The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

took root inside her womb. Thus, for the second time in her life, Mary Boleyn, then aged but one-and-twenty, found herself banished from court, and to Hever Castle she was exiled to await her hastily procured bridegroom, Sir William Carey, a cheerful knight of modest means who was glad to undertake this service for his King.

      Like many, I stood in awe of her dazzling beauty—she had been plucked so many times it was hard to believe her bloom had not wilted or faded—and her equally astounding stupidity. Mary must have been unique amongst courtesans; she had been mistress to not one but two kings and had failed to profit from either. Indeed, Sir Thomas Boleyn had railed at her and boxed her ears and pummeled her until it was feared he would dislodge the King’s bastard from her womb. Now he never spoke an unnecessary word to her. He regarded her as a failure and declared it would be the most outrageous flattery to call her even a half-wit. Mary had been handed power on a plate and had refused to partake, and this Sir Thomas Boleyn could never forgive.

      ‘Jane…’

      George began to speak and my breath caught in my throat. My eyes were so dazzled by the sight of him I almost raised my hand to shield them, but to be deprived of the radiant sight of him would have been unbearable. A god in yellow satin, he was indeed the sun that lit up my life.

      ‘…I bid you welcome to Hever. Of course you already know my sister Mary’—he nodded towards the dozing wanton—‘but you have yet to meet Anne.’

      My ears pricked at the tenderness and warmth with which his voice imbued her name. It was a tone, I would all too soon discover, that he reserved exclusively for her. It was then—the moment I first heard him speak her name—that I began to hate her.

      She was seated upon a stone bench and, even as he spoke to me, George stepped behind her and gently took the ivory comb from her hand and began to draw it through the inky blackness of her damp, newly washed tresses.

      Like her sister, she was too grandly gowned for Hever. She wore black damask with a tracery of silver, festooned with silver lace. A ribbon of black velvet encircled her long, swan-slender neck and from it dangled her initials, AB, conjoined in silver with three large pendent pearls suspended from them. She was, like me, aged nineteen. She had only just returned from the French court, wellesteemed and, unlike her sister, with her virtue and respectability firmly intact. Indeed, all sang the praises of Mistress Anne and lamented her departure back to her native shore.

      ‘It is a pleasure to meet my brother’s bride-to-be.’ She smiled warmly and addressed me in that beguiling French-tinged English that made her speech so unique. ‘You are one of Queen Catherine’s ladies, I am told. I have just been appointed to her household, so we shall serve together and have the opportunity, I hope, to become friends; I do so want us to be.’

      I felt the most peculiar dread, like a knot pulled tight within my stomach, and I could not speak, could only nod and stare back at her like a simpleton.

      She then began to inquire of my likes and dislikes, my pleasures and pastimes.

      ‘Are you fond of music? Do you play an instrument? George and I’—she smiled up at him—‘live for music. We have melodies in our blood, I think, and our minds are forever awhirl with songs!’

      ‘I enjoy music, of course, but as a performer I am, alas, inept,’ I confessed. And at her brief, sympathetic nod I felt the distinct urge to strike her. How dare she, with her fancy clothes and Frenchified ways, make me feel so far beneath her!

      ‘Well, it is no great matter,’ she trilled. ‘Do you like to dance or sing?’

      I blushed hotly at the memory of the French dancing master who had nobly retired rather than continue to accept my father’s money, admitting in all honesty that I was as graceful as a cow. The Italian singing master had also withdrawn his services; he could teach me nothing; I had a voice like a crow.

      ‘I…I am afraid I lack your accomplishments, Lady Anne,’ I stammered haughtily, jerking my chin up high, as my face grew hot and red.

      In truth, I had no talent to speak of.

      ‘Oh, but I am sure you have many talents!’ Anne cried, as if she had just read my mind.

      ‘The embroidery upon your kirtle is exquisite!’ She indicated my tawny underskirt, richly embroidered with golden lovers’ knots to match those that edged the bodice and sleeves of my brown velvet gown. ‘Is it your own work? Do you like to design your own gowns?’ As she spoke, her right hand smoothed her skirt and I knew this too numbered among her talents.

      As for my own gown, other than selecting the materials I had done nothing but stand still for the dressmaker. I had left the style and cut entirely to her discretion; my father was rich and she was grateful for my patronage, so I could trust her not to make me look a fool or frumpish. My own skill with the needle was adequate, but nothing to boast of.

      ‘Do you enjoy reading or composing poetry?’ Anne persisted. ‘Are you fond of riding? Do you like to play dice or cards? Queen Catherine, despite her pious nature, I am told, is a keen card player.’

      ‘Her Majesty only plays for the most modest stakes and her winnings are always given to the poor!’ I answered sharply while inwardly I seethed. How dare she play this game with me? Flaunting her accomplishments in my face and making it quite plain that as a candidate for her brother’s hand she deemed me most unworthy!

      And through it all George just stood there, smiling down at her, drawing the comb through her hair, even as he glanced inquisitively at me each time she posed a question, waiting expectantly for my answers and feigning an interest I knew he did not feel. As I stood before them I felt like a prisoner on trial, and most fervently wished that the ground would open beneath my feet and swallow me.

      Thus began my association with the Boleyn family, though three years would pass before I officially joined their ranks; Sir Thomas and my father haggled like fishwives over my dowry. Meanwhile, I returned to court, where I was soon joined by Anne, in the household of Queen Catherine.

      

      I remember the day she arrived at Greenwich Palace. The Queen had been closeted all day in her private chapel, fasting and kneeling before a statue of the Virgin surrounded by flickering candles, while we, her ladies, lolled about, lazily plying our needles over the shirts and shifts she bade us stitch for distribution among the poor. We gazed wistfully out at the river, sighing longingly at the thought of the cool breeze, and eyeing enviously those who already strolled along its banks. From time to time one of us would pluck desultorily at a lute, toy with the ivory keys of the virginals, or yawningly take up one of the edifying volumes about the saints’ lives that Her Majesty encouraged us to take turns reading aloud.

      Suddenly there were footsteps and laughter upon the stairs. Like Lazarus risen from the dead, we came to life, pinching our cheeks to give them color, hastily straightening headdresses and tucking in stray wisps of hair, daubing drops from our dainty crystal scent vials, smoothing down skirts and sleeves. Then the door swung open and in sauntered the King’s gentlemen, with George Boleyn leading the pack.

      They were like a flock of tropical birds, a veritable rainbow of gorgeous, gaudy colors in their feathered caps, satin doublets, and silk hose, with elaborate blackwork embroidery edging the collars and cuffs of their snowy-white shirts, and gemstones flashing and twinkling in their rings, brooches, and on the hilts of their swords. All young, handsome, debonair, and carefree, rakish and wild, they were the wits and poets of the court, happy-go-lucky and devil-may-care, the peacocks and popinjays in whose presence life was never for an instant dull.

      Laughing heartily, with one arm flung around the shoulders of his best friend, Sir Francis Weston, George approached us.

      ‘Ladies’—he doffed his cap and bowed to us—‘we bring you fruit!’ He indicated the big straw basket carried by Sir Henry Norris. Then, assisted by his friends, he began to distribute it among us—apples, oranges, plums, grapes, cherries, and pears. And soon joyful banter, merry laughter, and coy flirtations replaced the sleepy air of boredom and gloom that, only moments before, had pervaded the room.

      Sir Thomas Wyatt,