Page 78 of Boleyn Traitor
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 thepikuach 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
IGO TO SEEif 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.’
