The Grandmother's Tale

by Alison Weir

  ‘But what of me?’ Mary’s lovely face was flushed with outrage. ‘Am I not to go too?’

  ‘No. Father said he has other plans for you.’

  ‘What plans?’ Mary hissed.

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I will! He cannot pass me over like this.’

  But he had. Anne hugged that delicious knowledge to herself. For the first time in her life, it felt good to be the younger and less beautiful sister.

  Elizabeth Howard, Lady Boleyn, unravelled the bolt of tawny velvet and held it up against Anne.

  ‘It suits you,’ she said. The mercer standing respectfully at her side beamed. ‘We’ll have this one, and the good black, the yellow damask and the crimson tinsel. Pray send your bill, Master Johnson.’

  ‘Very good, my lady, very good,’ the merchant replied, gathering up the fabrics that had been rejected and withdrawing from the parlour.

  ‘I’m glad the Regent gave us good notice,’ Mother said. ‘It allows us time to get these gowns made up. You should be grateful that your father has made such generous provision for you.’ She tilted her daughter’s chin upwards and smiled at her. ‘You have fine eyes, and innate grace,’ she said. ‘You will do well and make me proud.’ Anne’s heart was full. She loved her mother more than anyone else in the world.

  Elizabeth Howard herself was dark in colouring, but her long Howard face was rounded with generous lips and fine eyes. In youth she had been a celebrated beauty, and the poet laureate, Master Skelton, had dedicated verses to her, likening her charms to those of the gorgeous Cressida of Troy. It was Mother’s little conceit. Her great conceit was her pride in her aristocratic lineage. She let no one forget that she came of the noble House of Howard, and it was no secret that, had her family not been in royal disfavour at the time, plain Thomas Boleyn, as he then was, could never have aspired to marry her, even though his grandsire was the Earl of Ormond. But with her father stripped of his titles and not long released from the Tower for fighting on the wrong side in the battle that had put the late King Henry on the throne, her chances of making a decent marriage had been slender; and so she had permitted herself to be tied to a young and ambitious man whose recent ancestors had been in trade.

  But thanks to that, the Boleyns were rich. By dint of their business acumen and by marrying wealthy heiresses, they had steadily acquired wealth and lands. Anne’s great-grandfather, Sir Geoffrey, had been a mercer like the fellow who had recently departed with his wares, but he had risen to be Lord Mayor of London and been knighted. That was the way one made good in the world, and it was new and able men such as the Boleyns, rather than the old nobility, who were now favoured by the young King Henry.

  But for all that Father had done – and was still doing – to make himself a suitable husband in the eyes of his high-and-mighty in-laws, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, even her children’s, that Mother had married beneath her.

  ‘You will be the equal of any of the other maids,’ she said to Anne now. ‘You can be justly proud of your Howard ancestry. Remember, we Howards are descended from King Edward Longshanks and from all the English monarchs back to William the Conqueror, so you have royal blood in your veins and must be worthy of it.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Anne said, bobbing a curtsey. She walked slowly back to her bedchamber, thinking on what Lady Boleyn had said. She was deeply proud of her heritage, especially now that the Howards had been rehabilitated and were firmly back in favour at court. In the long gallery she paused before a portrait of Grandfather Howard, the Earl of Surrey. She was in awe of this just and honest aristocrat, the head of the family, and of his son, whose picture was further along – Uncle Thomas, her mother’s brother, a stern-faced, no-nonsense soldier and courtier. She had only a few memories of his wife, the aunt for whom she herself had been named, but she could never forget that the late Princess Anne of York had been daughter to King Edward IV and sister to the present King’s mother. It made King Henry her own cousin, in a sort of way.

  Anne had long been aware that any love her parents might have had for each other in the beginning had long since died, for they avoided each other as much as possible. It was easy to understand why Mother looked down on Father. What was more difficult to comprehend was why Father treated Mother, that highly prized bride, with ill-disguised contempt.

  It disturbed Anne that Mother had once been compared to the Trojan beauty Cressida. For, having pledged her undying love for Prince Troilus, Cressida, cruelly captured by the Greeks, had treacherously betrayed him with the heroic Diomedes. Father Davy had read them the story when they had studied the Greek myths.

  ‘Her name has become a byword for a faithless woman,’ the good friar had said. Anne stifled a gasp. Clearly he did not know what Skelton had written of her mother. The five of them – Tom and Henry had been at home then – had looked at one another, appalled.

  Yet Anne had never heard of any hint of a blemish on Mother’s reputation. Lady Boleyn presided over her household with competent authority, and preferred country life to the teeming existence of the court, although she did sometimes go there when needed as an occasional lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine.

  At home Anne and Mary helped Mother in her still room, where they made comfits and jams while she distilled sweet waters or prepared medicines and poultices from the herbs they had gathered in the gardens.

  ‘It is essential that you both learn the skills that will enable you to run a great house,’ she was always reminding them. ‘A lady should keep her servants busy not only by precept, but by example.’ But if Anne might happen to glance up from what she was doing, she would occasionally surprise Mother with her hands idle, a faraway look on her face and a tune playing on her smiling lips, as if she had withdrawn into a secret life. And again she would wonder if her mother had a lover.

  The months that she had envisaged dragging sped by. Expensive tutors were engaged to give her and Mary advanced instruction in singing and dancing, skills that Anne acquired easily and enjoyed.

  ‘Bravo!’ cried the tutor, as she twirled and leapt and skipped in branles, farandoles and basse dances. It came easily to her, as if she had been born to it. Mary, who was all arms and legs at awkward angles, would glower at her. Father had not revealed what his plans for Mary were, and Anne now doubted that he had any, while Mary’s angry jealousy simmered and often bubbled over. Thrown together as the sisters were, it did not make for a peaceful existence.

  Sir Thomas, however, was impervious. Anne was to go into the world as his ambassador, a walking testimonial to his greatness. If there was any talent that might be useful at court, she was to acquire it. Father Davy was deputed to enhance her musical skills.

  ‘You have a true voice,’ he said, and Anne thrilled to hear it, for his praise was never won lightly.

  He also encouraged Anne and George’s love of poetry. The two of them would sit together for hours composing and transcribing verses and binding them into books. Father Davy told Anne she had a rare talent for it, especially for a woman. He refrained from remarking on how Mary thought that cow rhymed with low.

  In these months in which her wardrobe was being prepared, Anne became an expert embroiderer. She made biliments to edge necklines and hoods, quilted sleeves and pouches, and decorated her lawn night-rails in bright scarlets and greens. She discovered the pleasure of enhancing her clothes with novel details: a border here, a contrasting colour there, and – always – long hanging sleeves to hide her extra nail. Her nurse, Mrs Orchard, a plump, motherly soul who had been with her since birth and was to accompany her as chaperone on her journey, did all the plain sewing, stitching and hemming under-smocks and petticoats. As the weeks went by, the pile of finished garments stowed in Anne’s new travelling chest grew and grew.

  In the autumn, Father returned to the court of the Netherlands, leaving Mother in charge of the preparations for
Anne’s departure.

  ‘Remember,’ he said to Anne before he left, ‘your task is to perfect the attributes that will secure you a good marriage. I have had you educated to that purpose, and to instil virtue.’ Father was very zealous on virtue. He was always warning his daughters of the dire consequences – mostly for him – if they fell from it. They were his assets – his jewels, as he liked to put it – and their success was essential to him.

  In these last months at Hever, Anne found herself resenting the dull routine. She longed for her escape into the glamorous world of courts. She and Mary found their chief excitement in putting on their best gowns and, escorted by a groom and a maid, riding the three miles into nearby Edenbridge for the market that was held there every Thursday, just to show off their finery. When they were not at lessons or sewing, they played cards, or visited the houses of neighbours with their mother – and fought constantly over silly things until Lady Boleyn lost patience and sent them to their rooms to cool down.

  Their existence was dominated by the unchanging round of the seasons. That autumn of 1512 was heralded as usual by Michaelmas, soon followed by Harvest-tide, when St Peter’s Church by the castle was filled with ears of wheat and hymns of thanksgiving. That was the grease season, when all the local gentry went hunting. Father had ensured that Anne and Mary were both competent horsewomen, and they were allowed to participate in the chase or go hawking in the company of their neighbours. In the evenings they savoured the rich game from their bag, served on thick bread trenchers saturated with meat juices.

  On wet days they took their exercise in the long gallery above the great hall, a new-fangled improvement to the castle that Father had decided he must have. Up and down his daughters walked, past the pictures and hangings that adorned the walls, bickering and gossiping and occasionally slapping and pinching each other.

  As autumn fell, fires and braziers were lit, and the castle was filled with the sweet aroma of beeswax candles. The three young Boleyns played cards, dice and chess in the flickering light, or teased each other with riddles, before tumbling into their feather beds. On many nights Anne lay awake, with the damask bed curtains pulled back and the moonlight glinting on the diamond-paned windows, imagining the glittering life to come in the magnificent court that lay miles across the sea in another land.

  Hard on the heels of All Souls, when the nights were dark and ghosts were said to walk in the woodland that faced the castle, came the season of Advent, followed by the Christmas and Twelfth Night celebrations. Before Anne knew it, it was Candlemas, then Lady Day – and soon it would be May Day, when she and Mary always observed the ancient custom of rising early to bring in the May blossoms.

  With the May came Father, back from the Netherlands.

  It was time, at last, for her to depart.

  The woman haunted by the fate of her predecessor.

  Eleven days after the death of Anne Boleyn, Jane is dressing for her wedding to the King.

  She has witnessed at first hand how courtly play can quickly turn to danger and knows she must bear a son . . . or face ruin.

  This new queen must therefore step out from the shadows cast by Katherine and Anne – in doing so, can she expose a gentler side to the brutal King?

  Jane Seymour. The third of Henry’s queens.

  Her story.

  Turn the page for a glimpse of the brand-new SIX TUDOR QUEENS novel by Alison Weir.

  Available May 2018. Pre-order now.

  Chapter 1

  1518

  ‘A health to the bride!’ Sir John Seymour smiled and raised his goblet as the company echoed his toast.

  Jane sipped her wine, watching as her new sister-in-law blushed prettily. Edward seemed besotted with his new wife. At seventeen, Catherine was a very comely girl, a year younger than he. Jane had been surprised at how practised she was at the art of coquetry, and how warmly the men were looking at her. Even Father seemed to be under her spell. Catherine’s father, Sir William Fillol, was leaning back in his chair replete, looking well pleased with the match – as he should be, for Edward, being Father’s heir, had good prospects and the determination to do well. Even at the age of ten, Jane knew that for an ambitious young man, marriage to the well-bred co-heiress of a wealthy landowner would be a great advantage.

  Sir William had been boasting of how the Fillols could trace their ancestry back to one of the companions of the Conqueror.

  ‘And we Seymours too!’ Father had countered smugly, sure of his own exalted place in the world.

  All in all, it was a most satisfactory union, and worthy of this great feast. The long tables in the Broad Chamber of Wulfhall were laden with extravagant dishes, all prepared under the watchful eye of Lady Seymour herself. Meat and fowl of every kind graced the board, the centrepiece being a magnificent roasted peacock re-dressed in all its glorious plumage. Sir John had provided the best wine from Bordeaux, and everyone was attired in the new finery they had worn for the wedding.

  Sir William normally resided less than fifty miles away from Wulfhall, at Woodlands, near Wimborne, but he had opened up Fillol’s Hall for the wedding, and Jane’s whole family – her mother and father, and all their seven children – had travelled to Essex to be present. Father was so delighted with his new daughter-in-law that he had insisted that Sir William and Lady Dorothy accompany Catherine when Edward brought her back to Wulfhall to continue their celebrations. That had sent Mother into a flurry of preparation, and everyone agreed that she had risen to the occasion splendidly.

  It was dusk now, and candles were being lit on the mantelpiece and windowsills, their flickering, dancing flames reflected in the diamond-paned glass in the stone windows. As Jane observed Edward and Catherine conversing together and stealing the odd kiss, it came to her that in a little over eighteen months she herself would be of an age to be wed. Fortunately, there was no sign that Father had any plans as yet.

  For Jane had no desire to be married. She wanted to be a nun. Everyone teased her for it, not taking her seriously. Let them. Soon they would find out that she was as determined as her brother Edward when it came to getting what she wanted in life. She could not imagine her hearty, jovial father objecting, nor her adored mother. They knew of the dream she had had of herself wearing a nun’s veil, kneeling before Our Lady. It had visited her a year before, on the night after her parents had taken them all to visit the shrine of St Melor at Amesbury Priory. She had been overawed by the great church with its soaring octagonal steeple, and had prayed devoutly at the altar of the murdered boy-prince, kneeling beside her siblings with her hands pressed together, as she had been taught from infancy.

  Since then, she had been certain that her future lay within those twelve holy acres. She could see herself singing the offices in the choir with the sisters, gathering apples in the orchard or fishing in the ponds, dedicated to God and manual labour for all her life. Next year she would be old enough to enter Amesbury as a novice.

  For now, she was content to be with her family, laughing at the jests at table, enjoying the good fare spread out before her and sparring with her brother Thomas, less than a year her junior, who was at this moment throwing sugar plums at the newly-weds. Mother frowned.

  ‘Catherine, you must forgive my youngest son,’ she said. ‘He never knows when to desist. Tom, stop that.’

  ‘Such high spirits will take the lad far,’ Sir William observed indulgently. His wife sniffed.

  ‘He’s a menace,’ Edward said, not smiling. Jane heard her mother sigh. Edward had no time for his youngest brother, and always treated him as a nuisance. And Thomas was adept at riling him, utterly resolved never to be outshone by Edward. It was an unequal struggle, for Edward was the heir and Thomas’s senior by eight years. He would always have first bite of the apple. When Jane was six, he had been sent to France as a page of honour in the train of the King’s sister, the Princess Mary, when she married King Louis
, and the following year he had gone up to university at both Oxford and Cambridge, and thence to court, making himself useful to King Henry and his chief minister, Cardinal Wolsey, whom many asserted was the true ruler of the realm.

  It was hot in the Broad Chamber. Despite it being high summer, Mother had insisted on having the fire in the hearth kindled, in case anyone felt a chill. Jane pulled off the floral chaplet she was wearing, for the blooms were wilting, and smoothed down her long tresses. They were the colour of pale straw, rippling like fine silk over her shoulders. Edward, Thomas, Anthony and the baby Elizabeth were dark haired, having inherited Father’s colouring, but Jane, Harry and Margery took after Mother.

  For a moment Jane felt sad that her beautiful hair would be cut off when she took the veil. It was her only claim to loveliness. Her cheekbones were too rounded, her nose too big, her chin too pointed, her mouth too small, her skin too whitish. Looking around the room at her brothers and her pretty little sister Margery, it came to her, without envy or rancour, that they were all more attractive, more jolly – more vital.

  In bearing children, Mother had done her duty as efficiently as she accomplished all her other domestic responsibilities. Before Jane had come along, she had borne five sons, although the eldest, John, whom Jane could barely remember, had died when he was eleven, and another John had died young. Harry and Anthony were cut from different cloth to their brothers: Harry was easy-going and had no ambitions beyond the Wulfhall estate, while Anthony was studious; he would be following Edward to university soon, and there was talk of his pursuing a career in the Church. Jane felt encouraged by that. If her parents could lay up treasure in Heaven by giving a son to God, how much more store they would have in giving a daughter too.

  Six-year-old Margery had been allowed to sit up for the feast, but tiny Elizabeth, having been brought in by her nurse to be admired by the guests, was now sound asleep upstairs in what was called the Babies’ Chamber.