Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, father-in-law to the king of England and grandfather to Princess Elizabeth Tudor, a potential heir to the throne, turned.
‘Guilty,’ said Agnes, her voice breaking. ‘Both of them.’
From the corner, Jane wailed, hiding her face in her hands. Elizabeth felt all the air rush from her lungs. She could not catch her breath. Lights flashed before her eyes and for the briefest moment, her world turned black, then the horror returned as her stepmother continued to speak.
‘He made Younger pass the judgement,’ Agnes said, her voice thick with tears. ‘There was such cruelty in the proceedings. When the verdict was given, he made their uncle stand in frontof the entire court and condemn them to death. Poor Younger, we know he can be pompous, difficult, but this was beyond usual punishment. Why would the king behave in such an evil manner?’
‘Henry wants to destroy us all,’ whispered Elizabeth and the memory of her premonition from many years earlier flooded her: the swish of the blade, the woman’s gasp.
‘But why?’ beseeched Agnes, her words bringing Elizabeth back to the present. ‘He turned the world upside down for Anne. He changed us all from Catholics to Protestants, he would have plucked the stars from the sky for her. What turned his love to hate?’
‘It was never love,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He doesn’t know how to love. He is consumed with anger, malevolence and violence.’
‘And now he plans to wed your cousin, Jane Seymour,’ said Agnes.
Elizabeth shook her head. When she had heard Henry’s passions had switched to Jane Seymour, she had wondered if this was his continued threat to destroy all those close to her. Jane was a cousin, a blood relative, would he cut a swathe through every young woman connected to her? He had already bedded another of her cousins, Madge Shelton. How many more would he destroy?
‘I have to go to him,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Go to whom?’ asked Thomas. ‘Your brother will not be able to sway the king’s decision.’
‘Not to Younger,’ said Elizabeth. ‘To the king. This is a message for me and only I can reply.’
Before her husband could comment, she gathered her skirts in her hand and left the room, calling for her ladies to accompany her as she hurried to her bedchamber to make herself presentable for her audience with the king.
‘You came,’ said the king several hours later as Elizabeth was shown into his chambers at the Tower of London.
In the passing years, the king had changed. He was heavier, angrier, a broad, strong man. His face had lost its chiselled handsomeness and was now fleshy, the once muscled body running to fat. On his hat he wore a red jewel, a letter ‘H’ shaped from a fiery ruby. Elizabeth felt bile rise in her throat. She had been correct, all Henry had done: seduce her eldest daughter, Mary, give her two children which he refused to claim, then left her in poverty when her husband Sir William Carey died; pursue and marry Anne, destroy her in the cruellest way; arrest her son for incest and treason; raise her husband to the Earldom of Wiltshire, the prize of the Ormond title long since given to Piers Butler, and dash Thomas down – all were to punish her.
She prostrated herself at his feet. ‘You win, sire,’ she said.
Henry snorted derisively. ‘Stand up, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Join me at the table and call me Henry.’
Elizabeth had a flashback to the last time he had made this demand at the Field of the Cloth of Gold but she did not comment, she had no wish to antagonise the king.
‘The years have changed us both. Although, you remain the most attractive woman at court.’
Elizabeth doubted his words. There were many beautiful young women vying for the king’s attention.
Despite her revulsion at being in the room with the man who was preparing to murder her children, she did as he requested and joined him at the table. He poured her a glass of wine.
‘Have you come to beg for Anne and George?’ he asked.
‘If that is what it takes,’ she said.
‘You wish me to give a last-minute reprieve?’
‘Any reprieve would gladden my heart.’
‘And what would you give me in return?’
‘My gratitude,’ she replied.
‘Your gratitude,’ he repeated. Henry laughed, an unpleasant, sardonic sound. He sipped his wine. ‘You’re a wise woman, Lizzie. Those with duller wits than you would have offered their bodies.’
‘My father taught me well,’ she returned.
‘The old Duke was shrewd, I miss his counsel every day. His negotiating skills were the toughest I have ever encountered,’ said Henry. ‘Your brother is a shadow of his father. Younger is too eaten up with his own ambitions and petty schemes to realise they are but smoke in the air in comparison with my own desires.’
