The Boleyn Wife Read online

  The BOLEYN WIFE

  The BOLEYN WIFE

  BRANDY PURDY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Vengeance is mine; I shall repay.

  —Romans 12:19

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Part One: Anne

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part Two: Jane Seymour

  Anna of Cleves

  Chapter 33

  Part Three: Katherine

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  POSTSCRIPT

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  PROLOGUE

  The Madwoman in the Tower, 1542

  Overhead the sleek black ravens circle and caw, while below my window the workmen chat merrily, their voices hale and hearty as they call to one another above the din of hammer and saw. They brush the sawdust from their leather jerkins and woolen hose and go blithely about the business of building the scaffold upon which I shall soon die. It does not matter whether I look down or up; the sight that meets my eyes is equally grim—carrion birds or the planks that shall soon be stained with my life’s blood.

  They are very bold, these birds. When the workmen pause for their noonday repast, they swoop down and perch upon the burgeoning scaffold, snatching greedily at the morsels of meat and bread and tidbits of yellow cheese proffered by the calloused hands. How many deaths have these birds witnessed? I do not know the span of life that is allotted to a raven, but surely it is possible that some of them were here seven years ago when Anne bared her slender, swanlike neck to the French executioner’s sword. And two days before that swift slash of silver ended her life, George, her brother, my husband, laid his foolish and proud head upon the block and died for her as did four other equally foolish men. It was my evidence that helped speed them to their deaths. I told the truth, and for it I have been punished ever since.

  Did these very ravens perch upon the Tower walls to watch, eager as the human spectators, and did they in their bird’s language debate who met death with the bravest face? What will they make of me and poor, wanton little Kat, Henry’s fifth queen, when it is our turn?

  Neither of us deserves this fate, to have our lives snuffed out like candles upon the cavalier whim of an old man’s wounded pride. But Henry Tudor is King, and as Kat’s motto, the one she chose when she became queen, so rightfully proclaims, we have “no other will but his.” Our lives and deaths are in his hands.

  Here in the Tower my head aches always. Countless times I press my hands against my taut, deep-furrowed brow and try to will the pain away, but it will not depart. And I have long since plucked the pins from my hair and shaken it out so that it streams down my back like a wild, white-streaked waterfall, but still the pain does not ease. Had I still a care for vanity, I think I would weep. I am but a year past forty and already my hair is more white than brown; imprisonment has streaked it with silver and snow.

  Jealousy and Hate, Justice and Divine Retribution, some say, have brought me to this place. “He who sows the whirlwind must expect to reap the storm,” the walls whisper all around me, incessantly, in voices I know all too well. George, Anne, Weston, Brereton, and Norris—they will not let me forget that I once thought Vengeance was my sword to wield.

  And wield it I did.

  Though I despise the din that torments my ears by day, I am glad of the sawing and pounding, the bluff banter of working men, and even the ravens’ cackling and screeching, for when these sounds cease and night falls, that is when the ghosts come out to torment me.

  He stands there now in the shadows beyond the torches’ reach, a grim, unwavering silhouette. And though I cannot see them, I feel his eyes mocking me, laughing at me. Sometimes she is there with him. The rustle of velvet skirts and a heady whiff of rose perfume herald her arrival, and my hatred surges so strong that to knock me off my feet it threatens. Then, in a movement fluid with grace, he lifts off his head, tucks it beneath his arm, and bows to me, just like a gentleman at court doffing his fine feathered hat to a lady.

  “Well, well, Jane…”

  He speaks my name and my heart soars. He is smiling at me—it matters not that it is mockingly—he is smiling at me, he is speaking to me, and his words are meant for me alone.

  “…you would see justice done, and soon the headsman shall give you a personal demonstration!”

  “I am sorry, George!” I extend my arms entreatingly. “Truly, I did not mean for you to die! I love you!”

  “Forsooth, Madame, you have a strange way of showing it! You accused me of incest and sent me to the block! If that is how you treat those you love, I shudder to think what mischief you would work against an enemy!”

  The flame of hate that has burned so long inside me flares high.

  “You chose the block! You chose to die with her rather than live with me! You were guilty! Perhaps you did not sin in the flesh, but you were guilty to the bottom of your soul! You loved her more than any! Yes, I helped send her to her death, and I am glad of it! Glad!” I hold my head up high, stamp my feet, and clench my hands into tight, trembling fists and feel my nails bite into my palms until they leave bloody little crescents behind. “And regret it I will never! Neither God in Heaven nor the Devil in Hell can make me!”

  “There is still murder in your heart, Jane,” his voice dolefully reproves me.

  And then he is gone, and I am alone again, for now. But I dare not sleep, for when I sleep I am granted a foretaste of Hell. That is when the flames come and the stink of sulfur chokes and burns my lungs. I start awake and leap to my feet, screaming, slapping at the flames as they engulf my skirts. I circle wildly, beating at them, burning my hands, and then my over-sleeves catch fire. My Boleyn sleeves—her sleeves—the sleeves she made famous. Anne Boleyn! Even in my wardrobe I cannot escape her! I fall sobbing to the floor, scorched and smarting, and it is then that through a shimmer of smoke I see him. But no, it is not George; it is only Master Kingston, my jailer, with his wife, come to dose me with a bitter draft to bring me quiet rest.

  But George is here. I know he is! I sense his presence still, smirking in the shadows.

  Oh, George, why could you not have loved me just a little? Why could you not, just once, have looked at me the way you looked at her—at Anne? Why could I, your wife, not come before your sister?

  But tonight I shall not sleep. Tonight there will be no fire and brimstone chased away with a bitter decoction of poppies. No, tonight I shall tell how I came to be “The Madwoman in the Tower,” and why, as much as he loved her, I hated her more….

  Part One

  Anne

  1522–1536

  1

  Anne Boleyn was not beautiful, but, while women were quick to
take gleeful note of this, men seldom noticed; the Spanish Ambassador who dubbed her “The Goggle-Eyed Whore” being a notable exception. Yet she cast a spell like no other, this raven-haired enchantress, that caused men to fall at her feet, sing her praises, and worship her; some even gave their lives for her.

  Her bearing was innately regal, as if Mother Nature had intended all along that she should be a queen. Each gesture, each turn of her head and hands, each step, was as graceful and gliding as a dance. Her voice was velvet, her laughter music and tinkling bells, and her wit sparkled like silver and was as keen as the sharpest razor. Her eyes were prominent and dark brown, with a beguiling and vivacious sparkle. But her complexion varied in the eyes of the beholder; deemed creamy by some and sallow by others. Nine years spent at the French court had left her more French than English, and her voice would always retain a lyrical—and some said sensual—lilting accent. Instead of petite, blond, and partridge-plump like all the celebrated English beauties, including her sister Mary, Anne Boleyn was tall, dark, and slender as a reed, with a cloak of glossy black hair reaching all the way down to her knees, which for her life entire she would flout convention by letting flow gypsy-free, instead of confining it inside a coif after she became a wife.

  No, she was not beautiful, but at deception she excelled, cleverly concealing her flaws by the most ingenious means, and in doing so she set fashions. A choker of velvet, precious gems, or pearls hid an unsightly strawberry wen upon her throat. And she devised a new style of sleeve, worn full, long, and flowing, over wrist-length under-sleeves to conceal an even more unbecoming blemish—the start of a sixth finger, just the tip and nail, protruding from the side of the smallest finger on her left hand. Anne set the fashions other women rushed to follow, never knowing that they were devices of illusion, like the objects the court magician employed to perform his tricks and leave his audience gasping in astonishment and delight, wondering how the trick was done but nonetheless enchanted.

  In 1522 when I, Lady Jane Parker, first met her, her fate was undecided. “What to do about Anne?” was the subject of many grave parental debates from her infancy onward. If only she were blond like her sister Mary, or red-haired like the King’s sister, a true English rose—but no, Anne’s tresses were black. If only her eyes were blue and placid, or serene and green, instead of almond-shaped and dark. If only her skin were porcelain pale with rosy pink cheeks, instead of sultry and sallow like a woman of France or Spain. If only, if only, if only! Would she ever make a good match? Would any man of standing take a dark, six-fingered bride with a tempestuous and rebellious temperament that even the stern Sir Thomas Boleyn had been unable to quash? Perhaps a convent would be the wisest choice? Filled as they were with plain, ugly, disfigured, and otherwise unmarriageable girls, surely there was a niche there that Anne could fill, and with her brains she might even rise to the rank of abbess and thus bring a small measure of glory to her family.

  Then—when marriage and the future were so much on all our minds—came the fateful day when my path first crossed hers and our destinies became irrevocably entangled. Centuries from now, if anyone remembers me, it will be because of Anne Boleyn.

  And for that I damn and curse her.

  My father, Lord Morley, and Sir Thomas Boleyn were keen to forge a match between myself, an only child and sole heiress to my father’s sizable fortune, and George, the only Boleyn son. It was a notion, I confess, that made me swoon with delight. My heart was already his, and had been ever since the day I arrived at court, a befuddled and nervous maid, lost amidst the noisy and confusing bustle of King Henry’s court. Suddenly finding myself separated from my escort, I asked a passing gentleman to help me find my way. Gallantly, he offered me his arm and saw me safely to my chamber door, and there he bowed, with a most elegant flourish of his white-plumed cap, and left me.

  No sooner had he turned his back than my hand shot out to waylay a passing page boy, clutching so tight to his sleeve I felt some of the stitches at the shoulder snap.

  “Tell me that gentleman’s name!” I implored.

  “George Boleyn,” came the answer.

  And ever since, it has been engraved upon my heart. Every night when I knelt beside my bed in prayer I pleaded fervently, “Please! Make him mine!” I prayed to God, and I would gladly have prayed to the Devil too, if I thought Our Heavenly Father would fail to grant my deepest, most heartfelt wish. Sans regret, I would have sold my soul to have him! As I lay alone in darkness, waiting for slumber, I whispered his name times beyond number, soft and reverent, as if it were—and for me it was!—a sacrament or prayer.

  When I went home to Great Hallingbury, our sturdy redbrick manor nestled in the sleepy Essex countryside, I began, like a general, to plot my campaign. Fortunately, I was a spoiled only child and, more often than not, my father was happy to indulge me.

  Father was a keen classical scholar, more at ease with the ancient Greeks and Romans, their history, culture, and myths, than the backbiting, scandal, politics, and intrigue of King Henry’s court. Whenever he could, he shut himself away in his library with his beloved scrolls and books, surrounded by statues and busts of gods, goddesses, and great warriors, while he worked zealously at his Greek and Latin translations, which he had afterwards elegantly bound and presented to the King, his friends, and other like-minded scholars. Whenever I could, I haunted his library, chattering endlessly, no doubt making a great nuisance of myself, endeavoring at every opportunity to insert George Boleyn’s name into the conversation, and for months it was George Boleyn this and George Boleyn that, until Father took the hint and, no doubt hoping to restore serene and blessed silence to his library, made arrangements to meet with Sir Thomas Boleyn and discuss the possibility of a betrothal.

  Thus, with further negotiations in mind, my father was pleased to accept Sir Thomas Boleyn’s invitation to visit the family castle of Hever, a modest, mellow-stone block nestled in the heart of the Kentish countryside, surrounded by a moat and lush greenery.

  Pale and patrician in sapphire blue velvet, Lady Boleyn, the former Elizabeth Howard, welcomed us warmly.

  “Let all the formality be in the marriage contracts!” she declared, embracing me as if I were her daughter-in-law already.

  After I had quenched my thirst and changed my gown, she directed me to the garden where I might enjoy the company of her children—George, Mary, and the newly returned Anne.

  Surely my heart must have shown upon my face when he turned a welcoming smile in my direction. It was like a whip crack, a sharp, ecstatic pang, a slap, lashing hard against my heart. Love was the master and I was the slave!

  At twenty, George Boleyn was breathtakingly handsome, endowed with a lively wit and a reputation for being something of a rake. He was slender and tall, dark as a Spaniard or a Frenchman, with sleek black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, eyes the warmest shade of brown I had ever seen—they reminded me of a sable robe I wanted to wrap myself up in on a cold winter’s day—teeth like polished ivory, lips full, pink, and sensual, and skin the warm golden hue of honey. A poet and musician, his pen and lute were always at his side, and when he strummed his lute I felt as if my heart were its strings. How could I not love him?

  But I was never fool enough to think that he loved me. I hoped, I yearned, I burned with lust and jealousy, but I never cherished that illusion. Was there ever a Jane plainer than I? Me with my nose like a beak, my face and figure all sharp angles with no plump, pillow-soft bosom or curves, and my hair a lank and lifeless mousy brown, I could never stir a man’s loins and make his blood race. But reality didn’t stop me from wanting, hoping, and dreaming. And in our world, where titles, lands, and fortunes—not love—are the stuff of which marriages are made, the odds of winning him were not entirely stacked against me.

  As I followed the garden path, the summer breeze carried the tart tang of lemon to my nose and I turned to seek its source.

  Indolent and lush as a rose in full bloom, Mary Boleyn lounged in
a chair situated to take best advantage of the sun. Gowned in gold-embroidered peacock blue and fiery orange satin, far too rich for such a rustic setting, Mary lolled back against her cushions like a well-contented cat. Upon her head she wore a straw hat with the crown cut out and a very wide brim upon which her long golden tresses, soaked thoroughly with lemon juice, were spread to be bleached blonder still by the sun’s bright rays. And beneath her orange kirtle her stomach swelled with the promise of King Henry’s child.

  The most amiable of wantons was Mary. She lost her virtue early, to no less a personage than the King of France. She comported herself with such lascivious abandon that she was banished from that most licentious and hedonistic of courts for “conduct unbecoming to a maid,” and sent home to England, where she at once caught King Henry VIII’s eye and went merrily and obligingly into his bed. Perhaps she was too obliging, for he soon tired of her, but not before his seed took root inside her womb. Thus, for the second time in her life, Mary Boleyn, then aged but one-and-twenty, found herself banished from court, and to Hever Castle she was exiled to await her hastily procured bridegroom, Sir William Carey, a cheerful knight of modest means who was glad to undertake this service for his King.