The weeks roll by, and to make myself useful, I help Agnes and the other servants prepare the house, throwing open the casements, changing the beds with lean, fresh linen, sweeping the floors, as well as refreshing the rushes, while Mary huddles before a slow-burning fire. Sometimes I massage her feet with some essential oil to alleviate the swelling in her ankles. At other times, I busy myself turning down the covers of her and William’s bed so she might enjoy an afternoon nap, as she tires quickly – her belly now well-rounded; she must be due soon.
Mary is indeed a beauty – far prettier than Anne – and we often talk as she shares her experiences of France, attending the Field of Cloth of Gold, and, of course, her stolen and secret arrangements when she has been with Henry Tudor. One afternoon, I press her on the subject of kings as I tuck her toes under her coverlets and plump up her pillows.
“Mary, what was François like?”
“What do you mean?” She sinks back into her pillows.
“Is he affable and gracious, like King Henry?”
“No one is like Harry,” she purrs as she rubs her belly through her dressing gown.
“Did you love him, as you do Henry?”
She stares at me for asking such an impertinent question. “Shh, William might hear you!”
“Do not worry, I think he is out.”
“Are you certain?” she asks, whispering again. “I do not want to hurt my husband any more than is necessary.”
“I promise I will not say a word.” I lean forward and squeeze her delicate fingers. To my surprise, she carries on talking. Perhaps she is relieved she has someone to share her secrets with. I feel privileged that she can unburden herself.
“François flirts,” she confesses. “He is attentive when he wants to steal a kiss, but he does not make you believe you are his only love.”
“And Henry does?” I whisper, leaning closer.
“Henry is wonderful!” she says, beaming. “When I have spent time with His Majesty, he makes me feel special, wanted. Do you understand?”
I watch her stroking her bump and wonder if the baby might be Henry’s. “Yes, I think I might do,” I answer, thinking of George, but then Rob’s face flits across my mind. I mustn’t think about either of them in that way – not anymore. I want to ask her so many questions, but if I press her for the answers, she might become suspicious. Anne enters the chamber carrying fresh linens, which she places in a large wooden coffer at the foot of the bed.
“What are you both whispering about?”
Mary sighs. “Nothing.”
“Sister, have you had anything to eat or drink?”
“I think I need some water, mixed with a little wine.” She heaves herself up against her pillows. Anne walks to the door and calls for Agnes, who sounds as if she is at the end of the passageway.
“Fetch Madam Carey a flagon of water, with a little wine.”
“Yes, Mistress Anne.”
“And, Agnes, do not forget a clean goblet.”
“No, Mistress. I mean, I will not forget it!” The poor woman is flustered, her footsteps resounding as she scurries off down the stairs. The door swings open as Anne returns, followed by Griffin, who plonks himself at the side of the bed.
“Now, you be a good boy.” Anne waggles her finger at him, and he stares up at her with his big brown eyes.
“Oh, Anne, leave him be. I think he is protective of me.”
“You don’t need that dog bothering you, sister.”
“Anne, he isn’t doing anyone any harm.”
“Very well.” Anne nods. “I think I shall go and help Mother with preparing dinner.” Her eyes light up, and before Mary has a chance to reply, she’s gone.
“I think Anne is jealous of my condition,” Mary states, fiddling with the dainty flower design embroidered on her bedclothes.
“No, Mary, she is just frustrated at being shut here at Hever.”
“Me, too, Elizabeth. Me, too.”
At every available opportunity, without others seeing me, I endeavour to locate the ring, but I still can’t find the bloody thing. I’ve been filled with terror ever since I lost it and my nerves are in tatters thinking about the consequences of not being able to return home. It has got to the stage where I’m finding it difficult to eat or sleep. Anne, of course, has noticed how drained and ill I’m looking. Every chance she gets, she thrusts food under my nose, but I have little appetite for it.
Another day has rolled past and it’s mid-morning, and I’m walking around like a zombie as I help Anne and Lady Boleyn with menial tasks in the kitchen. The faggots in the fire heat the stone in the smaller of the kitchen ovens, ready to bake pies. Lady Boleyn beckons me over and shows me how to grind down the sugar mountain and prepare the ingredient for cooking; it’s not like they have a bag of Tate and Lyle in the cupboard. Sugar is an expensive commodity, and I put the pestle and mortar to work under the watchful eye of my mistress.
Anne organises herself, covering coins made from sugar with silver leaf, delicately coating their surfaces using a short, squirrel-haired brush, before placing them in a decorative group on a pewter plate. The kitchens are bustling with servants as preparations are made for the family feast, with all kinds of fragrances filling the small larder. A servant hurries in with a folded parchment, its wax seal embossed with Thomas Boleyn’s cypher. She dips a curtsey to Lady Boleyn, and the steam dissipates as she closes the door behind her. Lady Boleyn opens and reads the letter, then folds it and tucks it away in her apron pocket. I’m naturally curious but keep it to myself.
There’s another interruption as the cook and a servant carry in a swan, which has been taxidermized to death, to present to Lady Boleyn for her inspection.
“I must say this is a magnificent display.” She strokes the swan plumes. “Take it to the Hall.”
I’m shocked seeing this now-protected bird, stuffed and stiff, laid out on a large silver platter, and it turns my stomach at the thought of them having destroyed such a beautiful specimen of nature, even though I know it’s a different time, with viewpoints contrary to many of my own. The sight of the bird reminds me of the scene in the Tudors, with Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Henry pulling the wing off a stiffened swan and plunging his hand into the pie innards, before the gravy is seen grotesquely dripping down his chin. At this moment, I feel faint and sick.
Lady Boleyn stares at me, and I feel Anne’s arm about my shoulders. “Are you unwell?” she asks.
“I feel a little sick,” I reply. A wave of nausea sweeps over me, not only because of the swan but at the stench of gutted fish wafting through from the kitchen – so different from the sweet scent of the meadows beyond the manor. I daren’t tell Lady Boleyn how tired I am. The stress of losing the cypher ring is having such a detrimental effect on my sleeping patterns.
“Take her outside,” Lady Boleyn insists. I watch the cook carry the swan away, and Anne and I follow them as they walk through the kitchen towards the Hall. The spit boy smiles at me while he checks a pigeon as it roasts on the large kitchen fire, which sits in the wall alongside a small bread oven. Lady Boleyn has locked the larder room and now follows us. Anne grumbles to me about having to do the chores. She’s more interested in her head being in a book or debating a topic with George. But with him gone, we have no such opportunity.
“Anne, do not think for one moment you are being let off helping with the plucking of our chickens,” her mother says. “You will be punished for your wilfulness at Court.” She feels that by keeping Anne close, and busy, she will not cause any further embarrassment to her, especially if she helps prepare the family meals and assists the servants with household chores. Lady Boleyn checks the presentation of the swan on the table.
“She just needs a freshly baked pie to sit inside her wings and she will be ready.” She walks back through to the kitchens, with us following.
“Anne, wh
en your father arrives home, you must behave compliantly. He must see you are sorry for your disobedience. Why can you not be more conforming, like your sister?” Lady Boleyn looks back at us. “You would still be at Court if it was not for your wilfulness.” Anne scowls, but her mother is unmoved.
“I have one child who has been whoring in public with an adulterer, and the other banished from Court!” Her nostrils flare. “My only consolation is that George is maturing well and learning from his father.” She now has her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. “My brother, however, uses Mary for his own ends. It vexes me so.”
Anne nods and sighs. So, Lady Boleyn thinks her brother, Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, is behind prostituting Mary to the king? This is an exciting development. I smile to myself. So, all those historians are wrong about Thomas Boleyn. He is ever the diplomat, and the brother-in-law is the pimp! Anne stares at me, her brows furrowed.
“What is it? Why are you smiling so?”
“It is nothing,” I reply. I want to laugh but hold it in. Anne sulks, probably annoyed I’ve not let her in on my little joke.
Lady Boleyn ignores Anne’s petulant mood and goes to talk to the cook to make sure the other preparations are progressing well. The serving hatch is laid out with sweet foods, which they call sweetmeats – the fact they can afford such delights shows their standing in society. It is a magnificent presentation, set with preserved fruit, gingerbread, sugared almonds, and jelly, while marzipan paste made of almonds and sugar is used to make edible sculptures of animals, castles, trees, and people, referred to as ‘subtleties’. The Boleyns must have spent a large sum of money for the New Year Celebrations, and it’s a good job Sir Thomas has deep pockets.
As I listen to Lady Boleyn complaining about her children, I want to laugh aloud. I wish I could tell her all I know. It’s all very well observing history as it happens, but sometimes my frustration at not being able to say a word to anyone threatens to bubble over and I must stifle any urge to comment or to giggle with sheer excitement. One day, I will let rip, and everyone will know my secrets, and then where will I be? At this moment, I can’t hold my tongue.
“Why, My Lady, do you want Anne to be like her sister? Mary’s adultery has never given your family any advancement at Court. In fact, it is your husband’s loyalty and hard work that has brought you the benefits of being close to the King.”
She stares at me, probably unsure what to say in return.
“It is true, Mother,” Anne says. “For all the King’s generosity this family has been awarded, it’s certainly not Mary’s attention-seeking behaviour we have to thank for it. Father is the closest to the King in this family. He is the diplomat. Mary will not use her relationship with the King to better herself or involve herself in political discourse. If the truth be known, she does not know how to do that.”
“Do not be disrespectful of your sister!”
“I am not. You should not be complaining about Mary – she chooses her own path.”
“Anne, I think you need some fresh air, the warmth of the fire seems to be boiling your blood! Take Beth, you both need to clear your heads. Go into the garden and gather a few sprigs of holly.”
Lady Boleyn is right, the atmosphere in the manor’s kitchen is draining, hot, and confining. We tie our cloaks about our shoulders and cover our heads with our hoods, then slip out the kitchen door and hasten through the hallway, before ducking out the inner door to the timber-framed, and brick courtyard. The layer of ice that caps the cobblestones takes us unawares and we both slip, gripping each other arm in arm to stop ourselves from falling. The wall of frosty air that slaps my face is a merciful relief.
“Father and Mother expect so much of me,” Anne says, shaking her head. “It is not my fault that the marriage to James Butler fell through. Father gives me no explanation for it. I am wasting so much time here at home. How will Father ever find a match for me when I am not at Court?”
She swings the empty wicker basket from side to side. We take our time, carefully making our way up the stairs and under the portcullis, over the drawbridge, and across the outer entrance to the castle, walking in the direction of the church. Eventually, I spot the red berries of a holly bush poking through the dusting of snow on the foliage. Anne hands me the basket, then huffs and puffs, snapping each fragment into a growing pile. The silence is deafening. I hope she isn’t going to sulk for long – I hadn’t expected her to be quite so moody when faced with adversity, thinking she would be somewhat more determined, forthright, and straightforward. Maybe she is. Perhaps I will see a different side to her when her father gets home.
“I think it would be better if you accept the way things are. It won’t do you much good being in such a temper.”
She flashes me a look that silences me and we return to the steam and heat of the kitchen, where she places the basket on the oak table. We waste no time in leaving, as we don’t want Lady Boleyn to find us other chores to be continuing with. When we step out into the fresh air again, the courtyard is bustling with servants – some who have come to see if Sir Thomas has returned home, and some who are helping to prepare for his arrival. Beyond the portcullis, a girl is helping an old woman unload a cart filled with produce from the village market. We watch as they struggle to carry the bundles back and forth, across the courtyard and towards the kitchens. They pause to let us pass. The girl is red in the face from the exertions of carrying heavy produce, and she barely looks up at us as Anne addresses her.
“How are you today, Jayne?”
“Well, thank you, Mistress Anne,” she replies in a gruff manner. She is a heavy-set girl, with short hair, which has been shaven under her coif and woollen bonnet. Shy and unsure of herself, she obviously has learning disabilities and has the features associated with Down Syndrome. The girl’s ruddy cheeks betray her station in life, and she shivers as she waits for the woman, who approaches.
“Good morrow, ladies.” She heaves more produce down the stone steps towards the open doorway.
“Good morning,” I reply. “Should one of the men-servants carry those for you?”
“No, Mistress, I be well used to heavy loads such as this.”
“Good morrow, Joan,” Anne says, beckoning me on. “I hope you are well.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Joan smiles at us both. “Fresh today, isn’t it, ladies?” she nods. “I would be very careful not to slip on the ice!” The woman is like an old mother hen, clucking around a brood of chicks.
“It is cold, I agree,” I reply.
“We will take care, Joan. Thank you.” Anne nods, and smiles. With some trepidation, we negotiate a thick blanket of snow which still covers the garden, and Joan is right, the paths are slippery and dangerous underfoot. Shrubs have grown unkempt, with small red berries the only nourishment for the birds to feast on. The gardener is trying to prune the rose bushes and moves aside as we pass him. He holds his bonnet to his ears and pulls his doublet around him to keep warm.
We avoid exchanging long pleasantries with him, and don’t stop as we continue towards the orchard, ducking beneath the outstretched skeletal branches of trees, and take the path through the gate and into the meadow. Here, the grass is covered in deep snow, compacting under our feet, and my toes turn cold inside the kid leather of my shoes. Now we are free from the stuffiness and control of the house and can breathe again; the warm breath of our chatter swirls between us when it meets the chill of the wind.
“Who was that girl with Joan?”
“Jayne,” Anne answers. “She lives in the village. She is what we call a ‘natural fool’, or innocent, because she has problems with her memory and her mind.”
“In my time, her condition is called Down Syndrome, after the doctor who identified the disorder.” I pull my cloak about me to fend off the chill.
“And is there a cure during your time? Would bloodletting help?”
“I’m afraid not
– the disorder is caused as the child is formed in the womb.” I could explain in more detail, but I’m sure chromosomes would be beyond her understanding.
“That is a pity. Jayne has lived near the Hever estate all her life.”
“Is her mother alive?”
“Sadly, not,” she says, walking with care beside me, waddling like a penguin across the white carpet. “Her mother had her when she was much older. Our servant, John, is her father. Jayne lives in one of the estate cottages with him. I worry for her if anything should happen to John and wonder if I should take her to Court with me when I return.”
“That would be generous of you.”
“I think Jayne deserves kindness. Many fools suffer in this life as if they are already in purgatory.” She pulls the edge of her hood around her face. “In any case, Mary, George, and I have grown up with her. We have all played games together, crawling through the long grass as children, here in the meadow.”
“Not in this cold weather, I hope?”
“No!” She giggles. “George and I would play hide and seek with Jayne and Mary, and we would all hide from Father in and around the woods. I’d be bold and stand out in the open just as Father appeared, then dart behind the nearest tree, even though George would warn me Father was coming.”
“It sounds like you had so much fun as children.”
“We did have fun.” Anne giggles.
Despite the chill, Anne is in better spirits. The warmth of the sun is a welcome contrast to the cold breath filling me and, as I look around, I realise the conditions create a serenity that can’t be ignored. There is no hint of dark deeds to come, no breath of treason or bloody retribution, and no whisper of a kingly wraith. We are far from the gaudy Tudor Court and all its tainted splendour, and a long way from the Tower and its ravens.
We stop in a meadow at the edge of the estate, beneath a stand of trees, and I hold my ribcage as I scan the horizon, trying to spot St. Peter’s Church through the gap in the trees, yards beyond our spot, while the pain caused by a stitch grips me. The fabric of my dress is straining as I struggle for breath – my muscles aching through exhaustion. I’m fit enough, but not used to walking outdoors for long periods, in heavy fabrics that suck up the moisture from the snow – the hems of my skirts are soaked. Sitting for long periods reading or sewing with Anne has robbed me of my natural vitality, debilitating my fitness levels, as has my current lack of sleep and appetite. The wind is blowing my cape about, and I must look like the wild woman of Borneo as Anne delicately tucks loose strands of my hair back under my hood. My feet are beneath the fresh snow, and I feel rooted to the spot.
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