Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (205 page)

“He came to your bed?”

I want to say no. But if that fool Dereham has told them everything, then all I can do is make it seem better. “He did. I did not invite him, but he insisted. He forced me.”

“He raped you?”

“Yes, almost.”

“Did you not cry out? You were in the room with all the other young ladies? They would have heard you.”

“I let him do it. But I did not want it.”

“So he lay with you.”

“Yes. But he was never naked.”

“He was fully dressed?”

“I mean, he was never naked except for when he took his hose down. And then he was.”

“He was, what?”

“He was naked then.” Even to me this sounds weak.

“And he took your virginity.”

I cannot see a way to avoid this. “Er . . .”

“He was your lover.”

“I don’t think . . .”

He rises from his feet as if he would go. “This does you no good at all. I cannot save you if you lie to me.”

I am so afraid of his walking away that I cry out and run after him and catch his arm. “Please, Archbishop. I will tell you. I am just so ashamed, and so sorry. . . .” I am sobbing now, he looks so stern; if he does not take my side, then how shall I explain all this to the king? I am afraid of the archbishop, but I am utterly terrified of the king.

“Tell me. You lay with him. You were as husband and wife to each other.”

“Yes,” I say, driven to honesty. “Yes, we were.”

He lifts my hand from his arm as if I have some infection of the skin and he does not want to touch me. As if I am a
leper. I, who only two days ago was so precious that the whole country thanked God that the king had found me! It is not possible. It is not possible that everything could have gone so wrong so quickly.

“I shall consider your confession,” he says. “I shall take it to God in prayer. I have to tell the king. We will consider what charges you will have to face.”

“Can’t we just forget that it all happened?” I whisper, my hands twisting together, the rings heavy on my fingers. “It was so long ago. It was years ago. Nobody can even remember it. The king doesn’t need to know; you said yourself, it will break his heart. Just tell him that nothing important happened, and can’t everything be as it was?”

He looks at me as if I am quite mad. “Queen Katherine,” he says gently. “You have betrayed the King of England. The punishment is death. Can you not understand that?”

“But this was all long before I was married,” I whimper. “It wasn’t betraying the king. I hadn’t even met him. Surely the king will forgive me for my errors as a girl?” I can feel the sobs coming up into my throat, and I can’t hold them back. “Surely he won’t cruelly judge me for my childhood errors when I was nothing but a little girl with poor guardians?” I gulp. “Surely His Grace will be kind to me? He has loved me, and I have made him so happy. He thanked God for me, and this, this is nothing.” The tears are pouring down my face. I am not pretending to be sorry; I am absolutely appalled to be here, facing this awful man, having to twist myself up in lies to make things look better. “Please, sir, please forgive me. Please tell the king that I have done nothing that matters.”

The archbishop pulls away from me. “Calm yourself. Calm yourself. We will say no more now.”

“Say you will forgive me, say that the king will forgive me.”

“I hope he will; I hope he can. I hope you can be saved.”

I grab onto him, sobbing without control. “You cannot go until you promise me I will be safe.”

He drags himself to the door though I am clinging to him like a wailing child. “Madam, you must be calm.”

“How can I be calm when you tell me that the king is angry with me? When you tell me that the punishment is death? How can I be calm? How can I be calm? I’m only sixteen, I can’t be accused, I can’t be—”

“Let me go, Madam; this behavior does not serve you.”

“You shan’t go without blessing me.”

He pushes me from him and then crosses the air rapidly above my head. “There. There you are,
in nomine . . . filii . . .
There, now be quiet.”

I throw myself down on the floor to sob, but I hear the door close behind him, and even though he is not there to see me, I cannot stop crying. Even when the inner door opens and my ladies come in, I am still crying. Even when they flutter round me and pat me on the head, I do not sit up and cheer up. I am so afraid now, I am so afraid.

Jane Boleyn, Hampton Court, November 1541

That devil the archbishop has terrified the girl half out of her wits, and now she does not know whether to lie or confess. My lord the duke has come with him for another visit, and while they try to pull the sobbing queen from her bed, he pauses beside me. “Will she confess to Culpepper?” he whispers, so low that I have to lean against him to hear it.

“If you let the archbishop work on her, she will confess to anything,” I warn him in a hurried whisper. “I cannot keep her quiet. He torments her with hope, and then he threatens her with damnation. She is only a silly girl, and he seems determined to break her. He will drive her mad if he keeps threatening her.”

He gives a short laugh, almost like a groan. “She had better pray for madness; it could be the only thing that saves her,” he says. “Good God. Two nieces as Queens of England, and both of them end on the scaffold!”

“What could save her?”

“They can’t execute her if she is mad,” he says absently. “You can’t stand trial for treason if you are mad. They would have to send her away to a convent. Good God, is that her screaming now?”

The eerie cries of Kitty Howard begging to be spared are echoing through her rooms as the women try to pull her in to face the archbishop.

“What will you do?” I demand. “This can’t go on.”

“I’ll try to keep clear of this,” he says bleakly. “I hoped to see her with her wits about her today. I was going to advise her to plead guilty to Dereham and deny Culpepper, then she has done nothing worse than marry with a precontract in place, as Anne of Cleves. She might have got away with that. He might even have taken her back. But at this rate she will kill herself before the axeman gets her.”

“Keep clear?” I demand. “And what about me?”

His face is like a flint. “What about you?”

“I’ll take the French count,” I say to him rapidly. “Whatever the contract is, I’ll take him. I’ll live with him in France for a few years—wherever he likes. I’ll lie low until the king has recovered from this, I can’t go back into exile, I can’t go back to Blickling. I can’t stand it. I can’t go through it all again. I really can’t. I’ll take the French count even without a good settlement. Even if he is old and ugly, even if he’s deformed. I’ll take the French count.”

The duke shouts with sudden laughter like a baited bear, bellowing in my face. I recoil, but his amusement is horribly sincere. In these terrible rooms filled with women crying to Katherine to compose herself and her awful, high-pitched wailing, and the archbishop praying loudly over the noise, the duke roars out his merriment. “A French count!” he bellows. “A French count! Are you mad? Are you run as mad as my niece?”

“What?” I demand, quite baffled. “What are you laughing at? Hush, my lord. Hush. There’s nothing to laugh at.”

“Nothing to laugh at?” He cannot contain himself. “There never was a French count. There never could have been a French count. There never would be a French count or an English earl or an English baron. There would never be a Spanish don, or an Italian prince. No man in the world would ever have you. Are you such a fool that you don’t know that?”

“But you said—”

“I said anything to keep you at work for me, as you would say
anything to suit your own cause. But I never thought you really believed me. Don’t you know what men think of you?”

I can feel my legs starting to tremble; it is like the time before, when I knew that I would have to betray them. When I knew that I would have to hide my falseness from my own face. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”

His hard hands come down on my shoulders, and he drags me to one of the queen’s expensive gilt-edged looking glasses. In the soft silver reflection I see my own wide eyes looking back at me, and his face as hard as the face of Death himself. “Look,” he says. “Look at yourself and know what you are: you liar, you false wife. There is not a man in the world who would marry you. You are known the length and breadth of Europe as the woman who sent her husband and her sister-in-law to the axeman. You are known in every court in Europe as a woman so vile that she sent her husband to be hanged”—he gives me a shake—“to be cut down while still living, in his piss-wet breeches”—he shakes me again—“to be slit from cock to throat, to see his belly and his liver and his lights pulled out and shown to him, to bleed to death while they burned his liver and his heart and his belly and his lungs before his face”—he shakes me once more—“and then finally to be sliced up like a beast on the butcher’s block, the head, the arms, the legs.”

“They didn’t do that to him,” I whisper, but my lips barely move in the reflection.

“No thanks to you,” he says. “That’s what people remember. The king, his worst enemy, spared him the torture that you had sent him to. The king let him be beheaded, but you sent him to be disemboweled. You, on the witness stand, swearing that he and Anne had been lovers, that he had mounted his own sister, that he was a sodomite, a bugger, with half the court, swearing that they had plotted the king’s death, swearing his life away, sending him to a death that you would not give to a dog.”

“It was your plan.” In the mirror my face is green with sickness
at the truth being spoken out loud at last, my dark eyes bulging with horror. “It was your plan, not mine. I shall not be blamed for it. You said that we would save them. They would be pardoned if we gave evidence and they pleaded guilty.”

“You knew that was a lie.” He shakes me like a terrier shakes a rat. “You knew, you liar. You never took the stand to save him. You took the stand to save your title and your fortune; you called it your inheritance, the Boleyn inheritance. You knew that if you turned evidence against your own husband, then the king would leave you with your title and your lands. That’s all you wanted in the end. That’s all you cared for. You sent that young man and that beauty, his sister, to the gallows so that you could save your own yellow skin and your paltry title. You sent them to their deaths, a savage death, for being beautiful and merry and happy in each other’s company and for excluding you. You are a byword for malice, jealousy, and twisted lust. D’you think any man would trust you with a title again? D’you think any man would risk calling you wife? After that?”

“I was going to save him.” I bare my teeth at the two of us in the mirror. “I accused him so that he could confess and be pardoned. I would have saved him.”

“You are a killer worse than the king,” he says brutally, and throws me to one side. I rebound off the wall and grab at the tapestry to steady myself. “You testified against your own sister-in-law and husband; you stood by the sickbed while Jane Seymour died; you testified against Anne of Cleves and would have seen her beheaded. Now, without a doubt, you will see another cousin go to the gallows, and I confidently expect you to bear witness against her.”

“I loved him,” I say stubbornly, going to the only charge that I cannot bear to hear. “You shall not deny that I loved George. I loved him with all my heart.”

“Then you are worse than a liar and a false friend,” he says coldly. “For your love brought the man you love to a most pitiable death. Your love is worse than hatred. Dozens hated George Boleyn, but it
was your loving word that took him to his death. Don’t you see how evil you are?”

“If he had stood by me, if he had cleaved to me, I would have saved him,” I cry out from my own pain. “If he had loved me as he loved her, if he had let me into his life, if I had been as dear to him as she was—”

“He would never have stood by you,” the duke says with contempt like poison in his voice. “He would never have loved you. Your father bought him for you with a fortune, but nobody and no fortune could make you lovable. George despised you, and Anne and Mary laughed at you. That’s why you accused them; none of this high-flying, self-sacrificing lie has a shred of truth. You accused them, because if you could not have George, you would rather have seen him dead than loving his sister.”

“She came between us,” I gasp.

“His hounds came between you. His horses. He loved the horses in his stable, he loved his hawks in his mews more than he loved you. And you would have killed every one of them—horse, hound, and hawk—from sheer jealousy. You are an evil woman, Jane, and I have used you as I would use a piece of filth. But now I am finished with that foolish girl Katherine, and I am finished with you. You can advise her to save herself as best she can. You can bear witness for her, you can bear witness against her. I don’t care for either of you.”

I feel the wall behind me, and I push myself forward to glare into his face. “You will not treat me so,” I say. “I am no piece of filth; I am your ally. If you turn against me, you will regret it. I know all the secrets. Enough to send her to the gallows, enough to send you there, too. I will destroy her, and you with her.” I am panting now, flushed with rage. “I will bring her to the scaffold and every Howard with her. Even if I die myself this time!”