The Boleyn Inheritance

Anne, Richmond Palace,
October 1540

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.”