by G Lawrence
I drifted to sleep that night, listening to the noise of the streets of London as the people celebrated.
This was a good time to be alive, I told myself as sleep took hold of my mind; this was a great time to be alive.
The next day the King and Queen walked on foot to Westminster Abbey and were crowned in that great place of God. They had prayed all night for guidance in their roles as leaders of the country, and after long hours of prayer, promises and vows to uphold the Church and protect the people of England, they were anointed and crowned, and then took to the Palace of Westminster. There, they started the courtly celebrations which marked the start of their new reign.
We were too young for such ceremonies; our mother and father went to take their parts at the court celebrations, and we were left in the charge of the servants. But from the window, we could see the bonfires and hear the carousing of the people continuing into the night once again. Mary, George and I danced to music played by our servants, sung together and talked happily of all we had seen. All about us, London was vivacious with joy for her new King. Never again have I seen a city so full of happiness and delight.
Chapter Five
1509
London
We were in London for some weeks after the coronation; our household stayed in the rented rooms from which we had watched the procession. Our father and mother were expected at court daily to attend the joyous new King at his active and already splendid court.
Henry VIII was busy handing out favours to his new officers, and our father was not one to miss any of those. He was eager to attend the King in order that he might become more advanced still; the King was happy and exuberant in his new role, and eager to gain supporters and friends. Our father would not be disappointed; he was rewarded by the King greatly over the coming years and would eventually become a Knight of the Body as well of the Bath, Keeper of the Exchange at Calais, Constable of Norwich Castle, ambassador to the courts of France and Austria and Sheriff of Kent. All of these titles he would gain by his own cleverness and because of the King’s love for him. The King loved men who were like himself; jousters, hunters, riders, sportsmen… but he also admired thinkers and poets, wits and lovers of jest. There was a great deal of advantage in being a man who could boast some or all of these qualities within him, as our father could. The King was enamoured of poetry, and snippets of the verse he would write later in life were passed down to us. King Henry’s poetry was often filled with the virtues of chivalry and love, and more than one of his verses were written for his Queen. There is one I remember well:
Green groweth the holly; so doth the ivy,
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly
As the holly groweth green,
And never cheangeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been
Unto my lady true.
Mary and I were especially enamoured of the new King, for we longed to have such words written for us, as he wrote for his Katherine.
Our mother got on well with Katherine, and there had been talk that she might be offered a place in the household of the Queen. Our mother had served Elizabeth of York, the previous Queen, and so was used to the offices and duties of serving royalty and now it seemed she would serve Queen Katherine too, although perhaps not as one of her permanent ladies, since our mother had a household and children to manage. Our mother was to become a personal servant and friend to the new Queen; our father was favoured by the new King. The Boleyns were rising high, so we children thought.
Our parents would return to us every few days to tell us of the entertainments and banquets, of the pageants and plays performed each night, and of the jousts that took place during the days. Our father rode in the jousts and completed his feat of arms before many other new Knights of the Bath; this only served to increase our great admiration for him. One day, we were allowed to attend one of the tournaments with numerous other nobles.
The joust was a violent but noble sport that George longed to be allowed to ride in. Although he, as a noble man’s son, was already training in some arts of war, he had never been allowed to take part in an actual jousting competition. Instead he was allowed to run at ‘the rings’ as it was called, where young boys practised riding at a target, getting the end of a lance through a ring of cloth and thereby showing proficiency for the sport of jousting, which was, after all, all about hitting a target truly, whilst in motion. Our father was a keen and skilled jouster on the tilting field and he was keen for George to follow his footsteps… but not yet. Even our father, however ambitious he was, was not going to let George, at seven years old, joust properly. It was a dangerous sport, even for adults, and men had died in pursuit of glory in it. That was what made it exciting. Our wily father was not about to risk his only son by placing him in a real contest, even against other boys. George would have to wait to prove that he could be a knight like his father. It rankled with him, but he had little other choice than to obey. In some ways, the experience made George feel as though he had something in common with King Henry, for his father too had forbade him from jousting properly, for fear of his life. Henry VIII disbanded the edicts which his father had set up to stop royalty competing in the lists almost as soon as he had the crown on his head, and after that time, there was little to ever stop our new King mounting horse and charging the lists. Henry was a fierce and talented jouster, and it was truly his boundless enthusiasm for the sport which fired its intense popularity at the Court of England. The King was never happier than when he was in a saddle, lance in hand, charging to clash against the strength of another knight.
The joust we went to see was magnificent and it was clever, for rather than just being a match between the knights of the court, it had a theme. The court, as we learned later, was much like that. An event could not just be an event, it had to be something outstanding.
Mary and I gasped in admiration as we watched the ancient goddess Pallas Athene walk out to present to the crowds her knights of wisdom, matched in a fight against Cupid’s knights of love. Wisdom was to fight Love before our very eyes. Breathless with excitement we watched the teams of knights fight each other, both in the tilt and matched in pairs to fight with the sword. Shaft of lance broke against armour and sword bashed with ringing tones of steel against shield. Men fell on the dirt before us with groans and cries that struck terror, fascination and, excitement into my heart.
George had never been before, and never was again, as quiet as he was that day. He was struck quite dumb with concentration on the glory of the knights. Mary and I, however, chattered and talked with gay abandon. We swore we were in love with each and every knight who came to the field; we avowed our hearts and gave intentions to marry many different men, changing our minds with heartbreaking, excited shallowness. We loved all those knights who rode, and all those who fought, and to choose between them at the ages of eight and ten was an impossible task. Our father ignored our prattling, until it grew too loud for him, and then we were silenced with a single dark look.
As we stood watching the joust, from the crowds of nobles and their servants came a dark-haired, dark-clothed man with merry eyes. He walked by and stopped to talk with my father who was observing the jousts with a more critical, experienced eye than his exuberant offspring were presently capable of.
“Sir Thomas Boleyn!” The man greeted my father with some degree of formality, but also an air of friendliness. He bowed, inclining his head in greeting.
“Master Thomas More…” My father greeted him back, turning towards More’s happy face and returning a short bow.
“This is a fine day, my Lord, and fine times we have before us,” the man said, clapping my father on the shoulders as he spoke. The gesture of affection was a little hard and exuberant, but our father was a solid and sturdy man. More’s enthusiasm did not catch him off-guard. My father moved not an inch when he was struck on the back by this strange, dark man. But I sensed that More had perhaps wanted to
catch our father off-guard, and wondered why. There was a sense between them that I could feel already, of competition and rivalry.
“It is indeed, Master More,” my father replied, limiting his words. Our father was usually quite easy in conversation with the lords and ladies of the court, and yet now he was reticent; another thing to ponder, I thought.
“Now we shall see the people released from their slavery of ignorance and folly, and embraced by the liberty that this king shall bring us!” More’s eyes were upon the distant figure of the King. “He shall wipe the tear from every eye, and put joy in the place of our long distress,” the exuberant man continued, turning back and smiling at our father. Although many were speaking in enthusiastic terms of the new King, More’s face and eyes shone with an ideal that, I fancy, only he could really see.
“Indeed, Master More,” my father replied calmly. “This is truly a time for great rejoicing”.
My father’s voice was measured. He did not allow the contempt that I could feel under the surface of his speech to show in any way that More could discern. My father was a gifted courtier; adept at saying one thing and meaning quite another, but I who knew him well could tell that he found Master Thomas More rather trying. More, however, didn’t seem to notice the underlying hostility of our father, and clapping my father on the back again, he walked on through the crowds of nobles, stopping to congratulate those he knew on the happy times before us.
My father allowed his lip to curl into a slight, contemptuous sneer at More’s back, before turning back to the lists with a grunt.
“Who was that, my lord father?” I asked gently.
He looked at me for signs that I may have read him rightly, but I kept my little young face blank and open. I could learn these tricks too.
“Master Thomas More,” he said without a trace of anything resembling emotion in his voice. “He is a lawyer and a writer. The King likes him.”
I gathered from that short sentence that as much as the King liked More, my father did not. I wondered why, but such heavy thoughts passed me quickly that day and my father was not one to reveal much of his private thoughts, unless there was good reason.
The fast ailing and then death of the King’s grandmother on the 29th of June brought the celebrations of the coronation to a somewhat abrupt end. Although after the official mourning period was over, the celebrations continued, they were a little more muted than before. The passing of the fierce matriarch of the Tudor line, Lady Margaret Beaufort, seemed to define the end of an era; England seemed to pass into a world of new possibility and opportunity from amongst the last threads of the influence of the civil wars. The King was now freed of the rule of his past; his father was dead, as was his grandmother, and whilst he may have mourned them in part, he was probably also rather keen now to rule without their guiding, and, some said, overbearing, hands. The King was eighteen, and he was now in control of his own realm and power.
We stayed in London for some weeks and then returned to our lives in the school room and nursery. I awaited this golden age, this great change that all said would occur with the coming of our new king, but our little lives returned to much the same as they had been before we went to London to see the coronation.
After some initial disappointment, I settled back into my life quite easily; reading, learning, riding the beautiful new horse, that had been presented to me by my father. Mary and I were instructed in how to brew simples and to manage household accounts. We continued our learning of French and Latin; translating texts and great works in the hope that one day we should learn to speak these languages as well as our father. There was dancing and table manners, needlework and dressmaking, learning to make shirts for a future where our work would adorn our husbands and of course, the making of beautiful altar cloths for the church on our lands. The hands of the Boleyn daughters would grace the tables of the Church and the altars on which the blessed Mass would take place. Our mother imbued us with a sense of humility in these tasks; to honour God in our every day work was a great achievement, she told us.
We were busy enough, to be sure, but I wanted more… although at that time, I could not think of what more there was to the world than what I already had.
Chapter Six
1511
Hever Castle, Kent
It was when I was ten years old that a great prince was born to the King and Queen of England. The Queen had suffered two failed pregnancies before this; both bringing forth dead children from her womb that had dashed the hopes of the country and the King one after another. In her first pregnancy, they said that she had lost one child first, but another was believed to still linger, yet alive, within her womb. In time, this second child seemed to die, too, and there were mutterings about the country as to the fertility of the new couple. But almost immediately after this first disappointment, the Queen was found to be with child once more. On New Year’s Day of 1511, the Queen gave birth to a healthy, strong boy; a prince… for the King, and for England.
Christened Henry, for his father of course, the Prince was introduced to the world with a deafening salute of guns and cannon at the Tower of London, and the raucous sound of elation throughout the country. The little boy was immediately given the title Duke of Cornwall, and would one day become the Prince of Wales, and then the King of England. Such titles for such a small babe to wear! Our father was called to London to be one of the attendants to the King at this glorious hour. At Hever there was no less celebration, as the household feasted and made of good cheer through the night of New Year’s Day and beyond. In the village near the castle grounds, the people danced about bonfires whose smoke plumed into the winter’s air, and were sent the leavings of our great tables of feasting, so that they, too, might indulge in celebrating this joyous news.
It was a glorious time, for the succession of the Tudor line was now assured. With a strong prince as heir to the throne, our country was made more secure, we were told, for it was he would carry on the line of kings and lead our country. When such things as the line of kings were in doubt, then troubles came to the country, as they had done before we were born.
Our mother told us again of the horrors of the civil wars again; old men in the stables and mews, too, spun stories of the unrest that had torn the country end to end. They told George of the battles that they had fought in. But now times were good and there would be no more war in our lands; a living prince meant that God was watching over England with loving eyes and we were in His favour. Peace for England, and prosperity for the future was assured. We were all safe, and all because of this tiny baby boy.
Mary and I played at being Queen Katherine; looking softly on to the figure of a wrapped doll playing the part of the Prince. One of us would be the Queen and the other our mother, the Queen’s attendant. We would assure each other of the greatness that this son of England would bring forth. His father had brought in a golden age, and now his son would continue that goodness.
We were not so much older than the new Prince; I was ten and Mary almost twelve, so at times, we played at becoming the wife of this prince in the future. One of us would be the Prince, discovering the fair maiden of his dreams quite by accident in some leafy glen, or rescuing her from bandits; one of us would be the blushing maid. King Henry VIII, who was perhaps twenty-one at this time, would come to us as a figure of our imaginations and tell us of his happiness that we had caught the love of his son. Queen Katherine would press gifts into our hands, and welcome us as her own daughters. Those little games… I remember them so well. It is strange to think on them now with all that came to pass.
The celebrations lasted through January and into February and our mother was often called to court with our father; in the second week of February, our mother returned briefly from court to regale us with tales of the jousts that had taken place in the Prince’s honour that week.
“The court is at Westminster, still near to where the Prince was baptized in the Cathedral,” she said as we sat next to the roarin
g fire in the great hall at Hever which kept off the chill of this bitter winter. Snows had come early and stayed late through this season of wind and ice. The offerings of the tables of Hever Castle to the villages and tenants of our lands had to be increased this year, for it was a hard winter. But within the castle we children were warm and comfortable, our lives never being as hard as those of the lesser orders.
Our mother stared into the fire, cupping her warmed, spiced wine in her hands. Servants were cleaning the tables of the feast that we had just eaten well of: spiced pottage made with leeks; haddock in white pepper and ale sauce; leeks and sops in wine; little lampreys fried in butter and parsley; sallets of boiled vegetables and fresh herbs; herb-stuffed trout from our own stock ponds, followed by small pies of thick custard, marchpane knots and spiced honey custard. It was a Friday, and on Fridays, as well as Wednesdays, Saturdays and during Lent, for the grace of God, there was no meat in the house. I was full from the leeks and sops, of which I had eaten a great deal, although always taking care to leave some of the feast within the shared messes on the table, so that it might be shared with the people of the Boleyn lands. To eat all that was set before you when dining alone, or at a feast, was considered not only greedy, but un-Christian, as what was left over at the table of a noble house was always shared between the house servants and the people of your own lands. I had to try very hard not to eat all of the leeks and sops for they were my greatest test; white lengths of slippery, soft leeks cooked in olive oil, pepper and salt, covered with white wine, then poured onto crisp bits of toasted, fine-grained bread. The dish was rich and sweet, earthy and filling; a particular favourite of mine.
