The Boleyn Inheritance

Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court,
April 1541

“What actually happened to Anne Boleyn?” the child queen horrifies me by asking as we walk back from Mass early one morning in April. The king was, as usual, absent from the royal box, and for once she was not peering over the edge of the box to see Culpepper. She even closed her eyes during the prayers as if praying, and she seemed thoughtful. Now this.

“She was accused of treason,” I say coolly. “Surely, you know that?”

“Yes, but why? Exactly why? What happened?”

“You should ask your grandmother, or the duke,” I say.

“Weren’t you there?”

Was I not there? Was I not there for every agonizing second of it all? “Yes, I was at court,” I say.

“Don’t you remember?”

As if it were engraved on my skin with a knife. “Oh, I remember. But I don’t like to talk of it. Why would you seek to know of the past? It means nothing now.”

“But it’s not as if it were a secret,” she presses me. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, is there?”

I swallow on a dry throat. “No, nothing. But it cost me my sister-in-law and my husband and our good name.”

“Why did they execute your husband?”

“He was accused of treason with her, and the other men.”

“I thought that the other men were accused of adultery?”

“It’s the same thing,” I say tersely. “If the queen takes a lover, that is treason to the king. D’you see? Now can we speak of something else?”

“Then why did they execute her brother, your husband?”

I grit my teeth. “They were accused of being lovers,” I say grimly. “Now do you see why I don’t want to speak of it? Why no one wants to speak of it? So can we say no more of it?”

She does not even hear my tone, she is so shocked. “They accused her of taking her brother as a lover?” she demanded. “How could they think she would do such a thing? How could they have evidence of such a thing?”

“Spies and liars,” I say bitterly. “Be warned. Don’t trust those stupid girls you have gathered round you.”

“Who accused them?” she asks, still puzzled. “Who could give such evidence?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I am desperate to get away from her, from her determined hunt after these old truths. “It is too long ago, and I cannot remember, and if I could, I would not discuss it.”

I stride away from her, ignoring royal protocol. I cannot stand the dawning suspicion in her face. “Who could know?” she repeats. But I have gone.