace; it is one of the most beautiful new buildings on the river and more healthy than London at this time of year.’
Not by one flicker of expression does she betray that she knows Richmond Palace is to be part of her settlement. ‘Does His Majesty come with us?’ she asks.
‘He will follow,’ I say. ‘When he has completed his business in London.’
At the mention of the king’s business in London – the execution of her stepfather, Lord Lisle – Anne Basset excuses herself and dashes out of the room.
I sit in her place and pick up her cards, and the queen nods as if she is pleased and picks up her cards again, as cool as if I had told her nothing but a detail of housekeeping.
‘It is your deal, I think, Mistress Carey,’ she says.
Westminster Palace, June
1540
I GO TO SEE if my spymaster is at work in his dark chamber after morning prayers. There is a yeoman of the guard barring the way before the locked door, and I walk briskly past, as if his room was never my destination. The warm air drifts through the open door to the gardens and invites me to stroll through the courtyards and the jumble of pathways of the old palace.
I find myself at the royal stables. Thomas Cromwell’s big cob horse is in his usual stall; his groom is polishing the big leather saddle on a bench outside.
‘Where’s your master?’
He jumps to his feet, pulls his cap from his head and bows. ‘I don’t know, your ladyship,’ he says. None of Cromwell’s men ever tell anyone anything.
‘When he comes for his horse, please tell him that Lady Rochford would like to see him,’ I say, and as I am turning to go back to the queen’s rooms, my uncle Thomas Howard Duke of Norfolk rides in and jumps down from his horse like a man half his age.
‘Ah, there you are, Jane,’ he says cheerfully. ‘And here am I, early for a meeting of the privy council. We have much to do today.’ He laughs. ‘Much to do.’
I fall into step beside him up the stone stairs into the open doorway. ‘Really?’ I say. ‘About the arrests?’ I lower my voice. ‘My lord, anything about the queen?’
‘Arrests!’ he exclaims. ‘They’re shipping them over from Calais as if they were quails! A baker’s dozen, all heretics.’
I have to steady my voice before I can ask him again: ‘My lord uncle, anything about the queen?’
‘It’s not the queen you need to worry about!’ He laughs at me, showing his yellow teeth. ‘Not her! But one of your other fine friends. You’ll know it all in good time,’ he declares. ‘But I’ll see you at my door, claiming kinship and wanting friendship. I will see you, all pretty smiles, at my door, Jane.’
‘I’m always proud to be of the House of Howard,’ I say cautiously. ‘I am always glad of your friendship, Uncle.’
‘Never more than today!’ he taunts me and heads up the stone stairs to the privy council chamber.
THOMAS CROMWELL MUST be at the privy council meeting with my uncle and the other lords, and I expect he will find me when the meeting is over. The meetings usually take all morning, especially in these troubled times when the king’s wishes are uncertain and changeable, and one group rises and the other falls, and only Thomas Cromwell – Lord Essex as he is now known – rides the crest of every tide.
In the queen’s rooms, the girls are sewing, and Kitty Howard is showing the queen the steps of a new dance. I walk past them to the tall Venetian glass windows and look down to the quayside and the river beyond.
The barge from the Tower is moored by the pier again – I rub my eyes as if I cannot believe that I see it again, as if it is a ghost, a harbinger. A black-painted barge without a flag or standard, rocking lightly on the ebbing tide, the oarsmen in their places, as if ready to go in a moment, the gangplank against the pier, the stanchions in place, the bargemaster waiting at the pier as if he has to stand to attention because his passengers will be here at any moment.
And then I see the prisoner: bare-headed, slightly stooped, stumbling as he comes down the stone stairs, along the paved quay, one hand clasping the front of his beautiful black jacket where it has been ripped in a struggle. Someone hurls his cap after him, and as it flies through the air, I recognise it. It is the neat black velvet embroidered cap that Thomas Cromwell always wears – little different from the cap that he wore when he was a wool merchant. The man walking behind him catches it and hands it to him with an odd little bow, as if he does not wish to be impolite to this man who is limping as if fatally hurt, to this man who says nothing as he stumbles along, to this man who ruled all of England this morning and is being hurried into the Tower barge to catch the ebbing tide, to take him to the Tower this afternoon.
It is Thomas Cromwell under arrest. It is Thomas Cromwell, bare-headed, with his cap in his hand, his jacket torn where someone has ripped off his insignia, his breeches tattered where someone tore off his precious Order of the Garter. This is a disaster for me, for the queen, and for Thomas Cromwell himself.
I glance back to the room, at the ladies so pretty and comfortable and busy in their little occupations, and I think: nobody will ever know the terror that is gripping me in this pretty room, as I turn from the window and smile and say that we must start getting ready, for the king and the noblemen will come soon, and it will be dinnertime.
I supervise the dressing of the queen; I am most particular in the placing of her jewels and the positioning of her hood on her fair hair. I meet her questioning brown eyes in the mirror, as if she is asking me why any of this would matter, if she is to go to Richmond Palace tomorrow? If she is to declare herself a duchess of Cleves and not a queen of England? Why dress like a bride to agree to the annulment of her marriage?
I don’t tell her that this poor outcome is now our most ambitious hope – that the man who planned to end her marriage and save her neck is going swiftly downstream in an unmarked barge to the Tower of London, and I don’t know what will greet him when he gets there. I cannot tell her that there was another plan, all in place and ready to hand, a plan where she dies on the scaffold, just as my sister-in-law died.
I don’t know who will become head of the dark chamber if Thomas Cromwell is beheaded, who will open the box of secret letters, who will choose what plan grinds into place. Both plans for the removal of the queen are equally ready, but one gives her Richmond Palace and 8,000 nobles a year, and the other deals her disgrace or even death. I don’t know what will happen to her, without Cromwell shuffling the pack of picture cards; I don’t know what will happen to me without his protection.
I smile confidently and say to her: ‘Will Your Grace dance tonight?’
‘Oh, do let’s,’ says Katheryn Howard.
The queen laughs at Kitty Howard’s unending desire for dances and young partners, and says: ‘Yes, why not?’
AS MY UNCLE the Duke of Norfolk predicted, I am at his door the very next morning, although the queen’s barge is at the pier, waiting for the flowing tide to Richmond Palace. I ask his servant if His Grace is at home and if I may speak with him, and the duke himself comes to the door smiling.
‘Ah, Jane. I was expecting you,’ he says. ‘Do come in, dear niece.’
He leads me to his inner chamber. The empty grate is filled with herbs, and the room smells of lemon balm and hyssop. ‘You’ll be anxious about your spymaster.’
I nod. There is no point in denying it.
He gleams in his triumph like a well-fed falcon. ‘Lord Essex – now once again Master Thomas Cromwell – is being questioned in the Tower for heresy and treason. He’ll be executed within the month.’
I feel cold. ‘You seem very sure, my lord?’
