by G Lawrence
But I saw Henry press his hand to his head when he thought few were watching; I knew that he was in great pain and trying to disguise it. He was trying to reassure his courtiers and his enemies alike of his strength and vigour, to reassure us all, to make it seem that he was invincible. But it was a show, it was an act. Henry felt great pain and I could see that even if others could not. In my breast, as I watched his efforts to disguise his suffering, I felt more admiration for him; he would disguise his personal pain and fear for the good of his subjects and the good of his realm. I felt my heart beat with a special kind of esteem that day, one I had never felt for a man before. It was a new feeling, not born solely from the admiration for a fine pair of eyes, or a good leg… It was for the man beneath the crown… It was for the strength I saw within him.
George came to partner me at the dance after the feast. My brother was an excellent dancer and our steps complimented each other well. He was a pleasure to dance with. “Thank God that Mary was not here today,” he said as we passed each other in the dance. “Or there might have been an early arrival of the babe.”
“Is that all you think on?“ I whispered angrily. “You and father… thinking of nothing but the prospect of what may come from this pregnancy? Does nothing else concern you? The King could have died today.”
“Hush! Anna!” he whispered reproachfully, but not denying the charge I placed. “None may speak of the death of the King, you know that. To do so is to commit treason!”
I nodded and gave my hand to him as we left the dance. He was right, no matter what my irritation with him. I should be more guarded of my tongue.
“What was it that the King said to you as he rose?” George asked as we stood at the side through the next dance, taking wine to our lips. “I was not close enough to hear.”
I blushed a little, half for the thought of how close Henry had been to me in that moment, and half in chagrin, thinking of my fear. “He said, I shall not forget this.”
George looked at me and nodded. Then he shivered a little. “I shall not either,” he mused, shaking his head. “The speed at which you flew across that field was amazing. Everything else seemed to have frozen, as though I looked at the joust through ice on a pond…. No one else could move, it seemed, but you.”
“I knew not what I was doing. I just knew that I had to get to him,” I said wondering at my own actions of the day. “It is strange, is it not? I cannot think why I forgot myself so.”
“Can you not?” George countered and looked sideways at me with a speculative look that reminded me so much of our father that I felt a finger of ice move up my spine. “Well,” he said. “It seems that the King will not be forgetting you, even if you forget yourself, sister.”
I followed his glance to the raised dais where Henry and his queen sat overlooking the assembly. I saw the King looking in our direction. I swept to the floor in a graceful curtsy and as I rose, he held his goblet up to me. I curtsied again and a flush of blood rose across my neck and my cheeks.
George rose from his bow and whispered in my ear. “It would seem that the King has a fondness for the name Boleyn on a woman.” My brother moved swiftly away before I could retaliate.
I looked up again, but Henry had moved his glance elsewhere.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beaulieu, Essex
1524
In May, my grandfather, the old Duke of Norfolk, passed into the arms of God, and his son, my mother’s brother, Thomas Howard, took his title. Thomas Howard was fifty-two when he became the Duke of Norfolk. An older man, although still strong, he suffered much from pains in his bones, and apparently constant indigestion. My uncle of Norfolk was always grumbling just under his breath, something that gave him a distinct, if slightly irritating, presence in any room. He was a thin, hawk-like man with a great long nose and piercing, clever eyes that missed nothing.
It was at this time, too, that my sister took to her chambers to wait for the coming of her child. Being a younger son, Carey had no estate of his own. Most of the time Will and Mary resided at court, where they had chambers together, but for Mary’s confinement, they had chosen to remove to Beaulieu, near Chelmsford, where Will was the Keeper of the King’s house. They had a right to lodgings there from this appointment, and it was thought that a house as beautiful as Beaulieu would serve as a good place for Mary to raise their child. It was also not too far from London, and therefore convenient for her to return to court once the child was born. The house had many family connections for us Boleyns. Once called “New Hall”, it had been granted to our great-grandfather, Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond. Our grandmother, Margaret Boleyn inherited the house from her father, and passed it to our father who sold it to the King. Henry lavished vast amounts on the house, restoring and rebuilding it, and it was he who renamed it Beaulieu. The front of the house was of warm red brick; there were waterfalls in the courtyards, stained glass in the chapel and even hot and cold water flowing in the royal chambers. It was a goodly place for a babe to be born and to live, and Henry had approved it as the place where his mistress could give birth.
Mary’s last months of pregnancy had progressed without incident. We had told her, of course, of the jousting accident, but had played down Henry’s near scrape with death so as not to panic her in the final stages of pregnancy. Only female relatives or servants were allowed to enter the darkened lying-in chambers and so mother and I went to see Mary while she awaited her baby, in the muggy, gloomy chambers that were synonymous with the last stages of pregnancy for nobility.
The fires were lit and burned happily, even though the sealed windows and candles would have made the room warm enough for comfort. The scent of sweat filled the air, unable to be washed away with the fresh bouquet of new air, for there was none. The chambers of a woman awaiting a child had to be sealed off from the air of the outside, lest it bring in disease to threaten the life of the child, or its mother. Herbs lined the floors and their smell brought some relief, but I could see only by the light of the candles and the fire. The lying-in chamber was dark and oppressive. There was no sun. There was only thick air to breathe. I shivered at the thought that someday I would face such chambers too, when having my own children, but perhaps the thought of holding a son or daughter in my arms would compensate for being shut in dull, dark quarters.
Birth was a difficult time for women, a dangerous time. Fear of dying in childbed merged with love and desire for the baby, so that the waiting for the child to come into the world became such a mix of terror and pleasure that there was nothing to compare it to. Mary was worried, of course, this being her first child, and ready to take the advice of anyone who would offer it. But she was also excited. I could see her longing to look upon the face of her child, and to know the feel of her babe in her arms. Once again, I envied my older sister. I would like to feel the weight of a child of my own in my arms. I would like a child of my own to love, to hold, to teach and to bring up. I was twenty-three now, and longed for a settled life, for a husband, and for children of my own. I still wanted to be a part of the court, of course; it was as close and precious to me as the blood within my veins, but I was starting to see that there were other things in life I wanted just as much… family, love, marriage, children. The simple wants of most women, I believe.
Some few weeks into Mary’s lying-in, she felt the first pangs of birth. They came somewhat earlier than expected, and my poor sister went into a long and painful labour. My mother and I helped the midwives to do their bloody work, reassuring Mary, holding her hands, and helping her to hold or push as she panted and screamed through the final stages. We muttered and cried out words of comfort and strength, yet we spoke those words to reassure ourselves too; we feared for her life at times. The strain and trial she endured were long, and my pretty sister groaned like a horse with colic as she strove to bring her child into the world.
Eventually, two days after her first show of pains, I heard the first powerful screams of a possible Tudor bastard reve
rberate around the walls of the estate. Fat little arms waved in the air, and cries of distress emerged from the infant’s mouth as the child wailed at being taken from such a safe, warm place as Mary’s body. The birthing chamber was heavy with the sickly scent of blood and gamey afterbirth which hung in the air and stuck in the nostrils, but Mary’s pained, exhausted and triumphant face as she cradled her first child in her arms will endure in my memory as one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life.
“A girl…” Mary breathed with great satisfaction. “This will stop father and George from flapping those mouths,” she laughed weakly. Mary was so beautiful. Her eyes were bright with exhaustion and the aftermath of the pain, her cheeks flushed with tiredness and with pleasure. Seeing her lying there with her child in her arms, I longed to be her; to hold my own child, to know its health and strength. The women took the child from my sister and washed her in herb-scented waters and wine. Cleaned pink and wrinkly, the baby started to gurgle and whimper to be returned to her mother. My little niece. I felt as though my heart would burst with happiness.
Mary’s husband, Will Carey, was delighted in the child, who, like her mother, was beautiful from the first day she opened her mouth and screamed to us to acknowledge her presence. Whether the child was his or not, he seemed to care little, but took her often in his arms and swept her through the air like a grand lady to be admired by any company come calling, as the babe screamed in protest to return to the more gentle arms of her mother. Will was happy to have a wife who found favour with the King, and seemed not to mind that he may have had a bastard fostered upon him. I came to understand that my brother-in-law was much as his wife in character; he took what life gave to him, and made the best of it. He had a pretty little child now, a life of much ease and a beautiful and gentle wife. If life was not perfect, it seemed little to matter to him. He made the best of things, like my sister did, and kept joy in his heart. In the days after the birth of Mary’s child, I came to know, understand and find great pleasure in the company of Will Carey. He was a good man.
As I watched Mary coo over her new daughter, I understood why she was so happy the babe was a girl; this child could be of no great importance to anyone but Mary and Will, and could not be used as a pawn, at least for a while, in the games my father played at court. Had the child been a boy, the babe may have found himself in a precarious position before he could even talk or walk, as the potentially acknowledged bastard son of a king with no legitimate male issue. As a girl, the child was deemed to be of no great importance. Henry would not acknowledge a girl, for she would be of no use to him. Mary’s baby was safe to enjoy her childhood without political intrigue. Daughter of the King or daughter of William Carey, no one cared too much for a girl-child until she was old enough to be married off to the highest bidder or the suitor with the grandest title. In having a daughter, Mary had avoided having to share her baby with anyone. Once more she had proved herself the King’s perfect mistress by giving birth to a politically neutral child. Our father would not be so happy, but he would have to live with a granddaughter rather than a grandson and be done with it.
“I am going to call her Catherine,” Mary told us, “for the Queen.” My mother’s face puckered at the sweetness of her daughter and in delight at her first grandchild; the future of the family lying happily burping in my sister’s arms.
Our father was, of course, rather disappointed that his first grandchild was not the boy he had hoped, and that the King was not likely to acknowledge this child as his own as he had done with Bessie Blount’s boy. The reasoning was clear; Bessie had her babe whilst unmarried and since it was a fine boy and perhaps because Henry felt that the birth of the boy showed he was capable of getting sons, he had acknowledged Henry Fitzroy as his own. Mary was married; there was another man who might be the father of any children she had, and a girl was of little interest or value politically.
Mary and Will received rewards after Catherine’s birth in addition to those they had been granted before, making them wealthier and more prominent at court. Henry was acknowledging my sister’s contribution to the proof of his fertility, even though he made no move to acknowledge the child as his own. Our father, too, received more titles, and George was rewarded when Henry took a special interest in his coming nuptials to Mistress Jane Parker.
It seemed, soon after the birth of little Catherine Carey, that Jane Parker should at last become Jane Boleyn, accompanied by the manor of Grimston in Norfolk and a tantalising sum of 2,000 marks; a sum that her father Morley could never have had or raised by himself. It was a richer benefactor, one who held our family in great esteem, who contributed coin to see the match prevail. The King was much pleased with our family, and George was his almost constant companion. Henry wanted to honour George, for sure, by helping fund the rich dowry our father demanded, but I believe it was Mary’s proof of Henry’s continued fertility that was really being rewarded. The lack of children in the marriage between Katherine and Henry brought great fear to the King’s heart… But in seeing children like Henry Fitzroy and Catherine Carey, Henry knew that the fault of fertility did not lie with him. Such children, though they were bastards, tended to his wounded pride in being unable to have more children with Katherine. It was at this time, once more, that further rumours were whispered about court; that the King was thinking of annulling his marriage.
Mary was not long indisposed by the birth of her first child and was soon at court again, although with lighter duties than before. Mary was not one of Katherine’s regular ladies, but the Queen seemed to enjoy having her nearby. Katherine was delighted that Mary had named her babe for her, and gave Mary a great deal of lenience, allowing her to return often to Beaulieu to be with her child, who was being tended by Carey’s servants and the carefully chosen wet-nurse when Mary was not there. It must have rankled Katherine, though, that this child born to her husband’s mistress came at a time when her own womb was dying inside her, that her husband was choosing the fertile beds of others in which to plant his seed rather than try again in the royal bed. But Katherine said nothing. She knew that the office of a Queen is to accept the affairs of the King, and she did not want to lose his favour by reproaching him for his liaisons. Katherine was also still grateful to Mary for being a quiet and respectful mistress, when she could have been quite the opposite.
The new addition to our family settled in to her life with ease. Little Catherine Carey was one of the most welcome and best loved babes I ever knew. My sister looked as though she had come into her true element when I saw her with her child. When Mary stood holding Catherine, I felt as though I were looking on a picture of the Holy Family, no matter how incongruous that idea really was.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Richmond Palace
1524
That summer, the armies of the Emperor Charles of Spain, our now-ally, invaded Italy to fight the French for possession of that territory. François himself set out for Italy to face his enemy, Charles, but I imagine that he went with a heavy heart. Already there had been personal loss for the charming French King; his daughter, Princess Charlotte had died suddenly, and as he set out to lead his troops in Italy, it was rumoured that my old mistress, the gentle and good Queen Claude, was growing weak and ill. She had given birth once more in June, to a daughter named for my dear friend Marguerite; seven children in nine years was more than enough toll for poor slight Claude to bear. In July, I heard the news that she had died, only a few days after saying goodbye to her husband. I grieved for the loss of such a gentle soul from this world. Memories of the time I served with her swam within the streams of my thoughts all summer. I remembered the fresh air of Blois where Claude’s household had often been, and the warm scent of the wild roses. I thought of Claude’s temperate smile, and her plain, but virtuous face. I remembered of the manner in which she approached all people, with her calm and steady ways. One ambassador said of Claude that she was “the very pearl of ladies, and a clear mirror of goodness,
without stain.” Another said, “If she is not in paradise, then very few people will go there.” All of the things they said of her were true. I was only one of many thousands whose hearts cried out to lose such a good lady from this wicked world. Claude’s body was left to rest for some time in the chapel at Blois, and it was said that many of those who came to view her body experienced a healing power upon their various wounds and aches. It was hailed as a miracle.
The care of the royal nursery was given over to a young lady I had served with briefly in France, a dame d’honneur, named Diane de Poitiers. Now the wife of Louis de Breze, Grand Senechal of Normandy, the golden-haired beauty, Diane, was appointed to care for the Royal Nursery and the children therein.
François was not told of Claude’s death until the autumn, for he made for Italy over the Alps, and although he had never been a faithful husband, he wrote of Claude with grief. “Could I buy her life with mine,” he wrote to Marguerite, “I would do it with all my heart. I never thought that the bonds of marriage, ordained by God, could be so hard to break.” Claude left her beloved homeland of Brittany to François, something that had never been done before by any Duchess of Brittany, and I believe it showed her trust and love in his abilities to rule her people justly and well.