Boleyn And His Bloodline

by J P Ceark

‘The sun is still covered by heavy clouds,’ Anne said, eyeing Mary’s stomach. ‘A sign.’

  ‘Silence! Troubled predictions do us harm,’ scolded her mother while stoking the fire in the Great Hall.

  ‘I’ll die giving birth,’ Mary spoke tearfully. ‘I know of it.’

  ‘Look what manner you have imposed upon your sister!’

  ‘Mary, I shall read to you,’ Anne suggested, but had already revealed the animosity between them. ‘Such a diversion is bound to improve the mood as well as the mind … the writings of Erasmus condemning Luther.’

  Mary groaned.

  ‘Why do you concern your mind on topics of which you have no expression, no choice and no influence to change. Luther may well condemn the corruption of the Church and the trickery and exploitation of people’s faith, yet consider this, we do not experience suffering. We are not poor, I implore you to leave be these dangerous thoughts. If you must preoccupy your mind with profound contemplation, think on how fortunate we are to have been born to wealth and to health.’ Elizabeth held her daughter’s gaze. She had hoped her understanding of female power was limited and that to build on the frustration daily would only result in further suffering and fruitless endeavour.

  Once, she had thought as Anne, and spoke often with Thomas about religion, spiritual understanding and political intrigue. Yet now, after many heartbreaks and disappointments, she conceded, she was fortunate to be born a Howard and even more fortunate to be born English. God had been good to her and the path to true happiness was accepting and thanking the Lord for her comfort and her children.

  ‘It is so wholly unsatisfactory,’ protested Anne. ‘Men are without compromise and without common sense. Surely there is absolute truth in the protestations of Luther and the false righteousness of the Catholic faith. I know the true faith, yet within these communities, people go without knowing the word of the Lord and giving up their worldly goods to kiss a vial of duck’s blood. These are corruptions of the soul as well as the purse. How can a holy organisation defend themselves against these charges? When the very people they enlist to protect are condemned by their sanctioning. It’s a cruel exploitation that the humble peasant cannot challenge.’

  ‘Child, speak easy now, I know you to think yourself a scholar but you are a woman first and these scholarly concepts are not for you to make a judgement upon.’

  ‘It is an injustice,’ she said angrily.

  ‘But not your injustice, for you speak enough Latin and you know your soul to be good. Let others find their way, for it is the will of our Lord.’

  Mary listened, irked still by Anne and her righteousness, but guessed why these diversions took hold of Anne’s mind: it was less to do with the injustices and suffering of the poor that offended her and more to do with the truth that she was angry. She had been denied her desire and now schemed for a cause to distract from her misery.

  * * *

  A flurry of excitement happened later in the day. Thomas Wyatt came into the courtyard with a retinue of men. Elizabeth frowned but called for the servants to make their guest welcome. She hurried forward and greeted Wyatt with much warmth.

  ‘How do? You make much haste from court, what can be your purpose, Sir?’ she enquired, but she feared it had much to do with her daughter.

  ‘My wife was taken ill,’ he explained without concern. ‘I accompanied her home and will remain in residence at my estate for a month or so.’

  ‘Or until your wife regains health?’ she interceded with some force.

  ‘I have some management of my lands to occupy myself with while she is recovering. Yet once it is done, I will have to be back at court. Perhaps you, Lady Boleyn, would be good enough to provide her with some company from time to time. She is not feverish, just a little …’ He stopped to think. ‘Melancholic. I cannot give a reason as to why but I care not to enquire.’

  ‘Rest assured, Sir, I shall visit your wife and sit with her for an hour or two and will pray for her spirit to be content once more.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’ He bowed to her and then looked over at Mary, full with child and sullen with it. ‘Is your other daughter about? I should most like to walk with her.’

  ‘I believe so,’ she reassured him while concealing her suspicions. ‘Cass,’ she called to her lady’s maid. ‘Find Anne.’

  There was a moment of tension and silence. Elizabeth moved to seat herself beside Mary, her face expressing her concern. She thought of different ways to approach the unsatisfactory situation but muted any attempt due to folly and shame.

  ‘Mistress Anne,’ Wyatt began with a sudden enthusiasm to his voice. ‘May I request your companionship for an hour? I’d hoped we would continue our debate on English prose and the description of sentiment used to infer meaning. I know how you like to challenge me.’

  ‘Aye, though as I have said in past conversations, the French use the action of experience and not the sentiment of feeling.’

  Elizabeth blushed. ‘To give in to pleasure-seeking and base experience rather than the study of other people’s sentiments and emotions is truly self-indulgent. English prose should be upon the empathy for how others live. Not the French singular pursuit of experiencing pleasure.’

  ‘Quite right, Lady Boleyn,’ agreed Wyatt. ‘Though every poet begins with the exploration of his own experiences and pursuits and sentiments that afflict him. To get to the truth of human nature we must first examine ourselves, even the most base and sinful of our desires.’

  Mary let out a large sigh of irritation. The company turned to look upon her only to ignore her complaint. Lady Boleyn continued to talk.

  ‘I am only glad I am ageing and away from all of this heavy philosophy. The youth always have hope to change the future and to explain the existence of man, and far be it for me to dispel that hope, but we are all disillusioned eventually.’

  Anne regarded Wyatt and gave a momentary pause in order for him to counteract the argument, but nothing came of it. ‘To be born into a world where gross injustices happen can only inspire the youth to correct where their elders have become complacent,’ Anne corrected.

  ‘Or we elders have become acquainted with the truth and pity your naivety.’ Elizabeth counteracted.

  Anne took some small paces towards Wyatt. ‘We’ll not convince Mother of our convictions to better the human race,’ she teased.

  ‘I only protest that it is not your place to do so,’ countered Elizabeth.

  ‘Shall we take that walk, Mistress Anne?’ asked Wyatt.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Anne.

  Mary observed their movements as they swayed from the Great Hall. Elizabeth looked over at Mary, her eyes registering a type of blame.

  ‘I think I too will go for a walk,’ Mary spoke before any recriminations could be voiced. ‘I too need air.’

  * * *

  Mary had been walking for some time; the castle had become smaller the further she walked away. Beyond the moat and the land, after a lone tree, she stopped. Allowing the heavy trunk to take her weight, she leant upon it and rested. She would walk no more. Mary was now exhausted, Anne and Wyatt were nowhere to be seen and she would now have to walk back to the castle. She rested longer, gathering her strength. Her thoughts strayed to her mother’s judgement of her, of her disappointment. There was a deadening behind the eyes when Elizabeth looked upon her daughter — the same dead eyes her father used. From a young age, children know of the light within their parent’s eyes as they learn to walk, talk and giggle. The hardest of realisations is when you can no longer bring light to their eyes, when their expectation of you has been abandoned and you are known to them as any other creature: flawed and imperfect.

  ‘A wench with wanton ways! That is all that you dwell upon!’ Anne marched through the open land, along with Wyatt who widened his gait to keep up.

  Mary broke from her ponderings and viewed around the tree to see Anne and Wyatt yelling with heated passion.

  ‘Woman, you’d promised me satisfaction!’


  ‘Is my company not satisfaction enough?’ she retorted with speed and a look of pure sadistic pleasure.

  ‘I refuse to return you home. Walk it alone!’ he bellowed while trying to reattach his codpiece.

  ‘I believed you cared for me. The lack of concern only proves I was correct to distrust your advances.’

  ‘Anne! The promise of intimacy is not a device to secure serfdom! It is an expression of mutual desire, of comfort and of love. It is an act of wills that words cannot perform.’

  ‘An act of desire and love is a will to protect the object you most cherish from the knowledge of pain, suffering and fear. If you cannot guard a most beloved being from danger, why should she reward you?’ Anne was now very serious, her face set into a hard mask of interrogation.

  ‘Anne … I am beginning to pity you! Your foolish, juvenile notions! Beauty fades, fires cool, your expectations of men are too high. We’ll always follow our own desire, and desire is fickle.’

  ‘Adieu, Sir.’ Her head was still high and she walked with a sway that Wyatt could not persuade himself to dismiss.

  Mary remained hidden; she let the couple walk a far distance before endeavouring to return herself. Anne had proven herself to be more disciplined and vindictive than Mary had ever envisaged. It was beyond her how she maintained that level of disinterest. She wondered what Anne’s motivations were, why she toyed with affection? Did she see intimacy as a degradation?

  The summer sun which had briefly appeared was now losing its effect, the air becoming refreshing and cool. But even though Mary’s mind went from Anne’s motivations to the serenity of nature, a sudden re-emerging of foreboding sprang. The child kicked within her — a reminder of what was to come.

  June 1524

  Hever Chapel

  ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned,’ Mary began. ‘I have committed the sin of unholy improper infidelities.’

  ‘For the sin of faithlessness and wanton sin, a gold half crown to the church for the indulgence. Pardon will be granted and five days less in purgatory.’

  ‘I also hold the fear of death, Father. That I have aggrieved my Lord God and will suffer his eternal condemnation.’

  ‘Be at peace child. Another half crown to the church, eight Hail Marys and God will pardon you.’ He babbled in Latin and Mary crossed herself.

  ‘Amen.’ After receiving her indulgencies, Mary made her way out of the church and into the fresh, warmed air of the summer’s day.

  The heady scent of the day was reviving. Anne walked beside her, silently.

  ‘Are you going to tell me of Wyatt?’ Mary finally confronted her.

  ‘I need not confide in you, I have done no wrong,’ Anne shot back.

  ‘Such a contented conscience … oh to be you.’

  ‘He is a distraction,’ she began. ‘I have no intention of pursuing Wyatt. I may have fallen prey to flatteries,’ she admitted, a little uneasy. ‘But I’ll never act upon them.’

  ‘It’s easy to make concessions for ourselves, rather than for others.’ Mary fought her tears. ‘If only we were as forgiving to one another as we are to ourselves.’

  ‘If you knew of my history you wouldn’t judge me so. I have always spoken in your defence against Father,’ Anne defended herself. ‘I’m not against you.’

  ‘I oft thought you against me …’ Mary lamented.

  ‘Oh be silent!’ Anne scolded. ‘You take too much to heart and seek reassurances I can’t give. We’re different in temperament but that is not an excuse to wish you ill. I just wish you would act with some prudence.’

  ‘To be scheming? To manipulate every situation into personal gain?’

  ‘It is how Father taught us to be,’ surrendered Anne.

  * * *

  The torturous and claustrophobic wait was over. Mary began her contractions and her panic increased. Sweat dripped from her nose and onto her chemise. She paced the floor and straddled the birthing chair, anything to ease the intense moments of destabilising pain. ‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die,’ Mary cried fearfully.

  ‘Cass, how long?’ inquired Elizabeth.

  ‘I know not, My Lady.’

  Anne observed Cass feeling about Mary. Mary puffed out her cheeks when a contraction would start and grabbed for the nearest person to hold onto.

  ‘Bite on this.’ Cass presented Mary with a twig of some nature. ‘It’s pain relief and has a pleasant taste.’ Anne recognised it to be liquorice root.

  ‘When will this discomfort stop?’ Mary begged.

  ‘Not for some time yet, My Lady. It’s going well, the babe’s head is in the right place; this’ll be an easy birth.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she yelled as another contraction began. Elizabeth crossed herself as Cass shoved the root into Mary’s mouth.

  Anne cooled her sister’s forehead. The contractions were quickening, and Mary became disorientated and more malleable for Cass to direct her onto the birthing chair. ‘How long before the midwife?’ queried Anne.

  ‘I’ve sent for her but we may be without her aid,’ explained Elizabeth, though she had full trust in Cass.

  ‘My Lady, I can deliver the babe but not cut the cord. We will still have need of the midwife.’

  ‘I will attend to it,’ Elizabeth reassured her.

  Mary now straddled the birthing chair, the gap in the bottom of the chair awaiting the baby to fall into the hands of Cass.

  ‘Mary, on the next contraction, push down hard.’ Mary obeyed and a yell of excitement escaped Cass’s lips. ‘It comes! And again.’ The room was already filled with sweat and stale air; the putrefied odour of blood filled their nostrils.

  Momentary pauses meant a short wait, but then the head was freed, then the little body, and finally the legs arriving in Cass’s hands. ‘A Girl! My Lady Carey, a perfect girl!’

  Elizabeth was beside her grandchild and hurried to cut and tie the cord. It was a dangerous undertaking but Elizabeth had the experience of many children. She remembered every one of her eleven pregnancies and had feared Mary suffering the same heartache, but here she was, holding a small healthy baby. She cooed over the wailing child. She felt a joy that had been distant for so long. A child had been born.

  ‘Cass, Anne, take the child to Mrs Shaw in the village, she is to be the child’s wet nurse. Hurry now, she is hungry.’ The girls ran to gather cloaks and order the horses. Elizabeth swaddled the child and placed her small finger into the child’s mouth and suddenly the child was quiet and sucking gently.

  Mary viewed the scene from her chair. She could see nothing of the child but felt nothing of disappointment. ‘Mother,’ she spoke weakly.

  ‘Be still, Mary, the afterbirth will come and then the servants will clean you.’

  Mary weakly nodded.

  * * *

  After the birth, the wait ensued. A month had gone by and the child grew stronger, and without any sign of disease or sickness, another month and then another. With each passing day the child grew bigger, stronger and with golden red hair. The child was named Catherine, for the Queen.

  Elizabeth was contented but Anne and Mary began to return their minds back to court. The three of them idled in the garden, observing the lazy bees and birds foraging and feasting on what had been the abundance of summer growth. In these privy hours all was peaceful, but Anne was restless.

  ‘I’m in anticipation we return to court next week,’ Anne stated.

  ‘Thomas Wyatt has not returned here?’ Mary enquired with wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘It is not for that reason …’ She stopped to think and changed her mind. ‘I do torment him, for all his intellect, he shows a great weakness of spirit.’

  ‘Anne, why insult the purity of love?’ her mother asked. ‘It is so rare and so flitting, why use it to cause destruction upon the soul?’

  ‘Mother, men do not love, they never love. When a man proclaims to be in love, it’s an illusion until something else distracts him.’

  ‘Percy still love
s you, Anne. He could not defy his father or the Cardinal, but don’t doubt his love.’

  ‘Love means death,’ stated Anne resolutely.

  ‘Too many fanciful realities, my dear. Accept that love does not have to be enduring or defying. Be without grand declarations and promises. Trust me.’

  ‘It is not enough,’ she stated. ‘I want irrational, unexplanatory devotion.’

  ‘Be wise, daughter, devotion can also be described as obsession. Pride as shame and justice as revenge. All of which are futile pursuits, they’ll mark the soul.’

  Her clever speech silenced Anne, causing all of them to hear beyond themselves. Footsteps were approaching from behind the privet hedge. They waited with interest to see the intruder, then William appeared, removing his hat as they stood to curtsey to him.

  ‘Husband, what brings you here?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I hear your child has been born, I’d wish to enquire after you.’

  Elizabeth remained standing and moved in such a way that Anne instantly knew to follow her. Mary was alone with William in the serenity of the garden.

  ‘I’ve recovered well and the child has been christened. Did the King send for you?’

  ‘Well, I was summoned and spent a few days hunting with him. He did enquire after you. Some sentiment is still there …’

  Mary looked away but William took her by the arm, forcing her to walk beside him. He wanted to talk to her without having to view her, without the distraction from reading her emotions.

  ‘Our concern is at an end,’ she hurried, before he voiced his sentiments. ‘I can only feel relief … believe me,’ she spoke, though she heard her own desperation.

  ‘You misunderstood. When I said there is some sentiment there, I meant my cousin does consider you more than a mistress, but a friend. He was pleased to hear of the child’s health and has granted me another keepership of another dwelling in Essex. This adds to my income and makes us very comfortable.’