The Tudor Wife
A lustful king. A thirst for power. The terrible price of revenge…Encompassing the reigns of four of Henry's wives, from the doomed Anne to the reckless Katherine Howard, The Tudor Wife is an unforgettable story of ambition, lust, and jealousy.Shy, plain Lady Jane Parker feels out of place in Henry VIII's court, which is filled with debauchery and scandal. But a marriage match with the handsome George Boleyn leaves her overjoyed… until she meets his sister Anne.George is devoted to his sister; and as Anne Boleyn's circle of admirers grows, so does Jane's resentment. Becoming Henry's queen makes Anne the most powerful woman in England; but it also makes her vulnerable. When he begins to tire of his mercurial wife who will not provide a male heir, the stage is set for the ultimate betrayal…Divulging the secrets behind the reigns of Henry's wives, from the doomed Anne to the reckless Katherine Howard, The Tudor Wife is a sumptuous and seductive novel, perfect for fans of The Tudors and Philippa Gregory.
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The Tudor Wife
Emily Purdy
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © Brandy Purdy 2010
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Source ISBN: 9781847561947
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007371679 Version: 2018-07-05
Vengeance is mine; I shall repay. —Romans 12:19
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE The Madwoman in the Tower, 1542
Part Two JANE SEYMOUR ANNA OF CLEVES 1536-1540
Overhead the sleek black ravens circle and caw, while below my window the workmen chat merrily, their voices hale and hearty as they call to one another above the din of hammer and saw. They brush the sawdust from their leather jerkins and woolen hose and go blithely about the business of building the scaffold upon which I shall soon die. It does not matter whether I look down or up; the sight that meets my eyes is equally grim—carrion birds or the planks that shall soon be stained with my life’s blood.
They are very bold, these birds. When the workmen pause for their noonday repast, they swoop down and perch upon the burgeoning scaffold, snatching greedily at the morsels of meat and bread and tidbits of yellow cheese proffered by the calloused hands. How many deaths have these birds witnessed? I do not know the span of life that is allotted to a raven, but surely it is possible that some of them were here seven years ago when Anne bared her slender, swanlike neck to the French executioner’s sword. And two days before that swift slash of silver ended her life, George, her brother, my husband, laid his foolish and proud head upon the block and died for her as did four other equally foolish men. It was my evidence that helped speed them to their deaths. I told the truth, and for it I have been punished ever since.
Did these very ravens perch upon the Tower walls to watch, eager as the human spectators, and did they in their bird’s language debate who met death with the bravest face? What will they make of me and poor, wanton little Kat, Henry’s fifth queen, when it is our turn?
Neither of us deserves this fate, to have our lives snuffed out like candles upon the cavalier whim of an old man’s wounded pride. But Henry Tudor is King, and as Kat’s motto, the one she chose when she became queen, so rightfully proclaims, we have ‘no other will but his.’ Our lives and deaths are in his hands.
Here in the Tower my head aches always. Countless times I press my hands against my taut, deep-furrowed brow and try to will the pain away, but it will not depart. And I have long since plucked the pins from my hair and shaken it out so that it streams down my back like a wild, white-streaked waterfall, but still the pain does not ease. Had I still a care for vanity, I think I would weep. I am but a year past forty and already my hair is more white than brown; imprisonment has streaked it with silver and snow.
Jealousy and Hate, Justice and Divine Retribution, some say, have brought me to this place. ‘He who sows the whirlwind must expect to reap the storm,’ the walls whisper all around me, incessantly, in voices I know all too well. George, Anne, Weston, Brereton, and Norris—they will not let me forget that I once thought Vengeance was my sword to wield.
And wield it I did.
Though I despise the din that torments my ears by day, I am glad of the sawing and pounding, the bluff banter of working men, and even the ravens’ cackling and screeching, for when these sounds cease and night falls, that is when the ghosts come out to torment me.
