The Boleyn King

The Boleyn King
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 © 2013 by Laura Andersen
Reading group guide copyright © 2013 by Random House, Inc.
Excerpt from
The Boleyn Deceit
copyright © 2013 by Laura Andersen

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random
House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
RANDOM HOUSE READER’S CIRCLE & DESIGN is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
The Boleyn Deceit
by Laura Andersen. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53410-1

www.randomhousereaderscircle.com

Cover photograph: Richard Jenkins

v3.1

Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
PreludeChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyInterlude
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Reader’s Guide
Excerpt from
The Boleyn Deceit
AUTHOR’S NOTE

ON JANUARY 29, 1536, Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, miscarried a baby boy of approximately four months’ gestation. It was the beginning of the end for Henry VIII’s second queen, for Henry was forty-five years old and desperately needed a son. Although his passion for Anne had been both strong and enduring—sufficient to separate the English Church from the Pope’s authority—the miscarriage was the final blow in an already wavering marriage.

Anne’s fall was swift and brutal. On May 2 she was arrested on charges of adultery and treason. On May 17 five men were executed for having allegedly committed adultery with her—including her brother, George, Lord Rochford. On May 19 Anne was beheaded by a French swordsman on Tower Green. On May 30 Henry married Jane Seymour.

What if Anne Boleyn had not miscarried? What if she had brought the pregnancy to term and delivered a healthy boy in the summer of 1536? What if Henry only ever had two wives and Anne’s son, not Jane Seymour’s, became King of England?

And what if, in the end, Elizabeth Tudor still became queen?

PRELUDE

28 June 1536
FOR ANNE BOLEYN, the world had narrowed in the last twenty hours to this: candle flame and darkness, stifling heat aggravated by leaded window glass and heavy draperies, bed linens that could not be kept clean, and the familiar pain of a child wanting out of her body.

And overriding it all, a terrible, clutching panic.

Anne was no stranger to childbirth; she had borne a whole and healthy daughter not quite three years ago. But she had not been afraid that time. She had been newly crowned, had finally taken her place openly at Henry’s side, had seen her rival banished and her own family promoted. And she had been absolutely certain that the child she carried then was a boy.

The wrenching disappointment of Elizabeth’s birth had faded slightly with the girl’s obvious health and intelligence. No one could doubt the little girl was Henry Tudor’s daughter—not only her red-gold hair but her entire presence shouted the assurance of her father’s blood.

But Henry already had a daughter. He had not divorced the popular Catherine of Aragon, defied the Holy Roman Emperor, and wrested control of the Church from papal hands in order to have a second daughter. He needed a son. A son Anne had been meant to give him. She had already failed not once but twice: there had been a boy a year after Elizabeth … a boy who never even breathed.

Anne moaned with a mix of pain and fear—fear of the pale, blonde Jane Seymour, whom Henry had plucked out of Anne’s own household to make his mistress.
There’s the black humour of fate
, Anne thought.
Doing to me what we did to Catherine
.

And now Catherine was dead these five months, and as far as most of Europe was concerned, Henry was legally single. Anne’s enemies scented blood. If this child was not a living boy …

“Your Majesty,” the midwife said, “it’s time to push. It shouldn’t be long now.”

“That’s what you said at noon,” Anne snapped back. At dawn, when her pains began, they had closed the single window she’d been allowed to open this last month and now she had no clear idea of just what hour it was. After sunset at the least.

She stifled a scream as the midwife pulled her legs apart and two of Anne’s ladies held them back.

“Push, milady,” the midwife instructed from the stool where she sat with skirts tucked between her legs, ready to guide the child out.

Anne focused all her power and managed to push twice before the pain eased and the midwife allowed her a brief respite.

Please let it be quick
, she intoned silently to God,
and please let it be a son
.

She felt the rising wave of another contraction and braced herself, wishing passionately that Marie were with her. But her favorite lady-in-waiting had been caught unaware mere hours ago by her own childbirth pains. Anne spared a moment’s thought for the Frenchwoman’s too-early labor—she should ask after her; her own ladies were in and out of the room bearing news to the king, whispering to the midwife and each other in a way that made Anne want to scream. But then she was overwhelmed by her own body and forgot about Marie.

This time she let the sound of her effort leak out, half push and half sob. Then a swift burning and the midwife exclaimed, “Slowly, milady, the head is out.”

But Anne could not go slowly. She gave one mighty push and felt a rush of relief as she could, for the first time in months, take a deep breath.

She lay back, exhausted and wanting only to sleep.

The midwife bundled up the screaming child—at least it was alive—after a quick check and handed it to a waiting maid. Then, without speaking, the midwife stood and walked over to the drapes. She pulled back on one and then opened the casement window to let the air in.

Anne squeezed her eyes shut. Had it been a boy, everyone would have been shouting the joy of it to the heavens. No, no, no! she wailed inwardly. Another girl. Behind closed eyes, she could see Henry and Jane and knew she was in the greatest trouble of her life.

“Your Majesty,” the midwife said softly. “Open your eyes.”

Anne made herself look. It wasn’t the baby the midwife was indicating—it was the dark skies through the window.

“Not an hour ago, there was a rush of falling stars—one of the women told me. Do you know what that means?”

Anne didn’t have the energy for any reply, let alone the furious one she wanted to make.

The midwife smiled brilliantly. “It is a sign, Your Majesty. A sign of God’s good pleasure on you and all England. He has given us a prince. A Prince of Wales to follow in his great father’s footsteps.”

Anne’s heart stuttered. “Truly?”

“Truly, milady. We will wash him and then take him to the king. His Majesty will be well pleased.”

Anne shut her eyes again, so as not to weep openly.
Henry will be pleased
, she thought.
And I …

I will remain queen
.

CHAPTER ONE

28 June 1553
Hampton Court

I am seventeen today and have decided that, although I shall never be a scholar like Elizabeth, I can at least keep a diary. My history is quickly told—daughter of a French mother and an English gentleman, no siblings, and no parents since I was eight. My full name is Genevieve Antoinette Wyatt. It was Elizabeth who first called me Minuette. I was born more than a month before I was expected, and the first time she saw me, Elizabeth thought me too little for the name my French mother had given me. She attempted to call me Mignonette—meaning dainty and darling—but her three-year-old tongue did not pronounce it properly. I have been Minuette to my friends ever since
.

The importance of this day goes beyond just my seventeenth birthday—today I return to Elizabeth’s household after an absence of two years. Queen Anne has been my guardian since my mother’s death nearly nine years ago, and I spent my childhood with Elizabeth. But when I turned fifteen, the queen took me into her own household in order to train me properly for Elizabeth’s service. I have learnt to stand quietly when necessary, so that I am almost forgotten. I have learnt to remember names and faces, to know the habits of noblemen and the idiosyncrasies of ambassadors. And I have learnt to lock away secrets, for a lady of the privy chamber must be able to keep her own counsel
.

Elizabeth has come to Hampton Court not only to reclaim me but also to join in the weeklong celebrations for William’s birthday. There will be feasting and dancing tonight, and I will pretend, as I always have, that the celebrations are half for me. But today the only celebration I truly care about is seeing my friends. Although Queen Anne spends much of her time with her children, I have not seen either of them for a year. Last summer the queen decided I was too dependent on others, and so I was left behind every time she joined the court at Whitehall or Greenwich or Richmond. I spent six months at Hever and six months at Blickling Hall as her resident lady. A great privilege, to be sure—but I would have given up any privilege to see my friends!

Dominic has come as well. A waiting woman told me that Master Courtenay rode in after dark last night and is even now with the king. I have not seen him for a full sixteen months, not since he was named Lieutenant of the March along the Welsh border. I am sure he could have managed to visit at least once in all that time, but his letters always pleaded duty, a virtue to which he is too much wed. I wonder what he has brought me for my birthday. I hope it is fabric—velvet or satin or shot silk. But it is probably only a book. Dominic has always thought it his calling to teach me to be wise
.

Minuette closed the diary, pristine vellum pages bound by soft calfskin, and marked her place with a bit of burgundy velvet ribbon.

The sharp, familiar voice of Alyce de Clare came from the open doorway behind her. “Are you still here? I was looking forward to having the chamber to myself for once.”

Minuette swiveled on her stool and smiled. “You know you will miss me as much as I’m going to miss you.”

Alyce was nearly three years older, and she, like Minuette, came from a relatively unimportant family. Alyce had come to Queen Anne because her father had been a secretary in Lord Rochford’s household. The queen’s brother could be as difficult to please as Anne herself, but both of them were quick to reward loyalty. Alyce’s father had served Rochford long and well (and discreetly), and his daughter had been rewarded with a place at court where she might be expected to make a good marriage. She and Minuette had been steady chambermates for the last two years.

Alyce attempted a smile, but it didn’t touch more than the corners of her mouth. “You will be too busy being important in Princess Elizabeth’s household to remember to miss me.”

“Of course I’ll remember.” Minuette stood, which meant the shorter Alyce had to look up a little. “I just wish …”

“Wish what?”

Minuette hesitated, but she knew that this might be her last chance to speak her worries. “Alyce, I’m worried about you. I think … I think you are in trouble. I would help you if I could.”

Alyce’s brown eyes blanked—a skill most women picked up rapidly in the queen’s household. On Alyce, it had the effect of sharpening her generous mouth and rounded cheeks, so she looked more like a statue of a woman rather than her usual vivacious, warm self. With distant courtesy, she said, “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“You should speak to the queen,” Minuette said firmly, letting her eyes linger on Alyce’s waist. Though still tightly cinched beneath a yellow-and-black-patterned stomacher, it had been growing thicker over the last eight weeks. “Someone will tell her soon enough, and you know how she hates gossip.”

For a heartbeat Alyce seemed to teeter on complete denial, then with a rush of emotion she said, “And you know very well that the queen will be angry no matter who tells her.”

Minuette did know. But she put a hand on the stiffly embroidered sleeve of Alyce’s yellow dress and said gently, “You will have to act very soon. If I can help in any way—perhaps I could speak to Elizabeth—”