Philippa Gregory - The Boleyn Inheritance

“He tell you he hate me?” bursts out of me.

His agonized grimace tells me that yes, the king has told this man that he cannot force himself to be my lover. Perhaps the king has told others, perhaps all his friends. Perhaps all this time the court has been laughing behind their white hands at the ugly girl from Cleves who came to marry the king and now repels him.

The humiliation of this makes me give a little shudder and turn away from Cromwell, and I do not see his bow and his swift retreat as he rushes to get away from me as you would avoid a person with poisonous bad luck.

I spend the rest of the evening in a daze of misery; I cannot put words to my shame. If I had not served such a hard apprenticeship at my brother’s court of Cleves I should have fled to my bedroom and cried myself to sleep. But I long ago learned to be stubborn, and long ago learned to be strong, and I have faced the dangerous dislike of a powerful ruler before, and survived.

I keep myself alert, like a wakened frightened falcon. I do not droop, and I do not let my pleasant smile slip from my face. When it is time for the ladies to retire, I curtsy to the king my husband without betraying for a moment my anguish that he finds me so disgusting that he cannot do to me what men can do to beasts of the field.

“Good night, Your Grace,” I say.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he says with such easy tenderness that for a moment I want to cling to him as my only friend at this court and tell him of my fear and unhappiness. But he is already looking beyond me, away from me. His glance is idly resting on my ladies, and Katherine Howard steps forward and curtsies to him and then I lead them all away.

I say nothing during the slow taking off of my gold collar, my bracelets, my rings, net, my hood, my sleeves, my stomacher, the two skirts, the padding, the petticoats, and the shift. I say nothing when they throw my nightdress over my head and I sit before the mirror and they brush my hair and plait it and pin my nightcap on my head. I say nothing when Lady Rochford lingers and asks kindly if I need anything, if she can be of service to me, if my mind is easy tonight.

My priest comes in, and the ladies and I kneel together for the nighttime prayers, and my thoughts beat in rhythm to the familiar words while I cannot help but think that I disgust my husband and have done from the very first day.

And then I remember it again. That first moment at Rochester when he came in all puffed up in his vanity and looking so very ordinary, exceptional only in that he stepped up to me, just like a drunken tradesman might do. But this was not a drunken old man of the country town; this was the King of England playing knight errant. I humiliated him before the whole court, and I think he will never forgive me.

His dislike of me springs from that moment, I swear it. The only way that he can bear the memory of it is to say, like a hurt child: “Well, I don’t like her either.” He recalls my pushing him away and refusing to kiss him, and now he pushes me away and refuses to kiss me. He has found a way to redress the balance by naming me as the undesirable one. The King of England, especially this king, cannot be seen to be the undesirable one, especially to himself.

The priest finishes the prayers, and I rise to my feet as the maids troop from the room, their heads bowed, as sweet as little angels in their nightcaps. I let them go. I ask for no one to wake with me though I know I will not sleep this night. I have become an object of disgust, just as I was in Cleves. I have become an object of disgust to my own husband, and I cannot see how we shall reconcile and make a child while he cannot bear to touch me. I have become an object of disgust to the King of England, and he is a man of utter power and no patience.

I am not weeping for the insult to my beauty because now I have a far greater worry. If I am an object of disgust to the King of England and he is a man of utter power and no patience, what might he do to me? This is a man who killed one beloved wife with studied cruelty; the second that he adored he executed with a French sword; and the third, who had given him a son, he left to die of poor nursing. What might he do to me?

That she is not happy is a certainty, but she is a discreet young woman, wiser by far than her years, and she cannot be led into confidences. I have been as kind and as sympathetic as I can to her, but I don’t want her to feel that I am probing for my own sake; and I don’t want to make her feel any worse than she must do already. For certain she must feel very friendless and strange in a country where she is only starting to grasp the language and where her husband shows such obvious relief when he can avoid her, and such blatant attention to another girl.

Then in the morning, after Mass, she comes to me as the girls are preening themselves before going to breakfast. “Lady Rochford, when will the princesses come to court?”

I hesitate. “Princess Mary,” I remind her. “But only Lady Elizabeth.”

She gives a little “ach” noise. “Yes. So. Princess Mary and Lady Elizabeth.”

“They usually come to court for Easter,” I say helpfully. “And then they can see their brother, and they can greet you. We were surprised that they did not greet you on your entry to London.” I stop myself. I am going too fast for her. I can see her frown as she struggles to follow my speech. “I am sorry,” I say more slowly. “The princesses should come to court to meet you. They should greet their stepmother. They should have welcomed you to London. Usually they come to court for Easter.”

She nods. “So. I may invite them?”

I hesitate. Of course, she can; but the king will not like her taking the power upon herself in this way. However, my lord duke will not object to any trouble between the two of them, and it is not my job to warn her.

“You can invite them,” I say.

She nods to me. “Please write.”

I go to the table and pull the little writing box toward me. The quills are ready-sharpened, the ink in the little pot, the sand in the sifter for scattering on the wet ink, and there is a stick of sealing wax. I love the luxury of court; I love to pick up the quill and take a sheet of paper and wait for the queen’s orders.

“Write to the Princess Mary that I should be glad to see her at court for Easter and that she will be welcome as a guest in my rooms,” she says. “Is that the right way to say it?”

“Yes,” I say, writing rapidly.

“And write to the governess of the Lady Elizabeth that I shall be glad to see her at court, too.”

My heart beats a little faster, like it does at a bearbaiting. She will walk straight into trouble if she sends these letters. These are an absolute challenge to the absolute power that is Henry. Nobody issues invitations in his household but he, himself.

“Can you send these for me?” she asks.

I am almost breathless. “I can,” I say. “If you wish.”

She puts out her hand. “I shall have them,” she says. “I shall show them to the king.”

“Oh.”

She turns to hide a little smile. “Lady Rochford, I would never do anything against the king’s wishes.”

“You have the right to have what ladies you please at your court,” I remind her. “It is your right as queen. Queen Katherine always insisted that she appoint her own household. Anne Boleyn, too.”

“These are his daughters,” she says. “So I shall ask him before I invite them.”

I bow; she leaves me with nothing to say. “Will there be anything else?” I ask her.

“You may go,” she says pleasantly, and I walk from the room. I am rather conscious that she tricked me into giving her bad advice, and she knew of it all along. I must remember that she is far more astute than any of us ever credit.