by Julia Fox
Despite his new title, however, Thomas was not in the privy chamber. William Carey was. There was every reason for Thomas to feel as pleased with his choice of son-in-law as Lord Morley was with his. While not of the highest rank, William came from a solid Wiltshire family and, through his mother, Eleanor Beaufort, was distantly related to the king. He was a pleasant young man, a sensible, pragmatic husband, willing to be accommodating to the ways of the world. A skillful jouster, a tennis player, a ready participant in the revels, Carey was a man after the king’s own heart. And, as the Boleyns realized, it was the king’s heart that they had to thank for bringing about advances in their circumstances: for Mary Carey became Henry’s mistress.
Quite when the king first focused his attention on Jane’s sister-in-law is uncertain. By the time of the Field of Cloth of Gold, Henry was no longer sleeping with Elizabeth Blount. Indeed, it seemed as though he had stopped doing so about the time that she became pregnant with his son, Henry Fitzroy. Once the delectable Elizabeth was safely married to Gilbert Tailboys, the son of a wealthy landowner, Henry’s eye probably lighted upon Mary. As a young girl, Mary had gone to France with Henry’s sister “to do service” for her when she married Louis, presumably coming home with her when Louis died. According to Louis’ successor, King Francis, Mary “did service” to male members of the court too, so much so that she earned herself a tarnished reputation as “una grandissima ribalda et infame sopre tutte.”*4 Whatever the truth about her morals, Henry was happy to be an honored guest at Mary’s wedding to William at Greenwich, giving an offering of six shillings and eight pence, and it was as a respectably married woman that she had sat with Jane in the stands watching the tourneys at the Field of Cloth of Gold.
By the time Mary and Jane had performed together at Château Vert, her affair with Henry was under way. Mary took her role of Kindness very literally. Although Jane was quite young at that stage, it is difficult to imagine that she was unaware of what was going on. In the claustrophobic Tudor court, where people lived in such close proximity, gossip flourished and keeping secrets was well nigh impossible. Jane had been brought up to guard her virtue, but to deny the king was an altogether different proposition. And she could see at firsthand what benefits such a liaison brought. The compliant William was the recipient of royal grant after royal grant. The annuity of fifty marks a year that he had been awarded earlier, no mean sum, paled into insignificance in the light of the manors and offices showered upon him by a grateful and contented monarch. Ironically, his haul included the keepership of the palace of Beaulieu in Essex, the former Boleyn property, where he was entrusted with the king’s wardrobe, as well as several other manors in the same area. Beaulieu was a perquisite worth having. While the keepers of some houses were allotted designated rooms within them and a house in the grounds, whoever got Beaulieu was allowed to live in it as if they owned it. And Henry’s gifts did not stop there. William and one of Henry’s pages, William West, were even given the joint wardship,*5 always a highly coveted and lucrative prize, of Thomas Sharpe of Canterbury. The pair were also allocated custody of Sharpe’s lands, which, since he was deemed to be an “idiot,” Sharpe would never be allowed to administer for himself. All mounted up most gratifyingly. Indeed, when William was assessed for a tax payment, the assessment was for one third more than that of Jane’s father and almost half that of Thomas Boleyn. William, no less ready to sacrifice his wife than Thomas was his daughter, had duly earned remuneration.
But life rarely stays the same for long. The Eltham Ordinances, Wolsey’s efforts at reform within the privy chamber, came to fruition and George lost his place. He was not named as one of the fifteen able to remain. As one of the six gentlemen waiters, William survived. So did Henry Norris. The grooms included William Brereton, who came from an influential Cheshire family, and young Francis Weston became the king’s page. George and Jane were acquainted with all of them. Why George was removed is unknown; perhaps Wolsey preferred to cut down the number of Boleyns in intimate, daily contact with Henry. However, George was still close enough. Among the list of names of those “assigned to have lodging in the king’s house when they repair to it” is “Mr. Boleyn” and his wife. Wolsey meticulously checked this register, ticking the names of those receiving this entitlement. George’s name is ticked in the cardinal’s hand. This is the same document that mentions that in addition to his own eighty pounds, presumably the money George had from his existing lands and grants, he was given an extra twenty pounds a year as a salary for his new post: Wolsey appointed him “one of the king’s cupbearers when the king dineth out.”
While it was a pity that George was no longer one of the privileged few with virtually unrestricted access to the king, it did not affect the lifestyle to which Jane was fast becoming accustomed. The ordinances were highly specific concerning the newly wedded pair. Jane and George were assured of a palace room “on the king’s side” in which to sleep and were probably fed at royal expense. William and Mary Carey were awarded the same perquisite, again, hardly surprisingly, on the “king’s side.” And, as “dineth out” meant every time Henry ate in state outside of his privy chamber, George retained a position of prominence. A current annual income of one hundred pounds, more than twice what Thomas Boleyn had once had to keep himself and his rapidly growing family, ensured relative affluence. With the king meeting most of their everyday expenditure, Jane and her husband could continue to indulge themselves in a few luxuries and enjoy the entertainments and exhilaration of life at the apex of society.
However, changes in the personnel of the privy chamber were matched by another change. Just as we do not know when Mary’s affair with Henry started, we do not know exactly when it ended, although it is certain that Mary became pregnant and gave birth to a son, Henry Carey. Whether the child’s father was the king or William remains a mystery. There were certainly rumors about his parentage. It is also true that much later he was treated generously by his cousin, Queen Elizabeth, who ennobled him as Lord Hunsdon, and that his grand tomb in Westminster Abbey, not far from the sanctuary, lavishly decorated in black, white, and gold and embellished with the Boleyn emblems of bulls and falcons, is fit for a prince. Wisely, Henry Carey always stayed silent on the matter. The king continued to hold Mary in some affection after the birth, but he desired her no more. So, as Thomas and Elizabeth gazed upon their first grandchild, and Jane and George upon their nephew, it seemed as though further Boleyn advances would have to come through their own efforts, as they had done before Mary had so conveniently slipped between the sheets of the king’s bed.
But Thomas had another daughter, and George another sister: Anne.
CHAPTER 7
The Falcon’s Rise
IT WAS SHROVE TUESDAY 1526 when the Boleyns, Jane’s new family, witnessed a tangible hint of what might be to come. Henry’s Christmas celebrations had been so muted that the season was called the “still” Christmas. When plague broke out in London, the king, in line with his usual terror of sickness, retreated to the seclusion and comparative safety of Eltham for almost five weeks, accompanied by just a “small number” of “such as were appointed by name.” Only with the worst of the sickness over did a cautious Henry venture out, eager to start living again. Since, for him, there were few things more exhilarating than jousting, especially before an admiring audience, Shrove Tuesday provided the perfect opportunity to indulge in diversion and pleasure. This particular occasion, though, was unique: amid the fun and frivolity, for those shrewd enough to realize it, was a glimpse of the future. For Jane, who had every right to attend the festivities, there were echoes of another Shrove Tuesday event four years earlier when she had played Constancy on the mock battlements of Château Vert. Two of her fellow performers were by now her sisters-in-law. If, in the intervening period, Mary had epitomized Kindness in reality as well as in jest, so Perseverance was soon to become Anne’s middle name.
As the court cheered and clapped, their king entered the lists. Thoroughly enjo
ying himself, and reveling in the acclaim, he gave a spirited performance at the head of his band of eleven other jousters. He looked stunning. Henry and his men shone in cloth of gold and silver, with their horses draped in similar fabric. His emblem, a man’s heart gripped inside a press and surrounded by flames, was significant, but it was his motto that resonated with meaning. Embroidered in French, it can be translated as “Declare, I dare not.” Arrayed in costumes of green velvet and crimson satin, the Marquis of Exeter’s company opposed the king. Their emblem, burning hearts on which silver droplets of water trickled from cans held by ladies’ hands descending from clouds, was a perfect example of romance and chivalric values. Unfortunately, the day was almost spoiled by a freak but grisly accident. To the horror of the spectators, a spear shattered as it hit Sir Francis Brian, who lost an eye. Never one to be perturbed by the sufferings of others, however, a carefree Henry, his own eyes intact, rounded off the evening with a banquet, himself waiting on Katherine and her ladies.
The precise moment when Henry fell in love with the woman who was to mesmerize and unsettle him for so many years is hotly disputed but for Jane and the other Boleyns, the date was immaterial. What mattered was that fall in love he did. Completely. Henry’s enigmatic motto on that Shrove Tuesday said it all. Having dropped one sister, he yearned for the other, even if he was not yet ready to proclaim it to the world. And Anne was unmarried and available.
Whether she would stay so for long was another matter. Jane and Anne had come into close contact when they had rehearsed the complicated choreography needed for the Château Vert pageant. Even then, Anne had been no retiring wallflower. Her looks were unconventional: a natural brunette with an unremarkable figure, she lacked the pale, translucent, fragile beauty then in vogue. The Venetian ambassador wrote scathingly that “Madam Anne is not one of the handsomest women in the world; she is of middling stature, swarthy complexion, long neck, wide mouth, bosom not much raised.” But there was more to her than that. Her intelligence, her wit, her repartee, her sheer vivacity, her ability to light up a room, together with the charm and polish gained through her years in Mechelen at the renaissance court of Charles V’s aunt, the regent Margaret, and in France with Mary Tudor and Queen Claude all combined to make Anne highly noticeable. And they made her different. Even the Venetian ambassador appreciated her most obvious asset—the dark, flashing eyes that, he said, were “black and beautiful” and that she so clearly used to advantage, for they took “great effect on those who served the Queen when she was on the throne.” Such a woman soon attracted admirers.
Long before Jane’s wedding, Thomas Boleyn had considered suggestions for a marriage for his second daughter. Never a man to be fastidious or squeamish where property was concerned, he had pondered using Anne to settle problems over his Ormond inheritance. While he had acquired his father-in-law’s English lands without too much trouble, he had not gained his title, and Thomas’s claims in Ireland were contested by Piers Butler, Ormond’s cousin. To marry Anne to Piers’s son, James, was ostensibly an ideal solution to the rather messy dispute, but although talks dragged on for some time, they finally petered out. Jane heard about the scheme, though, for it was still festering away when she joined the Boleyn family. She certainly knew about Anne’s other swains, the poet Thomas Wyatt, and Henry Percy, the son of the Earl of Northumberland. Both were probably on the scene when the king first experienced what he was later to call “the dart of love” and which he was to intimate at the Shrove Tuesday joust.
The problem with Wyatt was that he was already married, albeit miserably, to an equally unhappy Elizabeth Brooke, and the couple had two children. Handsome and cultured though he was, and Anne was no doubt flattered and excited by his attentions, all he could offer was an affair and perhaps the prospect of immortality through poetry. For the ambitious Anne, such enticements were simply not enough. Henry Percy was a much more realistic proposition. Heir to the vast Percy estates, he was about Anne’s age and, to Anne at least, personable. They met at court when Percy resorted “for his pastime unto the queen’s chamber” where he fell “in dalliance among the queen’s maidens.” Soon he dallied with one maiden in particular. “Being at the last more conversant with Mistress Anne Boleyn,” the pair decided to marry when “a secret love” developed between them. Or so we are told by George Cavendish.
What Anne divulged about how far her “secret love” had progressed goes unrecorded, but it is inconceivable that her family knew nothing at all of what was going on. If she confided in anyone, it was most probably her “sweet brother,” for she and George were always close. There is no evidence of that practiced negotiator, Thomas Boleyn, entering into tentative discussions with Percy’s father so any “secret love” did not translate into action. In fact, Northumberland decided that his son should marry Mary Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, who would be a much better match for him than Anne. Her hopes, if hopes there were, were dashed. According to Cavendish, they were dashed in spectacular fashion. He asserts that the relationship between Anne and Henry Percy was broken up by the cardinal himself, acting on the king’s personal order. Henry, Cavendish writes, was “much offended” by Anne’s relationship because he already had a “secret affection” for her himself, which he was forced to “reveal” to Wolsey. Having soundly berated Percy, Wolsey is alleged to have sent for the formidable Northumberland who did the same. The earl then sorted out the final details for the wedding to Mary Talbot. The result, Cavendish firmly declares, was Anne’s lasting hatred for Wolsey. She was determined that “if it ever lay in her power, she would work the cardinal as much displeasure.” Whatever the truth, Anne was sent back to Hever, out of harm’s way, to come to terms with her disappointment or, maybe, to plot her revenge.
For Jane and the other Boleyns, court life continued much as usual despite the complexities of Anne’s emotional upheavals with Wyatt and Percy. George waited on the king when he dined in state, William Carey served him within the confines of the privy chamber, and Thomas remained close at hand. But with Anne’s two suitors eliminated and the marriage negotiations with Butler running into the sands, the way lay open for the king. He did something he normally detested: he took up his pen.
Thus began a courtship that changed not only Anne’s life but the lives of everyone around her. At first, no one, probably not even Anne herself, appreciated just how far Henry would go to gain the object of his desire. Until now, he had been denied nothing. Yet, to his bewilderment, Anne not only resisted him, she did so with consummate ease. In the seventeen letters that are extant in the Vatican archives, the king poured out his innermost feelings, his devotion, and his love to the woman he thought of as his “own sweetheart.” The letters are tender, filled with concern for her, revealing the torment of a man whose heart was genuinely gripped by passion and yearning. For a Tudor daughter, even one as high spirited and independent as Anne, to have concealed such missives is unthinkable. And, like the rest of the family, Jane was there from the beginning, as Anne’s dark eyes focused on the pleadings of the king.
And pleadings they were. Jane was at court with George when, in an ironic role reversal, Henry cast himself as Anne’s “true servant,” appealing for news of her “health” and “welfare.” He gently chided her for not contacting him as she had promised, for, he wrote, “it has not pleased you to remember the promise you made me when I was last with you—that is, to hear good news from you.” He sent her a present of a buck he had killed himself “hoping that when you eat of it you may think of the hunter.” Having George at his side was all very well but Anne was to know that the king “very often wishes for you instead of your brother.” Another present, much more costly, was certainly not one that Anne could conceal from her family. With the “pain of absence…too great” and knowing that he could not be “personally present,” Henry sent her the “nearest thing” to himself, his “picture set in bracelets” and with a “device,” which he knew she would understand. Since the gift has disappeared
, we cannot know what the device actually was; perhaps it was a puzzle based on their intertwined initials or simply a string of letters similar to those he placed at the bottom of a further communication, which is still extant, and which he was also confident she would decipher.
