Betrayal (51 page)

             
“Would she have died young?”

             
“Who knows,” Alan replied. “But let’s not give up now, we’ve only reached 1540.”

             
Several minutes passed as he turned the pages. Lydia leaned in to read the names.

             
“This is hopeless. We don’t even know if she lived here let alone died here,” Lydia cried, rushing from the vestry. “She was here. I know she was here. How else could her diary be here?” She stopped beside the fence near the gate to the house. Breathlessly, she rested her hand on the smooth bark of an old oak tree. “I’m here,” she said quietly. “What is it you want me to do?”

Alan touched the tree too, feeling a surge of energy through his fingertips. “We must clear her name,” he said suddenly.

“What?” asked Lydia, shocked by his outburst.

“That’s what this is all about. The letter is proof that she didn’t do something she was accused of.”

“Betraying her master,” Lydia said quietly. “But it was a woman’s head I saw in my dreams so she must have betrayed her mistress.”

“Or at least she was accused of doing so.”

“We must find that letter,” Alan said, but he was interrupted by Ella’s call for them to return for lunch.

“We’ll begin after lunch,” he said. Taking Lydia’s hand he led her through the garden and into the house.

              Lydia paused, looking up at Alan she asked, “If I was not Elisabeth in a past life how is it I can see her life so clearly?”

             
Alan hesitated, thought a moment and replied, “Many philosophers, especially eastern philosophers believe that there is more than just this life.  Carl Jung proposed the idea of ‘the collective unconsciousness’ as an explanation of how we can know things we cannot possibly know. He believed that certain people could tap into it. How, I don’t know,” he paused shaking his head.  “I’m not explaining this very well.”

             
“No, I think I understand,” Lydia said, touching his arm.  “You think I may have experienced this collective unconsciousness or tapped in to it as you say. What a wonderful idea to be able to know everything that ever happened.”

“No person has ever achieved that, but people do get glimpses.  Perhaps this is what is happening here. I wish I knew,” Alan said sadly. He wasn’t used to not knowing the answers. He felt as if he was failing Lydia and Elisabeth.

Lydia saw his sadness and it hurt. She knew he wanted to solve her mystery. “Come on, Alan,” she said taking his hand.  “Jan will think we have run away. Suddenly I’m ravenous. Come on,” she coaxed as she tugged him along behind her.

THIRTY-TWO

MAUNDY THURSDAY

APRIL 13, 1536

             
George Boleyn watched his wife as she crossed the Lower Ward of Windsor Castle. He grimaced as she waved at him. Reluctantly he waved back. He thought of the argument he had had with his sister, the Queen, when she told him it was time Jane returned to Court.  Bile rose in his mouth as he remembered his desperation to find Elisabeth and keep Jane from Court. He swallowed hard as he had when he swallowed his pride to beg Anne to allow him to follow after Elisabeth and bring her back to London. Anne had refused, demanding that his wife rejoin the Court immediately.

             
He moved stiffly toward Jane as she approached him.

             
“Husband,” she said extending her hands to him.

             
“Wife,” he replied, taking her hands and kissing her cheek.

             
“At last your sister relents and allows my return to Court. I have missed your company,” Jane said as she held his hands tightly.  “Now all will be as it should be,” she continued, smiling up at him.

             
“What do you mean?”

             
“Only that husband and wife should be together, do you not agree?”

             
George nodded numbly, his mind wandering to Elisabeth and her husband. Unconsciously his grip tightened as he thought of Elisabeth lying in Tremayne’s arms.

             
“Husband, you are hurting me,” Jane yelped pulling her hands free.

              Suddenly aware of what he had done George apologized “I am sorry my dear; it was only in the joy of seeing you that I forgot my own strength. Shall we go in? The mist is thick and I would not have you catch a chill.” He turned toward the grooms unloading Jane’s baggage. “Hurry up before it rains.”

             
Once inside their private chambers Jane set about questioning George.

             
“How long are we to remain at Windsor? This is a drafty old place and I like it not.”

             
“You could have remained at Beaulieu,” George retorted.

             
“And miss celebrating Easter with you? Never!” Jane said cheerfully. “Do you think your sister will lend me the girl Elisabeth to help with my unpacking?” Jane asked in a sickly sweet tone.

             
“She cannot.”

             
“Why ever not? It is a small favor I ask.”

             
“The girl is gone. She has left London.”

             
“Gone you say?” Jane asked in a surprised tone.

             
“Yes, she left suddenly with her husband for Cornwall, something about his mother being ill.”

             
“It must have been a shock for you.”

             
“A shock, why so? She was my sister’s servant, not mine.”

             
“I know, George,” Jane said quietly as she turned to stand before the many mullioned window of their bedchamber.

             
“What do you know?” George asked suspiciously.

             
“I know about the child in Eccleshall.”

             
“What?”

             
“I know about your affair with the wench and the bastard child born of that relationship and I have taken measures to protect myself.”

             
“What are you talking about, Jane? What have you done?”

             
“I have written to the Bishop of Litchfield requesting my name be put on the child’s baptismal record.”

             
“You have done what?” George shouted, turning to face his wife, his fists clenched painfully tight.

             
“I told you I have to protect my good name so I claim your bastard as my own. With the wench gone to Cornwall perhaps I will even allow the boy to come live with us. Would you like that, George? I am told he looks like you,” Jane Boleyn said turning to face her husband.  “We could be a family just as we always dreamed. No one need know I am not the brat’s mother.”

             
“Everyone will know,” George snapped.  “He’s two years old!”

             
“Then I shall be the devoted and loving wife who allows her husband’s bastard into her home. I repeat, would you like that George?”

             
George Boleyn shouted, “No never!” as he turned on his heel to leave the room.

             
“Perhaps you are right my husband, I do not relish the idea of raising your bastard, it is a task for which I am most unsuited. But hear me well, I will not be humiliated. Do not repeat yourself or I promise you, I will see you laid low.  Now, I am tired from my journey and I wish to rest. Please go.  And, George, do not come to my bed tonight or any other for you are no longer welcome there.”

             
George’s dark eyes narrowed with fury as he stomped out of the room slamming the door behind him.

             
Jane stood staring after him, a wicked smile creasing her lips. “I will have my revenge, George Boleyn,” she whispered. “I will have my revenge and sweet it will be.” She turned to call the maid unpacking boxes in the next room. “Addie, bring me paper, ink, and a quill. I would write a letter. And be quick about it.”  After the girl was gone and Jane was alone once more she began to laugh hysterically until her laughter turned to tears and she slumped sobbing to the floor. “
Alia incta est
,” she cried, “the die is cast.”

***

             
Jane Boleyn sat alone in her bedchamber. The light was fading from the rain- darkening sky as she lifted her pen.  She looked around the large, comfortable room, she had been happy here, but now her anger drove the happy memories from her mind.

She was alone, there was no-one here within Anne’s Court that she could turn to for advice. She missed her father’s wise counsel, but he was in Oxford on the King’s business.  Jane shivered, laying down her pen. Unsure how to begin she was not yet ready to write.

              She crossed to the hearth, knelt, and stirred the dying coals to life. The room warmed, but she was still cold. ‘Loneliness does that to you,’ she thought as she stood up.

             
“I was beautiful,” she said aloud to the crackling fire. “I was sought after. I should have been loved,” she continued as she walked to the oak sideboard.  Taking a tallow candle from the drawer she snapped it in two. “But I am not,” she cried as she looked at the splintered candle in her hands. “I swear by all that is holy, they shall be as broken as this candle!” Jane Boleyn shouted as she flung the ruined candle to the floor.

             
A soft knock at the door startled her.  “Go away!” she shouted.

             
The knock came again, this time a little louder.

             
“I said go away!”

             
Once again the knock returned, this time louder, more insistent.

Jane gave up, it was obvious whoever was outside wasn’t going to go away. “Come in then,” she said, turning her back to the door to hide her tears.

“Your pardon, Lady Rochford, a letter has come for you,” the young groom said. He stood in the doorway stiffly bowing from the waist his extended hand holding a piece of folded parchment.

             
“Put it on the table and be gone,” Jane demanded, her back still turned to the door.

             
“Yes, my lady,” the boy said, moving forward to drop the letter on the small writing desk. “Does my lady require anything?” he asked as he stood by the table.

             
“Only to be left alone.”

             
“As you wish, my lady,” he replied as he backed his way out of the room.

             
When she heard the door close Jane turned to the table and the mysterious letter. She did not recognize the handwriting of the address label. She ran her fingertips lightly over the smooth vellum. She stepped back from the table suddenly unwilling to unfold the letter.

             
“Who can be writing me here?” she asked the flickering candle on the small writing desk. She didn’t want to know but curiosity drove her back to the table. She lifted the letter; carrying it to the hearth she sat down on the soft leather stool and carefully unfolded the paper and read:

             
‘
My dear Lady Rochford,’
it began. The handwriting was florid and extravagant. Her fingers caressed the smooth vellum as she hesitated to read on.  Glancing at the blazing fire, she looked back down at the letter and read on.

‘I understand you have received my letter concerning the matter of Eccleshall, I know the information was of interest to you. It is my hope that you will do as I have asked. I would meet with you on this matter of great importance to us both. I am coming to Windsor this evening in preparation of joining the Court for the Easter celebrations. Perhaps we can meet for a few minutes. I promise you it will be to your advantage. I will await you in the Lower Ward garden at 6:30. Speak to no one of our meeting.’

Your servant,

Thomas Cromwell.

             
At twenty-five minutes after six Jane was walking toward the bare garden of the Lower Ward.  Cromwell was already there. He reached for her arm as he steered her away from the guard at the gate. “You found the information useful?”

             
Jane put her head down and nodded.

             
“I felt it was important for you to know. You have been horribly deceived.”