The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Read online

  The Boleyn Reckoning is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2014 by Laura Andersen

  Reading group guide copyright © 2014

  by Random House LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of

  Random House, a division of Random House LLC,

  a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  RANDOM HOUSE READER’S CIRCLE & Design is a registered trademark of Random House LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-345-53413-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-345-53414-9

  Cover photo: Richard Jenkins Photography

  www.randomhousereaderscircle.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prelude: July 1536

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Postlude

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  A Reader’s Guide

  PRELUDE

  July 1536

  “MY LADY.”

  Mary refused to acknowledge the greeting, for Archbishop Cranmer’s avoidance of her true title was an insult to her birth and position.

  “My lady Mary,” the impertinent man pressed, “I bring with me a letter from the king, your father.”

  That she could not refuse to acknowledge. Wordlessly, she extended her hand and the heretic archbishop handed over the letter. They were alone in a small antechamber at Hatfield House, where Mary fulfilled her duty as lady-in-waiting to her tiny half sister. If Elizabeth were her half sister; Mary would have liked to believe that the child was not Henry’s at all. But in her heart she knew they were sisters. They shared some of the same colouring, and even at not yet three years old, the precocious Elizabeth had a fearsome will that shouted her royal parentage.

  Mary’s chest constricted at her father’s familiar and beloved handwriting. But it was the message itself that closed off her throat and sent wings of panic fluttering through her body. The queen is safely delivered of a son. England at last has a Prince of Wales as God intended.

  How could God have intended this? Mary wondered. How could He have allowed her own mother—Henry’s true and loyal wife—to die barren and alone while the Boleyn whore bewitched the king? How could such a woman be granted a living son when Catherine of Aragon had been denied? Mary felt for the rosary at her waist and then remembered that she was forbidden to wear it at Hatfield.

  “What do you want of me?” she demanded of Cranmer. “Congratulations? I am always glad for my father’s happiness, but I cannot congratulate him on a mistaken pride in a son who is not legitimate. How can this boy be Prince of Wales, when my father has never truly been married to that woman?”

  “My lady,” and despite herself, Mary recognized the kindness beneath the archbishop’s inflexibility, “your care for your mother’s honour does you great credit. But your father wishes nothing more than to be reconciled with you. Why separate yourself from the comfort of the king’s love and care when you need not? He asks so little.”

  “I know what he asks—that I proclaim my mother’s marriage a lie, her virtue a hoax, her faith an inconvenience. The king asks me to brand myself a bastard for the sake of that woman’s children.”

  “The king asks you to accept the inevitable. My lady, this is a fight you cannot win. Ask yourself—does God wish you to go on in defiance against your father’s wishes? To live out your life in rebellion and servitude? Whatever the state of your parents’ marriage, you were conceived in good faith and were born for better things.”

  Mary thought of how much she hated Hatfield, being in a house of Protestants who despised not only her and her mother but the Church as well. With Cranmer being so reasonable and soft-spoken, she asked cautiously, “What would I receive in return?”

  “In return for your signature, your father will grant you the manor of Beaulieu for life. There, you will be permitted to retain a single confessor and attendants of your own choosing.”

  A confessor … Mary closed her eyes and shivered. Henry knew his women. He knew how much she longed for a household of her own again, where she could wear her rosary and pray without the sneers of heretics and be counseled by a true priest. But to sign away her rights … the rights her mother had died upholding …

  “Your father is also prepared to consider the wisdom of a proper marriage, providing your behavior is acceptable.”

  And that was the final blow to her resistance. Though her intellect knew that “consider” was not the same thing as “arrange” or “allow,” it was considerably better than her current state. She was twenty years old and had been often betrothed in her childhood. But she would never be allowed to marry while she continued in defiance of her father’s wishes. With each year, she would grow older—and even more than marriage, Mary wanted children.

  Mother, she offered up silently, what should I do?

  The words were so immediate and clear to her mind that Mary knew at once it was her answer. Do what you must for now—and wait for your moment. God means you to turn England back to Him.

  Mary opened her eyes, her pride protesting but her conscience unwavering. “I will sign.”

  And then I will wait, she vowed silently. And when my moment comes—I will act.

  CHAPTER ONE

  18 March 1556

  Richmond Palace

  Today the Duke of Northumberland stands trial at Westminster Hall. Dominic traveled to London yesterday to take part, though I know he is conflicted. Robert Dudley has told him that someone other than his father is behind all the twists of treachery these last two years, but Robert will say no more to Dominic. He has demanded, rather, to see Elizabeth. Dominic asked me to help persuade her, but I did not try very hard. Why should she go? Whether there is one traitor or twenty in this, it was Northumberland himself who held Elizabeth and me prisoner. For that alone he must answer.

  Besides, all Elizabeth can think of just now is William. It has been three months since the nightmare of his smallpox and the effects … linger.

  Perhaps the resolution of Northumberland’s fate will release us all from this sense that we are snared in the moment before action. The tension of waiting is almost more than I can bear.

  The trial of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, was presided over by George Boleyn, Duke of Rochford and Lord Chancellor of England. Traditiona
lly, it was the Earl Marshal of England who conducted such trials, but William had delayed bestowing that hereditary office on the young Duke of Norfolk after his grandfather’s death. Certainly Rochford did not appear to mind.

  While Dominic settled into place with the other peers who today would sit in judgment of Northumberland, his attention was almost wholly given over to contemplating Rochford himself. Three months ago the imprisoned Robert Dudley had made an enigmatic accusation aimed at the Lord Chancellor but had thus far refused to provide any details. Robert seemed to believe that even if his father were convicted today, William would be merciful as to the sentence and so there would continue to be time to consider the matter.

  Dominic knew better.

  The doors at the back of the hall opened and Northumberland was escorted in. The hall at Westminster was a rich backdrop to today’s trial. A stage had been erected in preparation, hung with tapestries and a canopy beneath which was a bench for Northumberland. Dominic viewed the tableau with a cynicism that he had learned from Rochford—the trappings might argue respect for the accused, but they served primarily to remind those watching how far the man had fallen.

  Now in his early fifties, Northumberland had always been the image of a rough, plainspoken outsider, his physical presence a reminder of his military prowess. But today he looked diminished, his high, broad forehead and dark pointed beard emphasizing rather than hiding the new gauntness of his face. He conducted himself with gravity, three times reverencing himself to the ground before the judges. Dominic thought wryly it was the most humility he’d ever seen from John Dudley.

  The hall was crowded with spectators, including members of London City’s guilds as well as diplomats and foreign merchants who would no doubt be taking careful notes and sending word of the proceedings far and wide across Europe. England had been the subject of intense Continental scrutiny for quite some time—what with her young and untried king, her inflammatory religious divide, and her highly desirable and unwed royal princess. England might not be a powerhouse like France or Spain, but it was very often the critical piece that determined the balance of power.

  And now a peer of the realm was being tried for his life. Not to mention that a mere five months ago—despite a peace treaty—a French army had engaged English troops in battle on the Scots border, and since that time England’s king had been mostly absent from public view. Everyone in England and Europe knew that William had been ill, and some correctly guessed at the smallpox that had driven him to seclusion. Now even his own people were beginning to grow restless. They had waited years for William to grow old enough to take his father’s place as a reigning monarch. They were not content to leave the government in the hands of men like Rochford and Northumberland, rightly distrusting the motives of such powerful men. The people wanted their king.

  This trial was the first step in appeasing the public. Northumberland was hugely unpopular. Although Dominic had not been in London when the duke and four of his sons were paraded through the streets to the Tower, he had heard countless versions of how they were booed and mocked, pelted with rotten fruit and even stones. With William not quite ready to return to public view yet, Northumberland’s trial for high treason was a distraction.

  It was also a sham. The original plan had been to have Parliament pass an Act of Attainder against Northumberland, avoiding a public trial and allowing the Crown to quickly confiscate the duke’s lands. Granting him a trial instead in no way meant that Northumberland stood a chance of acquittal. There could be no doubt of the verdict; this trial was for the sole purpose of placating the populace.

  Rochford opened the proceedings with a reading of the charges, none of which Dominic could dispute: the calculated secret marriage between Northumberland’s son, Guildford, and Margaret Clifford, a cousin to the king and thus in line to England’s throne. That disastrous marriage had been annulled after Margaret had given birth to a boy, but Northumberland’s impudence could not be overlooked in the matter. And then there was the damning charge of with intent and malice aforethought confining Her Highness, Princess Elizabeth, against her will: Dominic had seen firsthand the duke’s intent to keep hold of Elizabeth in his family castle until William agreed to listen to him. Related to that was also the charge of raising troops against the king—again indisputable. For the last two charges alone, Northumberland’s life was forfeit.

  But Dominic was less easy about the other charges that had been considered behind the scenes. Charges that Northumberland had conspired to bring down the Howard family two years ago, that the duke had offered alliance with the Low Countries, even claiming in writing that Elizabeth would be a more amenable ruler than her brother … Dominic had been the one to find those damning letters in Northumberland’s London home. He just wasn’t sure how much he believed in them. Papers could be forged. Letters could be planted. Witnesses could be co-opted to a certain testimony. And it hadn’t escaped his attention that those particular charges were not being tried in court today.

  “We’ll keep it simple,” Rochford had said. “Leave out the messier aspects of Northumberland’s behavior.”

  And that was why Dominic kept a wary eye on Rochford. Because the messy aspects of this business were also the most open to other interpretations. More than eighteen months ago, the late Duke of Norfolk had died in the Tower after being arrested for attempting to brand the king a bastard and have his half sister, Mary, crowned queen. Dominic now believed, as most did, that the Duke of Norfolk’s fall had been cleverly manipulated.

  “What say you, John Dudley?” Rochford asked after the reading of the charges.

  “My Lord Chancellor,” Northumberland responded, rising. His dark eyes, always alive with intelligence beneath the highly arched brows, looked at each juror in turn, and Dominic felt an unexpected grief at the imminent loss of this bright and capable man. “My lords all,” he continued, “I say that my faults have ever only been those of a father. I acknowledge my pride and ambition, and humbly confess that those sins have led me to a state I do greatly regret. But I have not and could never compass a desire to wish or inflict harm upon His Most Gracious Majesty. My acts were those of a desperate father to a willful son. Guildford’s death is greatly to be lamented, but I do desire nothing more at this time than to be reconciled to my king and his government.”

  The presentation of evidence lasted only forty minutes; then Northumberland was led out of the hall and the jury retired to discuss their verdict. It took far less time than Dominic was comfortable with, and the outcome was never in doubt. Rochford and the twenty-year-old Duke of Norfolk (grandson of the man who had died in a false state of treasonable disgrace) were the most vehement of Northumberland’s enemies, but every other lord on the jury had cause to resent the duke’s arrogance and ambition. And as Dominic studied each man there, he was keenly aware of an undercurrent of fear, deeply hidden perhaps, but real. There was not a single peer present whose family title went further back than Henry VII’s reign, and most of them had been ennobled by Henry VIII or William himself. The Tudors had broken the back of the old hereditary nobility, raising instead men whose power resulted from their personal loyalty and royal usefulness. It was true of Dominic himself—the grandson of a king’s daughter, perhaps, but in more practical terms only a son of a younger son with no land or title at all until William had granted them to him.

  Or consider Rochford, Dominic thought, who might have been only a talented diplomat or secretary if his sister had not been queen.

  The problem with being raised up by personal loyalty was that one could as easily be unmade. And thus it was today—the jury would find Northumberland guilty because William wished it as much as because it was right. And after all, Dominic would vote guilty without more than a slight qualm, for he had ridden through the midst of Northumberland’s army last autumn and knew that it had been but a hairbreadth of pride and fear from open battle against the king.

  They returned to the hall and Northumberland stood to fac
e the jury as, one after another, each member personally delivered his verdict. Dominic saw the glint of tears in Northumberland’s eyes as Rochford pronounced the traditional sentence of a traitor—to be hung, drawn, and quartered—and concluded with, “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  There was open triumph in George Boleyn’s voice.

  Elizabeth was with her brother when Dominic and Rochford returned to Richmond to report on Northumberland’s trial. They met the two dukes in the palace library, a chamber William would once have overlooked. Not that he wasn’t well-read and intellectually curious, but before the smallpox that had nearly killed him at Christmas, William would more likely have been found playing cards or dice or tennis or riding through the royal park. Solitude and lassitude were new habits of the king.

  Elizabeth studied her younger brother, noting worriedly that he had still not regained all the weight lost during his illness. William had always been tall and lean, but the hollows in his face were new, as was the paleness that could not be ascribed entirely to winter. The pallor of his face was accented by the carefully trimmed dark beard that made him look rather rakish in some lights. The beard was also new since the illness.

  The library was not entirely empty of others, but the half-dozen quiet attendants in the chamber were there in case of sudden need, not as entertainment. They kept to themselves at one end of the library, giving the royal siblings plenty of privacy.

  And of course, there was Minuette—though these days one hardly needed to specify her presence. Wherever William might be, Minuette was at his side. The only place she didn’t follow the king was his bed at night, and Elizabeth wondered how long that restraint would last. Since his illness, William’s devotion to the childhood friend he’d secretly betrothed had grown perilously near to obsession.

  When Rochford and Dominic entered the library, the Lord Chancellor dismissed the attendants, then offered his official report of Northumberland’s conviction. William, seated beneath the colourful canopy of estate, received the news in frozen silence. Another lingering effect: his characteristic restlessness was often submerged beneath lengthy periods of stillness. When Rochford handed the king the execution order to sign, William took it without a word, almost as though he had no interest in the matter.