by J P Ceark
First published 2019
Copyright © J.P. Ceark
The right of J.P. Ceark to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, without permission by the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
For Uncle Glenn
Much missed
Author’s Note
For readers ease I have used the modern-day term of in-law. However, in Tudor England no such terminology was in existence. If your brother was married, his wife was legally your sister.
Boleyn and his Bloodline
Prologue
September 1530
Hampton Court
Mary observed her sister’s growing agitation. She would pace a while, sit, embroider, then be about on her feet again. She was a strange concoction of nerves and fury. ‘Why do you look at me?’ questioned Anne, as she glared at Mary.
‘I worry for you,’ Mary replied simply.
Anne nodded as if distracted once more. ‘This is unbearable.’
‘Why allow Father to pressure you?’ Mary pleaded. ‘This is his revenge.’
‘Aye, for he knows the Cardinal’s punishment if I lose Henry’s devotion! I must separate him from Henry once and for all.’
‘What if he should side with Wolsey?’
‘How you would revel in my disgrace!’ Anne spat.
‘Calm yourself.’ Jane placed an arm about her sister-in-law, reminding Anne of her presence. ‘Wolsey has condemned himself. The King will side with you.’
‘It is not that which concerns me, it is that my existence is the only reason why Henry leaves his wife. Should I not exist, Henry would remain and would perhaps still love her!’ Tears began to fall revealing the true distress in her heart. ‘Katherine would remain next to Henry, my Henry.’ Mary remained silent, unable to reassure. ‘She condemns me to her own misery,’ Anne continued. ‘I would see myself burned before denying him any happiness.’
‘Come along, the King is expecting you,’ spoke Mary. ‘The turmoil you’re exhibiting will displease him. Be of peace.’
Anne gave a defeated sigh. ‘I’ve condemned myself, my heart, my soul, my sanity.’
* * *
Henry’s own happy countenance changed on seeing Anne and became serious. ‘What is this?’ he questioned her cold aura and reddened eyes.
‘Have you not heard, Sire?’ Anne queried with a renewed fire in her eyes. ‘Rome has it on good authority that should the Pope excommunicate you, you will return to Katherine.’ Henry snorted with contempt. ‘If that approach fails, then Rome has been instructed to support an invasion of England by the Spanish in support of Katherine. They have been reassured; however, it will not come to that. I quote, “Once the concubine is removed from the King of England’s company, his better judgement shall return and he shall be about his wife once more.”’
Henry was white. ‘Who doth advise the Pope?’ he asked while receiving the copied letter.
‘Cardinal Wolsey, who else?’
‘These are letters between Katherine and Wolsey?’ Henry said out loud, trying to make sense of it.
‘Aye, printed about the French court.’
Henry knitted his brow; he thought on the betrayal with bemusement. His slowness to react, however, caused an explosion of temper within Anne.
‘Every injury! Every truth, there be a traitor! Wolsey has stalled, debated, questioned and deliberated, he! Who has the highest authority on such a subject finds himself impotent to act! A man who has direct communication to the Pope is unable to summons an answer! Oh Henry, do not speak in his cause!’ She silenced him with ease; he was uncomfortable when she cried. ‘He thinks your passions be base, that I, a concubine, a whore hath persuaded you to commit a sin against God. Tell me, Sir, what is my sin? I fought for my honour as the Church commands and yet it is quick to condemn me for my virtue. If ever there was a contradiction, an injustice of judgement, it is here! For the holy Cardinal has a woman and has sired children, his human weakness is not condemned! Nor is his corpulent greed at your expense. The council distrusts him, Parliament despises him and the public mock us because he inspires them to do so.’ Anne let out a cry. ‘He has betrayed us, for all of Europe believe I am nothing to you, that your passions are a dying amber, soon to be left in the grate to go out …’
Henry rushed to Anne to comfort her and Mary caught Jane’s eye.
‘No! He shall not cause this disquiet within your breast!’ Henry answered. ‘I’ll sign an arrest warrant for Wolsey: he has betrayed me.’
‘Merciful Prince, secure my belief that I am to be your wife for reasons of love betwixt us.’
‘Aye, aye, it is to be, my sweetheart,’ Henry promised with growing passion.
‘Perhaps Henry Percy should make the arrest,’ she suggested with sudden thought.
Henry stilled his ardour and thought a moment. ‘As you wish,’ he slowly agreed. ‘I see your eyes be dry now, Mistress,’ he noted with suspicion.
‘Justice, My Lord,’ answered Anne.
‘Vengeance,’ replied Henry.
March 1539
Kent
Some are snared by fate. When our downfall comes, our torturous minds seek the cause and he was no different. Though no amount of recollection could change his reality. It was done, he thought while retaining an all-consuming dark emotion of regret. Morality can only be born from honest faith and his faith was lost.
The cold air numbed his skin but internally he felt no temperature, no exhaustion. The suffering was within, convulsing, conflicting and turbulent.
He confronted his grief as if afresh. The exertion of justifying his part in their deaths was wearisome but he had to defend his motivations. How many of us can say we have lived without error of judgement? How many of us consider our actions before they are taken?
He pondered to quell the foreboding sense of blame. How would he be judged? Again and again he thought, searching his memory, justifying his conduct. He attempted to divert his conscience away from fault but that weighty emotion returned to lay heavy within him.
His horse was beginning to tire beneath him; he had to reach his home soon. He punished the stallion with extra exertions. The horse, being loyal to its master, strained to obey and kept up the gruelling pace. ‘Not long,’ he spoke, attempting to reassure the beast. ‘We’re not far.’
Nothing though could ease his own plight; he cursed himself for not objecting. The horse could stop if it was so tender and weak — why doesn’t it stop? No, nothing could persuade him to release his remorse, though there were defences. There were reasons for his collusion, but he put them aside. Dark thoughts clouded his senses. Only death would answer his fears.
The ride had been tiring and taken longer than he had anticipated but Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, had arrived home to Hever. As the horse trotted its way into the courtyard, Thomas glanced at his castle with fondness and familiarity. The servants rushed around him, taking his satchel from his horse, aiding him through to the comfortable dwelling behind. The stable boys cooled the horse and led it away, but all the commotion seemed distant, as though Thomas no longer participated with the living — as though he was observing from far away.
‘I thought you would send for me?’ spoke John Robson, his servant.
‘I knew the ride could be done, make no fuss.’ Thomas dismissed his concern and carried on walking into his Great Hall, where much had been celebrated and commiserated over the years.
Little time had passed when another set of galloping hooves could be heard thundering across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. John grabbed his master as Thomas attempted to swing around
to view the scene behind him, but staggered. Robson hurried to hold his master upright.
‘Who is that, Robson?’ enquired Thomas, unable to focus.
‘Archbishop Cranmer,’ he calmly replied while instinctively sensing an uneasy foreboding.
‘Ah!’ yelled Thomas. ‘I told him! I told him, I needed no aid!’ His rage was such to cower anyone but the intimidation was diminished by his stooped, thinning figure.
‘If I take you to rest in your chamber, Cranmer can sit with you a while,’ Robson suggested.
‘Aye, I knew he was following me,’ Thomas said with a defeated tone.
Thomas settled in his chamber and removed his furs and jerkin, throwing them onto an embroidered chair. Robson then aided him into bed and brought some wine to sit beside him.
Cranmer’s heavy tread could be heard below them. Thomas paused to listen to Cranmer as he dismissed his retinue.
‘Allow him presence now,’ Thomas ordered.
Robson disappeared. Thomas listened to his servant’s footsteps upon the tiled floor and heard his voice say, ‘I think a physician should be summoned, but my master says no.’ He addressed Cranmer without ceremony, Thomas noted. He then remembered with a shudder Robson’s loyalty and their own shared trauma.
‘I will write to Dr Butts. Thomas will see him,’ Cranmer reassured the middle-aged servant. He then followed Robson into Thomas’s bedchamber.
‘I told you not to follow me,’ Thomas reiterated as he saw Cranmer’s tall, elegant figure loom through the wide, wooden door frame.
‘I rarely defy you, but I feared …’ He stopped short of his intended sentence, smoothing his beard with thought.
‘I should die on the roadside? Huh! We do like a public death!’ He laughed at the macabre humour, the same humour his daughter had indulge in. ‘Us Boleyns,’ he said with pride.
‘Have you spoken to a physician?’
‘I see no need, he will only say I am dying and I know this already …’ Again he smiled at his inappropriate mirth.
‘Thomas …’
‘Cranmer, I have important business to discuss with you. A physician can only prolong life and that is not my wish. I was going to write to you on the subject but since you are here … my wealth needs to be considered. Hever Castle will revert to the crown as I have no male heir but the contents inside is of great value. I ask, when your retinue returns, that they strip the house of all items of value, anything, gold and silver plates, chalices, jewellery and other effects. If left, Cromwell will have it.’
‘Who is to be the beneficiary of it?’ Cranmer queried. ‘One of your siblings?’
Thomas exhaled and replied with a heaviness in his voice. ‘No … it is to be my one surviving child, Mary. There are a few things of Anne’s I want passed to the Lady Elizabeth and only Mary will have the opportunity to do so without the King’s knowledge.’ Cranmer nodded his agreement. ‘Tapestries, carpets, furniture, it must all go; nothing of value should be left. Only the bed I die in and even that can be collected once I am removed. King Henry took too much from me. If I can deny him a tenth of my wealth, I shall have some satisfaction.’
‘I’ll write to Mary? We must be sure she is still living … I could also request she comes to Hever?’ asked Cranmer.
‘No … I wish not to see her … you must write though … there is woodland I promised the King could have. He is not to acquire it. It belongs to Mary.’
‘Would this information be better coming from you?’
‘I couldn’t tolerate her presence,’ he spat. ‘We’ve never been friends.’
Cranmer bowed his head to respect his friend’s wishes but then ventured a reconciliation. ‘Sometimes when we re-evaluate our past, we realise our faults were many and others not as damaging as we first judged.’
‘Cranmer, I dare not venture into exploring my past,’ he spoke with heat.
‘Why should you leave so much to her then?’ enquired Cranmer in a moment of unguarded irritation.
‘The Lady Elizabeth is declared illegitimate, she legally cannot inherit for that reason; I must look to another.’
‘Thomas, I fear you deceive yourself. What of your sister Anne Shelton?’
‘She? Never!’ He held firm in his voice of rage. ‘I gift what is left to Mary … but I doubt I can summon any sympathy. She ignites my contempt, not compassion.’
‘Thomas,’ Cranmer soothed, ‘for the redemption of your soul … find it.’
‘Redemption?’ Thomas smirked. ‘I’m far beyond that.’
Nineteen years earlier
January 1520
Blois, France
Thomas Boleyn,
I write with the assurance that Sir Carey has accepted the value of the dowry offered, that shall secure his son marrying your daughter Mary. While Mary’s commodity has been diminished in your eyes, she still has other attributes of worth. I shall speak to you on that matter, should the opportunity arrive. The marriage is a good match and no discrepancy on either side is known, I can assure you of that.
As for the Carey family, they are of little influence but of good name. William Carey is cousin to the King and has a good position at court, with four servants and two rooms for accommodation at court. Therefore, I conclude this business for your daughter’s marriage contract.
Your brother-in-law
Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey
February 1520
Calais
The soft padding of footsteps became ever more heavy and rapid. She froze in the middle of the room as if each tread brought an agonising wait for the torture to begin. ‘They’ve come, Mistress Mary,’ spoke Lady Lisle gently. ‘Let us say our adieus here.’
‘I cannot express my humble thanks. I’ve been so despised,’ she began to weep, causing her guardian to do the same. ‘I feared my exile would last always … I know I should be thankful for Father’s clemency but …’
‘It is wise to do so, Mary, learn by this lesson. Your father will not tolerate a fallen reputation, no matter how naïve your conduct.’
‘If I have learnt any lesson, it is to seek a path away from him; he will condemn me before ever thinking of redemption.’
‘You have your sister’s letters?’
‘Aye.’ She held them out, separating them.
‘Burn them now, do not evoke your father’s wrath upon your sister or your dear mother.’
Mary threw them into the dying ambers of the fire and stoked the flames to witness a sudden glow blackening the sheets. ‘Nothing Anne does can disappoint Father, she’s too good at being the worthy woman he has ambitions for.’
Lady Lisle observed the flames erasing the existence of words and returned to Mary’s plight. ‘I bless your union to be happy,’ she spoke softly. Taking some holy water from a small bottle within Mary’s chamber, with her thumb she made the cross on Mary’s forehead. ‘Sweet Mary. I wish you every happiness, as I know of the injustice caused to you.’ She kissed her on both cheeks and attempted to hide her own tears. ‘Have you all your possessions?’ she enquired.
‘Aye,’ Mary reassured her and the pair walked from the castle to the retinue of her father’s men. She could not see her father sitting among them. ‘I thought Father would be travelling with us?’ she enquired with some relief in realising he had not accompanied them.
‘Your father is still occupied at the French court; he has intrusted us to escort you back to England. We shall ride through the English territory of Calais and from there a boat to England.’ Explained one of the men in-front of her. ‘I’m Musgrave.’ He finally introduced himself. ‘I’ll not be delayed as I have other business to attend to in London.’ His manner was brusque but Mary cared little.
She made over to Lady Lisle and kissed her once more. ‘Farewell, My Lady, write to Father assure him that I go without performance and write to Mother assuring her that I am a dutiful and obedient daughter.’
‘I promise, my dearest.’
Mary was lifted into the saddle, legs d
angling to one side. ‘Much thanks to His Lordship for his accommodation and expense.’
‘Goodbye, Mistress Boleyn. Be of safe journey! And should you have need of me, come here again!’ Lady Lisle called out while following after them, but they were away. Dust was clouding their backs as they moved rapidly forward and away from her.
Mary didn’t look back; she was eager to return to court life and as her journey got underway, she had little to divert her mind from the memories of her time in France. Did you think it had escaped me? Mary remembered Anne what had written to her when she was in exile. The sly looks from the King’s men. Is your intellect so minimal and your resistance so weak? Why possess the same base vanity and temperament as other females?
Mary rode within the centre of her father’s retinue, as though she had been ensnared by them. Never would she know of freedom again like she had known it at the French court. She would be watched from now on. Yet Anne had been without the same temptation. She had been placed with Margret of Austria, a learned woman of good conduct, while Mary had been placed with Princess Mary Tudor when she wed King Louis of France. She had not acquired the same deportment as Anne and yet was expected to resist glances and flatteries without response.
And this is where all her misery began. For while attending on Princess Mary, the Dauphin Francis would participate in court life, seducing a different lady on any given night. His attention even fell onto the princess, but her heart was seduced by another and Mary had witnessed the princess’s moment of liberation. When King Louis died, the princess chose the Duke of Suffolk. She defied her brother, King Henry VIII of England, and married her love.
Mary tried to get Musgrave’s attention but he would not indulge her. ‘I tire, Sir,’ she called out.
