La Petite Boulain

by G Lawrence

  With full bellies and the warmth of the fire on our faces, George, Mary and I were happy to listen to our mother’s tales of the enchanting court. Her eyes shone warmly in the light of the fire and the crimson of her gown with its beautiful golden embroidery of violet flowers on the sleeves reflected the light of the red fire, making her look as though she was a part of those gentle flames. Her long, elegant fingers, so like mine, gripped the pewter goblet of wine she held, and she sipped as she talked.

  “The whole court is alive with pleasure; there has never been a happier time. People call to each other in the halls and in the gardens; there is jesting and laughter everywhere.” I noted that as she spoke, the servants in the hall were clearing the tables very slowly, anxious, as I was, to hear the latest news of London and court. Our mother must have noted this, but she seemed to understand in her good humour, and did not reprimand them for their slowness. My mother’s maid-servants sat near to us sewing, with their eyes on their work, but their minds completely on her words.

  “The King is like a boy on New Year’s Day who has been given all he could ever wish for! He jests and rides with all his men all day. Your father is much in demand as he is one of the greatest huntsmen of the court, and the King is most bountiful to us in his happiness.” She smiled proudly at the thought of her husband, a rising light of the court. “And the Queen is so serene in her happiness, such a good example of a Christian queen. But you can see the happiness and pride that she seeks not to show to us. She is worried, you see… anxious to be a good example to her servants and to the country, not wishing to exalt overly, even in her triumph. But she deserves to be happy. She has lost children, yes, but she has now given His Majesty a living and strong prince. God willing, other children will follow too, but this prince is the most welcome babe that there ever was.”

  Our mother sipped her wine and leaned in to us. “Two days ago there was a joust where the Queen presided as the Queen of Hearts,” she said. “The King, wanting to surprise her, disguised himself as a foreign knight, the Sir Loyal Heart. He came up and asked to ride in the tournament for her honour. The Queen was surprised, but she could hardly deny him. He rode for her in the lists, and won, and then the King swept off his disguise and uncovered his true identity to all in the crowds. There was much laughter then. The King is such a boy at times. Your father rode also, and won every match but one, for he lost only to the King, dressed as Sir Loyal Heart.”

  “Did father know it was the King when he rode against him?” George asked eagerly.

  Our mother smiled with a fond, wry smile. “Well, George, of course, we all knew it was the King. His Majesty does not fade easily into the background. He is so tall and well-built and handsome… and he has an air about him that even in disguise you know who he is. But it does well at times to pretend… to go along with His Majesty’s entertainments and jests. He likes to surprise the court by dressing as a stranger, and then to amaze us all by showing at last, after performing feats of brilliance, that he is the King. For you see, he wishes the court to admire his own talents. He wants his people to applaud the man he is, and not just the crown he wears. This is why he disguises himself, so that people may see his true talents first and then see the crown.”

  Our mother shook her head and smiled. “There is so much false flattery given to kings. King Henry knows this well enough, and he would have admiration for his own, real talents, of which he has many. But really, he could not ever hide his grace well enough that we should be deceived entirely.” She laughed then… Warm and joyful, her laughter rang softly around the stone walls and tapestries that shone red-gold in the fire’s light.

  She shook her head at our confused faces. “I laugh only because Her Majesty, Katherine, is so much better than the rest of us in her pretence. She always knows it is the King when he comes to her in disguise, but she never shows it. You can see his eyes searching hers for a glimmer of recognition and yet, somehow, she masks all this from him and pretends he is just another knight welcome to court. She is a good wife to him because she understands him so well. It is a good lesson to us all.”

  “What happened next at the joust?” George asked anxiously and restlessly; he did not want to hear of the life of married people, even if they were the King and Queen.

  “Patience, George,” our mother reproved sharply. “Show respect for your elders and be not so impatient or else you will wait another night, in punishment, to hear my story.”

  “No!” Mary and I cried together in horror, and George shut his mouth quickly in the fear of losing the story altogether. My mother laughed again at our combined horror. Her good humour restored, she continued. “So I must give you more detail of the joust then, George?” She smiled as she was rewarded by a furious nodding from the desperately silent George.

  “When the King was dressed as Sir Loyal Heart, he came to the Queen to ask for her favours; the colours that he would wear and honour her with if he won. The Queen looked around for her husband, but was told by Sir Charles Brandon, the King’s great friend, that the King was late to the joust and had requested that she honour another knight in his place. The Queen pretended to be sad that her husband was so far away, and gave her favours to the new knight, Sir Loyal Heart instead.

  “Then the lists began; knight after knight tore through the dirt of the jousting ring with the power of the horse and the crash of lance against armour. Your uncle, Sir James Boleyn, was thrown clean from his horse by the knight Sir Loyal Heart and the crowds were much amazed to see such prowess from an unknown knight, for your uncle is no mean jouster in his own right. There were whispers, from those who had not seen the knight up close and did not know the jest, that this must be some foreign prince in disguise. Charles Brandon, the King’s great friend, rode against your father and the crash of their lances made such a deafening noise that I flew to the edge of the Queen’s seating area to watch in horror, for I thought that your father might have been thrown… but no! Each knight was still on his horse and laughing with pleasure, for they were so well matched. They rode against each other many times that day and yet neither could unhorse the other. Your father won the match against Brandon in the end though, for the points he scored were higher than Brandon’s. Your father honoured our name greatly, for none could unseat him but the mysterious Sir Loyal Heart. The other knights know your father is a man to be feared when drawn against in the lists. They dread the coming of his name against theirs. The King loves well those who triumph in the jousts; this week has put your father in better standing than ever before, as the King likes to be surrounded by those who love what he loves. He calls for your father often, to talk of jousting and to go out hunting with him.” Our mother smiled with pride and sipped at her wine. We all leant forward more, longing for her to continue speaking her tale, but not daring to say a word, lest she stopped. She continued,

  “At the end of the joust, when Sir Loyal Heart had distinguished himself above all others, the knight rode to the side of the Queen. She congratulated him on his prowess and mourned aloud that her husband the King was not present to greet such a distinguished, valiant knight. Suddenly, the knight swept off his helmet and there!... there was the laughing face of the King! The company, the Queen included, gasped and bowed as the King roared out his great laugh. His laugh… it only seemed to grow louder as it spread over the jousting lists. It is a good laugh, for all who hear it feel they are included in his humour and friendship. Then those in the stalls around understood the jest, and laughed also. The King has such brilliant blue eyes, and he was so merry, that none could resist that laughter.

  He gave Katherine’s colours back to her in honour and I heard him whisper quietly to her, “you knew not it was I? Come Kate… was there a slight doubt?”

  “But the Queen assured him that she was amazed at the trick, and he believed everything she said. She was so pretty in her happiness there…. My girls, I would wish each of you the joy in marriage that Queen Katherine has. She is blessed amongst all wome
n in her husband, and he has never been happier or prouder of her than now with the birth of their son.” Our mother’s eyes glowed, perhaps with memories of her own triumph in giving a son to our father, as she thought on the happiness of the Queen, and then she went on with her tale.

  “On the second night of the great tournament of Westminster, the King wore a coat of purple satin, adorned with golden badges of H and K; his initial and that of the Queen. Some of the courtiers did not believe that the King’s badges were all made of gold, and so the King invited each of those who doubted to pull one from his coat and keep it for his own. Such is the present joy of the King! It brings out such generosity and boyish play in him! As more and more people came to claim a golden badge, the King was quite beset by all the court, who pulled not only the golden badges from his coat, but started to divest the courtiers about him of their jewels too! There was much commotion; the King was stripped down to his very doublet and hose, as were many of his men. Sir Thomas Knyvet was stripped bare of all his clothing and had to take refuge by climbing up a pillar in but his undergarments for safety from the hands of the people about him! The King’s guards had to come and pull the people back, but the King laughed well and hearty for all that had come to pass merely because of his people’s excitement!” Our mother laughed again and lifted her goblet to her mouth. “These days are filled with such glory, my children! I shall never forget them.”

  She drank deep of her wine as she finished her tale and then, smiling as she looked at our glassy eyes, our mother ushered us to the servants to be put to bed. Before they themselves retired, she and her maids whiled away a few more hours in the company of the fire and told tales of romance and of love to each other.

  For many days to follow, there was nothing we would play or talk of but parenthood and princes. George would boast that he was to be placed in the household of the new Prince. He would become his best friend, just as Charles Brandon was the best boon companion of the King now. George would awe us with stories of how he and Prince Henry, Duke of Cornwall, would take back the lands of France that rightfully belonged to England. How the Prince would favour him above all others; how they would go jousting and hunting together. Mary and I listened, eager too for this future. Little did we know that this dream was soon to be crushed under the heel of Fate.

  Chapter Seven

  1511

  Hever and London

  It was the morning of the 24th of February, when news was brought by a fast riding servant sent by our parents to Hever; the infant Prince had died on the morning before. He was only two months old.

  The hope of the country died as so many babies did; blue and cold in a cradle without any explanation as to why God had called him from us. Mary wept; her soft heart was always ready to mourn for the sorrow of others. George was solemn and disappointed at the death of his future best friend and I felt a hollow form inside my own heart in sorrow. Our happiness, our play, our dreams had been so entangled with this prince. A baby I had never seen… but now that he was gone from us, I felt as though he left a gap in our lives that should never be filled. Everyone had been so happy, and now everyone was so sad.

  Our parents were attendants at the funeral of the little Prince. We, too, were taken to Westminster Abbey to stand outside with the families of the nobility of the country and mourn the Prince’s passing.

  They carried his body from Richmond, where his household had been stationed, by boat to Westminster and from there the peers of the realm lined the roads behind the tiny coffin as they walked the Prince to the Abbey. There he should lie next to the most honoured of his ancestors, the great kings of England. The dead Prince Henry Tudor, Duke of Cornwall, would rest on the left-hand side of the altar, close to the tomb of Edmund Crouchback, the youngest son of Henry III.

  Three hundred yards of black satin cloth were draped over the tiny coffin. The whole country seemed to have become silent as we young Boleyns stood in our new clothes of expensive black velvet, watching the very hope of the country die, as the procession wound its way to the final resting place of the little Prince.

  Mary, George and I were not taken inside the Abbey; we were but children, after all, and there were many more important than us to line its walls and watch the priests perform their last sacred tasks for Prince Henry. We watched the coffin procession as it passed us in silence. The choir sang sacred songs to the glory of the Prince and to God. The voices of the choir were achingly beautiful. They spread across the silence of the great country; they rang with all the pain and sorrow of that day. And yet there was the beauty of God in their song too, and the knowledge that He had called our Prince out of this world for a reason. That reason was not ours to question. My heart shivered with the sweet voices of the choir. I was lost in the beauty of the hymns and in the sorrow of the solemn day.

  We were guarded by the servants of our house. They wore Boleyn livery, but with bands of black cloth on their arms to show respect. They guarded us children in the crowd of nobility, as our mother and father were attending the wants of the King and Queen in this time of their sorrow. Our father had been chosen to help carry the little Prince into the chapel and to his final rest. Even in this dark time, it was important to remember that our father was receiving honours important to the advancement of our family at court.

  We could never really put that out of our minds; it was repeated to us too often.

  As I stood there in the great crowds, I noticed another small girl, to my left. She was dressed in her finest, attended by servants and standing by a woman whom I took to be her mother. That great lady wore a rich gown of black velvet and satin with an impressively-sized Spanish farthingale. Her hips looked enormous because of the dress. The woman’s clothing was just slightly overdone, and looked a little ostentatious for the occasion, even by the standards of the court.

  My mother had taught me well in the art of dressmaking and styles of courtly dress for court, so that even at the age of ten, I was becoming quite a critic.

  The little girl seemed less interested in the procession than she was in playing with a ribbon that had come loose on her dress. She was younger than I, perhaps the same age as George, or a little younger. She was obviously distracted by her black ribbon, and not paying attention to the funeral procession. Suddenly, the older woman’s hand flashed out without word of warning, and struck the girl hard across the cheek. The child looked up at the woman in horror, her lips trembling. But before her pretty almond-shaped green eyes could fill with tears, before a protest could emerge from that full-lipped mouth, her mother gave her such a look as would have chilled the bones of angels. She looked like the devil as she glared down on her daughter.

  The small girl gulped back tears, obviously knowing that there was worse to be had if she did not control herself in public. She fixed her glance towards the Prince’s coffin as it entered the Abbey. Green eyes full of tears that dared not fall, she looked ahead, her face pale and her visage ghostly. She looked tiny, so small to look so very afraid.

  She caught my eye as I watched her, and I tried to give her a smile of support. But she took her shining green eyes from my black ones, jutted out her chin and looked resolutely forward at the procession in solemn dignity. Remembering myself, I too looked back to the funeral of our prince and sought, for the rest of the lengthy and tiring proceedings, not to look at the girl for whom I felt so sorry.

  We were all very tired when it came to the end of the ceremony. Our young legs wobbled like thick marmalade with exhaustion and our minds were drained. It was also cold outside the Abbey and the chill of the air had seeped into our bones. As we left, I quietly asked one of our servants the names of the woman and her green-eyed child who had stood near to us. Mistress Maude was our mother’s maid and was often at court with her, so she was well-placed to know who was whom at court. Maude looked where I had indicated, at the still steel-faced child and the stony-eyed woman. They had now been joined by a handsome, hawkish-looking man in great robes of black silk; the
y stood in silence together as the crowds dispersed.

  “That’s Lord Morely, Sir Henry Parker,” Maude said. “And there is his wife Lady Morely and their heir Henry.” She spoke of a boy standing with them whom I had not noted.

  “What is the little girl’s name?” I asked Maude.

  She shrugged. “Why would that matter, Mistress Anna? I think there are two daughters in the family called Jane and Margaret, but I know not which of those she is. Come now, we must get you all back to our lodgings before the evening closes in, or I shall answer for it.”