The Grandmother's Tale

by Alison Weir

  Mary whispers, ‘I wish I could weep for him, but he was a stern father.’

  ‘And an unkind one,’ I add.

  ‘Anne was his favourite by far. I always knew that.’

  ‘He never bothered to hide it,’ I say, tart.

  ‘Nevertheless, I will say a prayer for him,’ she murmurs, and sinks to her knees on the flagstones.

  Christmas has come and gone – the merriest Christmas I’ve had in years. Will has departed for the court with Katherine, who is to serve the new Queen. Harry has been returned, protesting, to his tutors, and Mary is trying to make sense of her father’s will. Nothing is clear, and it looks as if she has a long legal battle ahead.

  And I – I am confined at last to my bed. These old legs of mine have finally given up on me. And so I lie here, with Mary sitting untiringly at my side as I wait for my soul to be harvested. I shall be glad to leave this world. William awaits me in the next, and Anne too, and all those who have gone before me.

  The visions are coming more frequently now. It’s Hever I see, but not the Hever I know. The castle is decayed and all but ruinous. Sheep graze where the gardens should be. Then – and maybe I am dreaming – I see a man in strange dark attire, with a pugnacious face and a moustache, very upright and correct. And then my vision of the castle returns once more, only this time it is surrounded by crowds of people all trying to get in, and the gardens are restored, but looking so different, and more lovely than ever; and there is a lake, something we never had.

  In my dream, I drift through the courtyard, noticing that the mullioned windows have been replaced. Our kitchen has been transformed into a fine hall, the deep well hidden under a wooden floor. Fine wood carvings abound everywhere, and there are portraits on the walls. I recognise the King, but there are two ladies on either side of the fireplace who mean nothing to me. In our great hall, a fire crackles in the large fireplace and tapestries grace the walls. The tables are set side by side, and laid as if for a sumptuous banquet, but the dais has gone and there is no high table for us persons of rank. On the wall hangs a little painting of the hall as I know it. How very strange!

  The steward’s office, where Elizabeth kept her not-so-secret trysts, is transformed into a library. There is new panelling in Thomas’s long gallery, and still, life-size figures acting out some kind of pageant.

  Mary is gently shaking my shoulder. ‘My lady! Wake up. Here is some broth for you.’

  But I am gone. Why should I tarry for broth, when I can fly on wings across the glorious gardens of Hever? On, on I go, into the distance, my spirit soaring ever northwards to Norwich, towards the shining, waiting arms of William, my dearest love.

  Read on for a glimpse of

  Discover the

  Read on for the first chapters of Alison Weir’s novels about Henry VIII’s first three wives

  The young woman who changed the course of history.

  Fresh from the palaces of Burgundy and France, Anne draws attention at the English court, embracing the play of courtly love.

  But when the King commands, nothing is ever a game.

  Anne has a spirit worthy of a crown – and the crown is what she seeks, at any price. And as she embarks on her perilous course, a kingdom risks being torn apart.

  Anne Boleyn. The second of Henry’s queens.

  Her story.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter . . .

  Available in Ebook and Hardback now.

  Available in Paperback in early 2018.

  Chapter 1

  1512

  Her skin was rather sallow, Anne thought as she studied herself in the silver mirror, and she had too many moles, but at least her face was a fashionable oval. At eleven she had no womanly figure to speak of, but that hopefully would change in the next year or so. Mary, after all, was already buxom at thirteen.

  She drew back, considering herself. People had often said, within her hearing, that Mary was the more beautiful of the two Boleyn sisters. Yet they were both brunettes, with long glossy hair, high cheekbones and pointed chins, and both slender and graceful, for the deportment fit for royal courts had been drummed into them. So what was it that made a girl beautiful? What made the arrangement of Mary’s features better than hers? It had begun to bother Anne, now that she was growing up and was constantly being enjoined to prepare herself for a glorious future in which royal favour and a wealthy husband of rank loomed large.

  Maybe it was the moles and the sallow skin. The sallowness could be rectified by a lotion of powdered egg whites and alum. At least she had a pretty mouth, and the black eyes that her Grandmother Butler always said were her best feature.

  ‘And you know already how to use them for effect, child.’ Anne had not quite understood what that meant, but then Grandmother was Irish and a little fey and often said some startling things. Everyone tolerated it because she had been a great heiress and one of the chief sources of the family fortunes.

  Anne propped up the mirror on a chest and twirled in front of it. She did look good in the green gown, which made her waist seem so slender. The dark colour became her too. The only thing that was wrong was the cut of the sleeves, which were tight to the wrist and did not cover the deformity of which she was always so painfully aware. She was forever curling it into her palm, the little finger of her right hand, so that none should see the tiny extra nail. If only she could have a gown with hanging sleeves that would cover it! But Mother said it was foolish to worry about such a little thing. It was not a little thing to Anne, and it had loomed larger than ever since the day when Mary, bested in one of their interminable arguments, had called it a witch’s mark.

  Anne pushed the hateful memory aside. She would not dwell on it on this beautiful late-summer day. She had a free hour before her lesson with the chaplain, and was determined to waste not a minute of it. In a trice she had summoned her maid, changed into her everyday worsted, descended the stairs and crossed the stone drawbridge across the castle moat; then she picked up her skirts and ran through the gardens into the meadows by the River Eden, where she loved to wander.

  From here she had a grand view of moated Hever Castle, her family’s seat, and the lush wooded Kentish countryside that cradled it. But of greater interest was the sight of her beloved brother George lying sprawled in the grass, twanging his lute, his dark brown hair tousled, his clothes crumpled.

  ‘They are looking for you indoors,’ she told him, kneeling down. ‘You should be at your books. You’ll be beaten if you don’t go back.’

  George grinned up at her. ‘I had an idea for a song. Listen!’

  He played well for a boy of nine, and his composition had the sophistication one would have expected from someone far older. He was gifted, this brother of hers. He could make his mark as a musician if he did not carve out a career at court, as their father expected.

  They had always been close, Anne and George. They looked alike and thought alike.

  ‘I know, I know – I can’t spend my days making music and writing poetry,’ he sighed, mimicking Father’s voice.

  ‘Much good it would do you! And in the end you would not be satisfied. It would never be enough for you. So stop playing truant. Father Davy is livid.’

  For all her mock reproof, she felt sorry for George. She knew how deeply it gnawed at him, being the youngest of three sons. It was sixteen-year-old Thomas who would inherit Hever and all their father’s lands and wealth – and it was Thomas who, to George’s envy, had been sent to the household of the mighty Duke of Buckingham at nearby Penshurst to learn courtly manners and the martial arts, which would befit him for the glorious future that awaited him. And then there was clever Henry, twelve years old and destined for the university at Oxford, since Father had decided to dedicate him to the Church – and save himself the burden of having to provide for him. There had been other sons too, but they slept in St Peter’s Church,
to their mother’s great grief. Anne had never got used to the appalling sight of her tiny dead siblings lying in their cradles, all decked out in macabre finery, to receive the final prayers and farewells of their family.

  Lady Boleyn doted on George, her youngest, more than she did on Thomas and Henry. But in George’s breast there burned a fierce resentment against his older brothers. Unlike them, he must make his own way in the world. Father reminded him of it often.

  Given her rivalry with Mary, and George’s envy of their older brothers, Anne often felt that it was a case of her and George, the two youngest Boleyns, against the world. Because she did not have looks and he was not the heir, they had pulled together since they were very little. Some took them for twins.

  ‘Come on!’ she commanded, pulling him up, and together they raced back to the castle.

  Father Davy was waiting for them as they sped across the courtyard and tumbled into Father’s new entrance hall. Their tutor was a rotund little man with a merry face and cheeks rosy as apples.

  ‘Ah, you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence,’ he said to George. ‘And mightily timely too, for we’ve just had word that your father is expected home this evening, and we wouldn’t want to greet him with the news that you’re in disgrace, would we?’

  ‘No, Father Davy.’ George was trying to look contrite.

  ‘Mistress Anne, you may join us,’ Father Davy said. ‘You can set an example to this young knave.’

  ‘Where’s Mary?’ George asked, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Reading,’ said Father Davy. ‘I have given her a book on kings and queens. It will improve her mind.’ It was no secret that he had almost given up on Mary.

  Anne followed them into the private parlour used by the family in the evenings, and sat down at the oak table. She knew she was fortunate, being a girl, to receive a good education. Father had very advanced ideas, but then he was always concerned that his children should do well in life – which, of course, would reflect favourably on him. Accomplished in foreign tongues himself – which was why he had been away these last weeks at the court of the Regent of the Netherlands at Mechlin in the Duchy of Burgundy – he was particularly anxious that his sons and daughters become proficient too.

  Anne struggled with French, despite excelling at everything else. Mary was good at French, but dismal in all other respects. Anne could compose passable poetry and songs, thanks to Father Davy being a famous composer of church music and a gifted teacher. Mary battled, murdering her lute; it did not help that she was tone deaf. Anne danced gracefully; Mary galumphed about the floor. Anne sang like a lark; Mary’s voice was flat. But Mary had the looks, everyone said, so it didn’t matter that she was an idiot. Most men would not see beyond her beauty and the dowry Father could give her. Thus it did not matter that, when the time for lessons arrived, she was rarely to be found.

  Most of the daughters of the local gentry in the Boleyns’ circle could barely wield a pen, Anne reflected, as her quill traced her graceful Italianate hand across the paper. Today’s exercise was composing a letter in French, which was a challenge, but she was determined to persevere. She enjoyed learning for its own sake, and revelled in the praise Father Davy lavished on her.

  From the kitchens nearby they could hear a great clatter and commotion. The household was preparing for the return of its master, and Mother would be giving orders and inspecting the cooking pots, much to the cook’s ill-concealed annoyance. There would be a feast tonight, Anne thought happily.

  Dressed in the new green gown, Anne stole a peep at the great hall, where the tables had been beautifully laid with snowy-white linen. The best silver was set out on the high table above the great gilt salt, with polished pewter on the lower trestles set at right angles to it. Banks of greenery trailed along the centre of the boards, interspersed with candles and ewers of wine. Hever was a small castle, and the hall not large compared to some she had seen, but it was sufficiently grand for an up-and-coming diplomat and favourite of the King, with its great stone fireplace and imposing carved screen. The early evening sunshine cast a golden glow through the tall windows set high in the thick walls, reflecting its jewel-like glints on the impressive display of family plate on the buffet and the expensive wall hangings. Father liked to impress his neighbours with his wealth. They were all coming tonight: the Wyatts from Allington, the Sackvilles from Buckhurst Park and the Hautes from Ightham Mote.

  Normally the family dined in the parlour, seated at the long polished table. It was a cosy room, its walls adorned with wainscots of oak and painted friezes, and hung with another of the costly tapestries of which Father was inordinately proud. But that was all familiar and commonplace; feasting in the great hall was an occasion, and Anne was impatient for it to begin.

  Father was home, and she had been summoned to see him in his study before dinner. There he sat, in his high carved chair, nodding as she made her curtsey: the man who had dominated her life for as long as she could remember, whose lightest word was law to his family and servants, and to whom Anne and her brothers and sister had been brought up to render unconditional obedience. When she and Mary married, their husbands would take over his role. It had been drummed into them both that women were weak creatures and should always be subject to the wise dominion of men.

  When Sir Thomas Boleyn was at home, the household revolved around him, but that was a rare occurrence. When he was not abroad using the diplomatic skills that had so endeared him to King Henry, he was usually at court, building on his reputation as a jouster and courtier and all-round good fellow. At thirty-four, he was still a handsome and agile man, and sat a horse superbly. He was outstandingly learned – it seemed to his children that he knew everything – and even the great Dutch scholar Erasmus had dedicated two books to him. Thanks to these virtues he had risen high and fast in royal service, becoming one of King Henry’s best friends and jousting partners, and never tired of reminding everyone of it. He had been knighted at the King’s coronation, three years earlier, and then appointed Esquire of the Body to the monarch.

  ‘It is a most sought-after post,’ he was prone to boasting, ‘for it brings me into daily contact with the King. I enjoy great influence. I have His Grace’s ear.’ He would gleefully expand on the patronage he was in a position to exercise. Anne understood that there were many people who wanted Sir Thomas Boleyn to ask the King for favours, and that they were ready to pay him a lot of money to do that.

  She was pleased to see Father’s pugnacious face broaden into a wolfish smile as she rose from her curtsey. ‘I have some good news,’ he said. ‘The Regent Margaret was most interested to hear of your accomplishments and has offered to take you into her household as one of her eighteen maids-of-honour. It is a signal favour, much sought after.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ Anne echoed. ‘Surely Mary . . . ?’

  ‘I know, it is highly unusual for the younger sister to be advanced before the elder, and Mary speaks good French. But,’ and he gave Anne a calculating look, ‘I believe that you have what it takes to succeed at court and be a credit to me. Besides, I have other plans for Mary. And the Regent specially asked for you.’

  Anne felt excitement bubbling up.

  ‘When am I to go, sir?’ she breathed, envisaging the glorious palaces, the fine gowns, the glittering lords and ladies, the Regent smiling as she made her obeisance with everyone looking on.

  ‘Next spring,’ her father said, and the bubble burst. That was months away. ‘There will be many preparations to make. Your mother will know what is required. I’d rather it be you than the Devil who makes work for idle hands.’ He and Mother barely spoke to each other unless they had to.

  ‘You must work hard at your French,’ he went on. ‘You will complete your education at the court of Burgundy. There is no finer place, for it offers many opportunities for a young girl of good birth, and is universally well regarded. You will be well placed to attract a marri
age that will advance the interests of our family. I hope you appreciate your good fortune.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir!’ Anne exclaimed. It was almost too much to take in.

  ‘I would remind you that the competition for places in the Regent’s household is fierce, and there are many who are ready to offer substantial financial inducements to secure the honour of an appointment for their daughters. Each one of her filles d’honneur must know how to dress fashionably, be accomplished at dancing and singing, and be able to entertain her mistress and important visitors with witty conversation – and she must understand how to conduct herself when in attendance on the Regent in public and on state occasions.’ Father leaned forward in his chair, his rugged face intent. ‘It was for such an opportunity as this that I provided you and Mary with a good education, although much Mary has profited from it. But you, Anne . . . you will shine. And I have no doubt that the considerable outlay required of me to provide you with suitable court attire will be well spent.’

  ‘Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.’

  ‘You may go. It’s nearly time for dinner.’

  Anne sped upstairs, still buzzing with excitement, to the chamber she shared with Mary, whom she found fastening around her neck the gold pendant in the shape of a bull that she always wore on important occasions. The girls had been given one each by their father; the bull was his family’s heraldic emblem, and a pun on its name.

  Mary leaned into the mirror. Her black eyes, with their alluring slant, were watching Anne’s reflection.

  Anne was savouring her news, wondering how to break it to Mary with maximum impact. She could no longer contain herself. ‘I’m going to court!’ she announced.

  Mary swung round, shock and fury in her face. ‘You?’ she shrilled. ‘But – but I am the elder.’

  ‘Father knows that, but the Regent asked for me.’

  ‘The Regent?’

  ‘I am summoned to the court of the Netherlands to serve her. It is a great honour to be asked. Father said so.’