The Boleyn Inheritance. Philippa Gregory

me up the aisle towards the altar. For a moment I hesitate, I don’t know what he wants to do, and I am no great enthusiast for praying. We will be late for breakfast if we don’t hurry and I like the bread when it is still warm from the ovens. But then I see that we are acting out our wedding. I so wish that I had put on my best gown this morning, but it is too late now.

      ‘I, Francis Dereham, do take thee, Katherine Howard, to be my lawful wedded wife,’ he says firmly.

      I smile up at him. If only I had put on my best hood, I would be perfectly happy.

      ‘Now you say it,’ he prompts me.

      ‘I, Katherine Howard, do take thee, Francis Dereham, to be my lawful wedded husband,’ I reply obediently.

      He bends and kisses me. I can feel my knees go weak at his touch, all I want is for the kiss to last forever. Already, I am wondering if we were to slip into my lady grandmother’s high-walled pew, we could go a little further than this. But he stops. ‘You understand that we are married now?’ he confirms.

      ‘This is our wedding?’

      ‘Yes.’

      I giggle. ‘But I am only fourteen.’

      ‘That makes no difference, you have given your word in the sight of God.’ Very seriously he puts his hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out a purse. ‘There is one hundred pounds in here,’ he says solemnly. ‘I am going to give it into your safekeeping, and in the New Year I shall go to Ireland and make my fortune so that I can come home and claim you openly as my bride.’

      The purse is heavy, he has saved a fortune for us. This is so thrilling. ‘I am to keep the money safe?’

      ‘Yes, as my good wife.’

      This is so delightful that I give it a little shake and hear the coins chink. I can put it in my empty jewel box. ‘I shall be such a good wife to you! You will be so surprised!’

      ‘Yes. As I told you. This is a proper wedding in the sight of God. We are husband and wife now.’

      ‘Oh, yes. And when you have made your fortune, we can really marry, can’t we? With a new gown and everything?’

      Francis frowns for a moment. ‘You do understand?’ he says. ‘I know you are young, Katherine, but you must understand this. We are married now. It is legal and binding. We cannot marry again. This is it. We have just done it. A marriage between two people in the sight of God is a marriage as binding as one signed on a contract. You are my wife now. We are married in the eyes of God and the law of the land. If anyone asks you, you are my wife, my legally wedded wife. You do understand?’

      ‘Of course I do,’ I reply hastily. I don’t want to look stupid. ‘Of course I understand. All I am saying is that I would like a new gown when we tell everybody.’

      He laughs as if I have said something funny and takes me in his arms again and kisses the base of my throat and nuzzles his face into my neck. ‘I shall buy you a gown of blue silk, Mrs Dereham,’ he promises me.

      I close my eyes in pleasure. ‘Green,’ I say. ‘Tudor green. The king likes green best.’

       Jane Boleyn, Greenwich Palace, December 1539

      Thank God I am here in Greenwich, the most beautiful of the king’s palaces, back where I belong in the queen’s rooms. Last time I was here I was nursing Jane Seymour as she burned up with fever, asking for Henry, who never came; but now the rooms have been repainted, and I have been restored and she has been forgotten. I alone have survived. I have survived the fall of Queen Katherine, the disgrace of Queen Anne and the death of Queen Jane. It is a miracle to me that I have survived but here I am, back at court, one of the favoured few, the very favoured few. I shall serve the new queen as I have served her predecessors, with love and loyalty and an eye to my own opportunities. I shall once again walk in and out of the best chambers of the best palaces of the land as my home. I am once again where I was born and bred to be.

      Sometimes I can even forget everything that has happened. Sometimes, I forget I am a widow of thirty, with a son far away from me. I think I am a young woman again with a husband I worship, and everything to hope for. I am returned to the very centre of my world. Almost I could say: I am reborn.

      The king has planned a Christmas wedding and the queen’s ladies are being assembled for the festivities. Thanks to my lord duke, I am one of them, restored to the friends and rivals I have known since my childhood. Some of them welcome me back with a wry smile and a backhand compliment, some of them look askance at me. Not that they loved Anne so much – not they – but they were frightened by her fall and they remember that I alone escaped, it is like magic that I escaped, it makes them cross themselves and whisper old rumours against me.

      Bessie Blount, the king’s old mistress, now married far above her station to Lord Clinton, greets me kindly enough. I have not seen her since the death of her son Henry Fitzroy, who the king made a duke, Duke of Richmond, for nothing more than being a royal bastard, and when I say how sorry I am for her loss, shallow words of politeness, she suddenly grips my hand and looks at me, her face pale and demanding, as if to ask me wordlessly if I know how it was that he died? Will I tell her how he died?

      I smile coolly and unwrap her fingers from my wrist. I cannot tell her because truly I don’t know, and if I did know I would not tell her. ‘I am very sorry for the loss of your son,’ I say again.

      She will probably never know why he died nor how. But neither will thousands. Thousands of mothers saw their sons march out to protect the shrines, the holy places, the roadside statues, the monasteries and the churches, and thousands of sons never came home again. The king will decide what is faith and what is heresy, it is not for the people to say. In this new and dangerous world it is not even for the church to say. The king will decide who will live and who will die, he has the power of God now. If Bessie really wants to know who killed her son she had better ask the king his father; but she knows Henry too well to do that.

      The other women have seen Bessie greet me and they come forwards: Seymours, Percys, Culpeppers, Nevilles. All the great families of the land have forced their daughters into the narrow compass of the queen’s rooms. Some of them know ill of me and some of them suspect worse. I don’t care. I have faced worse than the malice of envious women, and I am related to most of them anyway, and rival to them all. If anyone wants to make trouble for me they had better remember that I am under the protection of my lord duke, and only Thomas Cromwell is more powerful than us.

      The one I dread, the one I really don’t want to meet, is Catherine Carey, the daughter of Mary Boleyn, my mean-spirited sister-in-law. Catherine is a child, a girl of fifteen, I should not fear her, but – to tell the truth – her mother is a formidable woman and never a great admirer of mine. My lord duke has won young Catherine a place at court and ordered her mother to send her to the fount of all power, the source of all wealth, and Mary, reluctant Mary, has obeyed. I can imagine how unwillingly she bought the child her gowns and dressed her hair and coached her in her curtsey and her dancing. Mary saw her family rise to the skies on the beauty and wit of her sister and her brother, and then saw their bodies packed in pieces in the little coffins. Anne was beheaded, her body wrapped in a box, her head in a basket. George, my George … I cannot bear to think of it.

      Let it be enough to say that Mary blames me for all her grief and loss, blames me for the loss of her brother and sister, and never thinks of her own part in our tragedy. She blames me as if I could have saved them, as if I did not do everything in my power till that very day, the last day, on the scaffold, when in the end there was nothing anybody could do.

      And she is wrong to blame me. Mary Norris lost her father Henry on the same day and for the same cause, and she greets me with respect and with a smile. She bears no grudge. She has been properly taught by her mother that the fire of the king’s displeasure can burn up anyone, there is no point in blaming the survivors who got out in time.

      Catherine Carey is a maid of fifteen, she will