The Boleyn Inheritance

Anne, Richmond Palace,
February 1542

I am seated in a chair in my room, my hands clasped in my lap, three lords from the Privy Council before me, their faces grave. They have sent for Dr. Harst at last, so this must be the moment of judgment after weeks of questioning my household, seeing my household accounts, and even talking to my stable boys about where I ride out and who goes with me.

Clearly, they have been inquiring as to whether I have secret meetings, but whether they suspect me of plotting with the emperor, with Spain, with France, or the Pope, I cannot know. They may suspect me of taking a lover; they may accuse me of joining a coven of witches. They have asked everyone where I have been and who regularly visits me. It is the company I keep that is the focus of their inquiry, but I cannot know what is their suspicion.

Since I am innocent of plotting, lust, or witchcraft, I should be able to hold my head up and declare my conscience clear, but there is a girl far younger than me on trial for her life, and there are men and women of absolute purity burned to death in this country merely for disagreeing with the king about the raising of the Host. Innocence is not enough anymore.

I hold up my head anyway, for I know that when a power far greater comes against me, whether it be my brother in his wanton cruelty, or the King of England in his vain madness, it is always better to keep my head up and my courage high and wait for the worst that can come. Dr. Harst, by contrast, is sweating; there are beads on his forehead, and every now and then he mops his face with a grubby handkerchief.

“There has been an allegation,” says Wriothsley pompously.

I look at him coolly. I have never liked him nor he me, but by God, he serves Henry. Whatever Henry wants this man will deliver to him with a veneer of legality. We shall see what Henry wants now.

“The king has heard that you have given birth to a child,” he says. “We were told that a boy was born to you this summer and has been hidden away by your confederates.”

Dr. Harst’s jaw drops almost to his chest. “What is this?” he asks.

I keep my own face completely serene. “It is a lie,” I say. “I have known no man since I parted from His Grace the king. And as you yourself proved then: I did not know him. The king himself swore I was a virgin then; I am a virgin still. You may ask my maids that I have not borne a child.”

“We have asked your maids,” he replies; he is enjoying this. “We have questioned every one of them, and we have received very different answers. You have some enemies in your household.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” I say. “And I am at fault for not keeping them in better order. Sometimes maids lie. But that is my only fault.”

“They tell us worse than this,” he says.

Dr. Harst has flushed scarlet; he is gulping for air. He is wondering, as I am, what could be worse than a secret birth? If this is the preparation for a show trial and an accusation of treason, then the case is being carefully built against me. I doubt that I can defend myself against sworn witnesses and someone’s newborn baby.

“What could be worse?” I ask.

“They say that there was no child, but that you pretended to give birth to a son, a boy, and that you have assured your confederates that this is the king’s child and heir to the throne of England. You plan with treasonous Papists to put him on the throne of England and usurp the Tudors. What do you say to this, Madam?”

My throat is very dry; I can feel myself searching for words, hunting for a persuasive reply, but nothing comes. If they want to, they can arrest me now, on this allegation alone. If they have a witness to say that I pretended to give birth, that I claimed it was the king’s child, then they have a witness to prove that I am guilty of treason and I shall join Katherine at Syon and we will die together, two disgraced queens on one scaffold.

“I say it is untrue,” I reply simply. “Whoever has told you this is a liar and a false witness. I know of no plot against the king, and I would be party to nothing against him. I am his sister and his faithful subject as he bid me to be.”

“You deny that you have horses waiting to take you to France?” he says in a sudden rush.

“I deny it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realize this is a mistake, for they will know that we have horses waiting.

Sir Thomas smiles at me; he knows he has caught me. “You deny it?” he asks again.

“They are waiting for me,” Dr. Harst says, his voice trembling. “I have debts, as you know; I am ashamed to say that I have many debts. I thought if my debtors became too pressing that I should go quickly to Cleves and speak to my master for more money. I have had the horses waiting in case my debtors came for me.”

I look at him in absolute incredulity. I am amazed at the quickness of his lie, but they cannot know that. He bows. “I beg your pardon, Lady Anne. I should have told you. But I was ashamed.”

Sir Thomas glances at the two other councillors; they nod to him. It is an explanation, if not the one they would have preferred.

“So,” he says briskly. “Your two servants who made up this story against you have been arrested for slander and will be taken to the Tower. The king is determined that your reputation shall be unsullied.”

The shift is almost too much for me. It sounds as if I am to be released from suspicion, and at once I think it is a trick. “I am grateful to His Majesty for his fraternal care,” I say carefully. “I count myself his most loyal subject.”

He nods. “Good. We will go now. The council will want to know that your name has been cleared.”

“You are leaving?” I ask. I know that they hope to catch me in a moment of relief. They do not know how deeply afraid I am. I don’t think I will ever celebrate my escape, for I will never trust it.

In a dream I rise from my chair and walk with him from the room; we go down the great stairs to the front door, where his escort is waiting, mounted with the royal standard before them. “I trust the king is well,” I say.

“His heart is broken,” Sir Thomas says frankly. “It is a bad business, a bad business indeed. His leg is giving him much pain, and Katherine Howard’s behavior has caused him great unhappiness. The whole court has been in mourning this Christmastide, almost as if she were dead.”

“Will she be released?” I ask.

He shoots me a quick, guarded look. “What do you think?”

I shake my head; I am not such a fool to speak my thoughts, especially not when I have just been on trial myself.

If I ever did tell the truth, I would say that I have thought for some months that the king is out of his wits and that no one has the courage to challenge him. He could release her and take her back as his wife, he could call her his sister, or he could behead her, as the mood takes him. He could summon me for marriage, or he could behead me for treason. He is a monstrous madman, and nobody but me seems to know it.

“The king will be judge,” he says, confirming my silent thoughts. “He alone is guided by God.”