The Boleyn Inheritance. Philippa Gregory
for the next. The hiss through the air and then the slice of pain, like a sword-cut in a dishonourable duel. Two. The sound of the next comes too fast for me to make ready, and I cry out again, my tears suddenly coming hot and fast like blood.
‘Stand up, Anne,’ she says coolly, and pulls down my shift and my cloak.
The tears are pouring down my face, I can hear myself sobbing like a child.
‘Go to your room and read the Bible,’ she says. ‘Think especially on your royal calling. Caesar’s wife, Anne. Caesar’s wife.’
I have to curtsey to her. The awkward movement causes a wave of new pain and I whimper like a whipped puppy. I go to the door and open it. The wind blows the door from my hand and, in the gust, the inner door to her privy chamber flies open without warning. In the shadow stands my brother, his face strained as if it were him beneath the whip of the birch, his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from calling out. For one awful moment our eyes meet and he looks at me, his face filled with a desperate need. I drop my eyes, I turn from him as if I have not seen him, as if I am blind to him. Whatever he wants of me, I know that I don’t want to hear it. I stumble from the room, my shift sticking to the blood on the backs of my thighs. I am desperate to get away from them both.
Katherine, Norfolk House, Lambeth November 1539
‘I shall call you wife.’
‘I shall call you husband.’
It is so dark that I cannot see him smile; but I feel the curve of his lips as he kisses me again.
‘I shall buy you a ring and you can wear it on a chain around your neck and keep it hidden.’
‘I shall give you a velvet cap embroidered with pearls.’
He chuckles.
‘For God’s sake be quiet, and let us get some sleep!’ someone says crossly from elsewhere in the dormitory. It is probably Joan Bulmer, missing these very same kisses that I now have on my lips, on my eyelids, on my ears, on my neck, on my breasts, on every part of my body. She will be missing the lover who used to be hers, and now is mine.
‘Shall I go and kiss her goodnight?’ he whispers.
‘Ssshhh,’ I reprove him, and I stop his reply with my own mouth.
We are in the sleepy aftermath of lovemaking, the sheets tangled around us, clothes and linen all bundled together, the scent of his hair, of his body, of his sweat all over me. Francis Dereham is mine as I swore he would be.
‘You know that if we promise to marry before God and I give you a ring, then it is as much a marriage as if we were wed in church?’ he asks earnestly.
I am falling asleep. His hand is caressing my belly, I feel myself stir and sigh and I open my legs to invite his warm touch again.
‘Yes,’ I say, meaning yes to his touch.
He misunderstands me, he is always so earnest. ‘So shall we do it? Shall we marry in secret and always be together, and when I have made my fortune, we can tell everyone, and live together as man and wife?’
‘Yes, yes.’ I am starting to moan a little from pleasure, I am thinking of nothing but the movement of his clever fingers. ‘Oh, yes.’
In the morning he has to snatch his clothes and run, before my lady grandmother’s maid comes with much hustle and ceremony to unlock the door to our bedchamber. He dashes away just moments before we hear her heavy footstep on the stairs; but Edward Waldgrave leaves it too late and has to roll under Mary’s bed and hope the trailing sheets will hide him.
‘You’re merry this morning,’ Mrs Franks says suspiciously as we smother our giggles. ‘Laugh before seven, tears before eleven.’
‘That is a pagan superstition,’ says Mary Lascelles, who is always pious. ‘And there is nothing for these girls to laugh about if they considered their consciences.’
We look as sombre as we can, and follow her down the stairs to the chapel for Mass. Francis is in the chapel, on his knees, as handsome as an angel. He looks across at me and my heart turns over. It is so wonderful that he is in love with me.
When the service is done and everyone is in a hurry for their breakfast I pause in the pew to adjust the ribbons on my shoe and I see that he has dropped back to his knees as if deep in prayer. The priest slowly blows out the candles, packs up his things, waddles down the aisle and we are alone.
Francis comes across to me and holds out his hand. It is a most wonderfully solemn moment, it is as good as a play. I wish I could see us, especially my own serious face. ‘Katherine, will you marry me?’ he says.
I feel so grown up. It is I who am doing this, taking control of my own destiny. My grandmother has not made this marriage for me, nor my father. Nobody has ever cared for me, they have forgotten me, cooped up in this house. But I have chosen my own husband, I will make my own future. I am like my cousin Mary Boleyn, who married in secret a man that no-one liked and then picked up the whole Boleyn inheritance. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I will.’ I am like my cousin Queen Anne, who aimed at the highest marriage in the land when no-one thought it could be done. ‘Yes, I will,’ I say.
What he means by marrying, I don’t know exactly. I think that he means I will have a ring to wear on a chain, which I can show to the other girls, and that we will be promised to one another. But to my surprise he leads 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