The gardeners swear to me that this hard pruning will make the vine flower and fruit and I will be bathing in my own wine come the autumn. I laugh and shake my head. We have had such cold, wet weather in the last few years that I fear we will never make wine again in England. I don’t think we’ve had a good summer since my childhood. I seem to remember day after day of riding in glorious weather behind a great king, people coming out to wave and cheer for King Richard. We never seem to have summers like that anymore. Henry never makes a long progress through sunshine and acclaim. The golden summers of my childhood have gone; no one ever sees three suns in the sky anymore.
When we take the scaffolding down, I pave the road before my house so that the foul water the scullions throw into the street can run away. I make a great central ditch in the road and tell the lads in the stables that the dung is to be swept out of our courtyard and into the stream and from thence to the river. The stink of the town house is eased, and I am certain that we have fewer rats in the kitchen and the stores. It is obvious to anyone who walks down Dowgate Street that this is one of the greatest houses in London, as grand as a royal palace.
My steward comes to me as I am admiring my new paving stones and says quietly: “I would have a word with you, your ladyship.”
“Sir Thomas?” I turn to see Boleyn looking anxious at my elbow. “Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says shortly. He glances round. “I can’t speak here.”
I am reminded, with a sudden pang of fear, of the years where no one could speak in the street, where they checked the doors of their own houses before they would say a word. “Nonsense!” I say roundly. “But we may as well go inside, away from this noise.”
I lead the way into the shadowy hall and turn to the little door on the right. It is the downstairs records room for the steward of the household, so he can observe guests coming and going, receive messengers, and pay bills. There are two chairs, a table, and a double door so that no one can eavesdrop when he is giving instructions or reprimands. “There,” I say. “It’s quiet enough here. What’s the matter?”
“It’s the duke,” he says baldly. “Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.”
I seat myself in the chair behind the table, gesturing that he can sit opposite. “You want to speak to me about my cousin?” I ask.
He nods.
I have a sort of dread of what will come next. This is Ursula’s father-in-law; my grandson is in the Stafford cradle. “Go on.”
“He’s been arrested. In the Tower.”
Everything is suddenly very still, and quiet. I hear a rapid thudding noise and realize it is the sound of my heart beating, echoing in my ears. “For what?”
“Treason.”
The one word is like the whistle of an axe in the quiet room. Boleyn looks at me, his pale face filled with dread. I know that I am absolutely impassive, my jaw clamped shut to stop my teeth chattering with fear.
“He was summoned to London, to the king at Greenwich. He was getting into his own barge, going to His Grace, when the captain of the king’s yeomen stepped on board with his men and said that they were to go to the Tower. Just like that.”
“What do they say he has done?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Thomas begins.
“You do know,” I insist. “You said ‘treason.’ So tell me.”
He moistens his dry lips, swallows. “Prophesying,” he says. “He met with the Carthusians.”
This is no crime. I have met with the Carthusians, I worship in their chapels, we all do. They took Reginald into Sheen Priory and educated him, they raised him; they are a good order of religious men. “Nothing wrong with that,” I say stoutly. “Nothing wrong with them.”
“They said that they had a prophecy in their library at Sheen which says that people will acclaim the duke as king,” he goes on. “Parliament will offer him the crown as they did to Henry Tudor.”
I bite my lip and say nothing.
“The duke is supposed to have said that the king was accursed, and that there will be no legitimate son and heir,” Sir Thomas says very quietly. “He said that one of the queen’s ladies spoke of a curse on the Tudors. One of the queen’s ladies said that there would be no son.”
“Which lady? Do they have a name? For this indiscreet lady?” I can feel my hands start to tremble, and I hold them together in my lap before he sees. I remember that Sir Thomas is the Duke of Norfolk’s son-in-law, and it is the Duke of Norfolk as Lord High Steward who will try my cousin for treason. I wonder if Boleyn is here as my steward to warn me, or as the duke’s spy to report on me. “Who would say such a thing? Did your daughters speak of it?”
“Neither would say such a thing,” he says quickly. “It is the duke’s confessor, who has given evidence against him. And his steward, and his servants. Did your daughter ever speak of it?”
I shake my head at the riposte. The duke’s steward has stayed at my house; I have prayed with his confessor. My daughter lives with the duke and discusses everything with him. “My daughter would never hear or repeat such a thing,” I say. “And the duke’s confessor cannot speak against him. He is bound by the oath of the confessional. He cannot repeat what a man says in his prayers.”
“The cardinal now says that he can. It is a new ruling. The cardinal says that a priest’s duty to the king is greater than his oath to the Church.”
I am silenced. This cannot be. The cardinal cannot change the rules that protect the confessional, that make a priest as silent as God. “It is the cardinal gathering evidence against the duke?”
He nods. Exactly. Wolsey is destroying his rival for the king’s affection and attention. This has been a long campaign. The splash of water on the robe of cardinal red left a stain that will be blotted out, blood red. Wolsey wants revenge.
“What will happen to the duke?” I don’t need to ask because I know. I know the punishment for treason. Who would know better than I?
“If they find him guilty, he will be beheaded,” Boleyn says quietly.
He waits while I absorb the information that I know already. Then he says something even worse. “And, my lady, they are questioning others. They are suspicious that there is a plot. A faction.”
“Who? What others?”
“His family, his friends, his affinity.”
This is my family, these are my friends, this is my affinity. The accused is my cousin and friend, my daughter Ursula is married to his son.
“Who are they questioning, exactly?”
“His cousin and yours, George Neville.”
I take a little breath. “Is that all?”
“His son, your son-in-law, Henry Stafford.”
Geoffrey’s friend, Ursula’s husband. I take a little breath. “Anyone else?”
“Your son Montague.”
I choke. I can hardly breathe. The air in this tiny room is thick; I feel as if the walls are closing in. “Montague is innocent,” I say stoutly. “Has anyone named Arthur?”
“Not yet.”
We are intertwined like a plant: the Planta genista that we are named for. My daughter, Ursula, is married to the duke’s own son. He and I are cousins. My boys were raised in the house of my other cousin, George Neville, who is married to the duke’s daughter. My son Montague is married to Cousin George’s daughter. We could not be more closely related. It is the way of great families, marriage and intermarriage, working together as one force. This way we keep our wealth inside the families, concentrate our power, join our lands. But looked at with a critical eye, looked at with a suspicious, fearful eye, it gives the impression that we are a faction, a conspiracy.
At once I think of Geoffrey, serving as a page in the queen’s rooms. At least his loyalty must be unquestioned. He must be safe. If Geoffrey is safe, then I can face anything.
“No word against Geoffrey?” I say flatly.