At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn
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Authors: Anne Clinard Barnhill
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical
For Frank,
my own “Sir Churlish”
“… thy sweet love remembered…”
Acknowledgments
So many hands come together to create a book, some visible, others invisible. I’d like to thank my agent, Irene Goodman, whose faith in this story made me a believer and without whom the book might be sitting in a box, still not finished; my parents, Dr. Jack and Virginia Clinard, for the use of their garage apartment during the completion of the manuscript, their understanding of my need for solitude, and the delicious meals they kindly provided; my three sons for their unwavering support and encouragement; and my husband, Frank, who has believed in me for a long time now.
Having a wonderful editor and other “book experts” on board is a great gift. Thank you, Charles Spicer, for your enthusiasm and probing questions, both of which prompt me to write better. I am also extremely grateful for the passion you have for history and historical fiction. Allison Strobel has been patient with my numerous questions; her expertise and insight are very much appreciated. NaNá Stoelzle’s and Lauren Hougen’s meticulous work helped get the book in shape for printing.
Even the world’s greatest book would languish on a shelf if people didn’t know about it. Thanks to Joseph Goldschein, Joan Higgins, and Rachel Ekstrom for such a thorough job in getting the word out. And to Paul Hochman for leading me into the twenty-first century through social networking.
Though writing is in many ways a lonely vocation, my fellow writers have been a great source of inspiration and example. My writing friends in various places, including Facebook, continue to show me how to put words together and have faith in the process.
Thank you all.
Preface
When I was fifteen, two life-altering events occurred. First, I read a forbidden book I’d discovered on my mother’s bedroom shelf, a tattered paperback with a cover that showed a woman wearing a very low-cut dress and a crown. The title and author I still remember:
The Concubine
by Norah Lofts. It was, of course, the tale of Queen Anne Boleyn and her famous husband, King Henry VIII of England.
As I began reading, I was immediately enthralled by the love story. I knew the book was based on facts, but, for the first time, dry facts became so real I could imagine the events happening before my eyes, as if I were, somehow, a part of sixteenth-century England. I was taken with the grandeur and the greed, the pomp and the pretension, the loyalty and the lechery, and, most of all, the daring and the danger of those times, especially for women. At fifteen, I was slowly becoming aware that the prescribed roles for men and women in our society were deeply etched in the collective psyche. I realized it took an extraordinary woman to break those traditional bonds of expectation and venture into the wider world. Anne Boleyn had the intelligence and the courage to navigate her way to the top of a society that regarded women as little more than breeding stock. Through her strength of character, her feminine allure, and her sheer gumption, she refused the role of mistress. Instead, she insisted on the role of queen. Anne Boleyn was everything I wanted to be: attractive, powerful, bright, and in control of her destiny—at least for a while.
The second life-changing moment came while I was visiting my maternal grandmother, Helen Gwendolyn McCaul Ballard in Lincolnton, North Carolina. In between shelling peas and canning apples, she told me about our genealogy, showing me bits and pieces of our family’s tree gleaned from scraps of paper she kept in a small wooden box. I listened politely, but suddenly, my ears perked up. She was talking about a queen, one who shook the world. I realized she was speaking of Anne Boleyn. Somehow, our family was connected to Anne Boleyn and her daughter, Elizabeth I. As it turned out, our ancestors, Sir John and Lady Anne Shelton, were quite close to the queen. Lady Anne Shelton was the sister of Sir Thomas Boleyn, Anne’s father. Our ancestor was the queen’s aunt!
From that moment, I began reading everything I could find about Anne Boleyn and her Shelton relatives. I discovered Sir John and Lady Anne had large roles to play in history—large enough that we read about them five hundred years later. I discovered they had a daughter, Lady Margaret Shelton, who is one of three named mistresses of Henry VIII. In some books, it is even suggested that Queen Anne put forth her young cousin to catch the king’s fancy.
I wanted to tell this story and have imagined it for thirty years. I hope I have done justice to that amazing time when England was just beginning to recognize itself as a nation and the church was being turned on its head. And two young women from common British stock, cousins in the first degree, could capture the heart of a king.
Contents
A Conversation with Anne Clinard Barnhill
The Facts About Lady Margaret Shelton
An Original Essay by the Author
I
1533
The Moost Happi
QUEEN ANNE’S MOTTO
One
Already the grassy fields surrounding Hever Castle were greening, though Easter was several weeks away. The nearby forests had put out tender buds and the barley fields sprouted fresh green shoots. Though the gray sky still shrouded the land, one could feel a hint of warmth, the first indication that spring would come, after all. This, along with the birth of her favorite bitch’s puppies, made Madge Shelton frisky that morning, able to shake, finally, the feeling of dread she had carried since her arrival in the south of England. Although she could not know it yet, this was the last morning of her old life, the first morning of the life she’d hoped would never come.
“The fat one, the one with a bit of red on his chest,” said Madge, leaning over the roughly made pen that housed ten setters, her uncle’s newest stock of hunting dogs.
“He’s already been spoken for. Master Boleyn left word that the biggest and best pup was to be trained for the hunt,” said Ben Whipple, the son of the yeoman who managed the Boleyn farm.
“We’ll see about that. My birthday’s coming soon and I shall ask my uncle about the hound. I’m likely to get him, you can be sure of that. My uncle gives me whatever I fancy these days,” Madge said. She held the pup to her bosom and stroked behind his ears.
“You’ll be mine, pretty boy. And we’ll roam the fields together. I’ll teach you to point. We’ll show my uncle how a good dog and a brave girl can hunt with the best of them,” Madge said.
“Master Boleyn’s a-wanting to groom the biggest pup for the queen. He knows how she fancies a smart cur. You won’t get your way this time, mistress,” said Ben. He picked up the runt of the litter, a pitiful-looking setter with only a spot of white at the tip of its tail.
“Shall I drown this one? It’s only a bitch,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” said Madge.
“Master Boleyn told me to get rid of the runt and spare only the smartest, healthiest ones. He can’t afford to keep the whole passel,” said Ben.
“Give me that little one, then. I’ll keep her safe,” Madge said. She put the fat pup back into the pen and wrapped her hands around the small black one. The pup nuzzled against Madge and licked her hands. “She knows I’m saving her from a watery grave. Look at how grateful she is.”
“Tell you what. I’ll let you keep her if you give me a kiss,” said Ben.
“You’ll let me keep her, Ben Whipple, kiss or no!” Madge stood up abruptly, still clutching the puppy. She smoothed her skirts with one hand while holding the dog against her chest.
“Why won’t you kiss me, Madge? You did once, down by the creek. Let me again,” said Ben.
“I’ll never kiss the likes of you again, Ben Whipple. I am cousin to the queen and must act according to my new station. In a few short weeks, Queen Anne will be crowned, and then you won’t dare speak so in my company,” said Madge.
“Pshaw. Nan Bullen’s no better than a whore and everybody knows it. Catherine’s the rightful queen and Old Harry can’t change that. Nan Bullen’s as common as these pups,” said Ben.
Madge pushed Ben out of her way, still holding the black pup. She stomped across the barnyard. Halfway, she stopped, turned toward Ben, her cheeks flushed and her red hair flying every which way in the early morning breeze.
“You’ll live to regret those words. My family’s no longer simple wool merchants. You’ll see—the Shelton name is something these days and you, Ben Whipple, better watch your tongue!” Madge turned again on one heel and headed for the main house where her nurse would have hot tea ready and maybe a tasty bit of raisin cake.
Margaret Louise Shelton, Madge as she was known to the servants and farmers on her uncle’s manor in Edenbridge, Kent, was fifteen years old and already a handful for her nurse, Cate. Tall and thin with a smallish bosom, a delicate waist, and flaring hips, Madge was quickly becoming a beauty and she knew it. Her green eyes were wide and expressive, showing every nuance of feeling a young woman could experience. When angry, her eyes narrowed and actually darkened. When happy, her eyes seemed lit from a secret sunshine within. When sad, her eyes turned watery and red-rimmed, much to her chagrin.
Though she gave her nurse, Cate, a good deal of trouble, Madge was happy to have Cate with her, for she was unused to living with the Boleyn family, especially now that Sir Thomas’s daughter, Anne, was married to the king. Unlike her own family, where she was the youngest of five children and likely to find a partner in any devilment she could think up, at Hever Castle, Madge was younger than the Boleyn children by fifteen years or more. No one laughed at her jokes or her funny faces. No one wanted to act out the story of Punchinella, and Madge couldn’t find one person who would sing duets with her in the early evenings after supper.
Cate was all Madge had to remind her of Great Snoring, her home far away. Madge longed for the fields of the family lands in Norfolk, where she spent summers cavorting with the new lambs. Cate’s presence wasn’t enough to make up for the familiar life Madge longed for. Besides, Cate insisted Madge practice her best behavior all the time. She could never relax at the Boleyn residence. There was too much at stake for that.
“What have you dragged in this time?” Cate said when she saw Madge carrying the pup into the elegant rooms they shared.
“Ben was going to drown her,” said Madge. She sat on the low stool near the fireplace and warmed her hands, allowing the pup to make a nest in her skirts.
“That’s your good wool, girl. You don’t want to be smelling of dog when you meet the king, do you?” Cate grabbed the pup and held it up for examination. “Nothing but a runt. Not even interesting in its markings.”
“Give her back. I don’t care what I smell like when I meet the king. Give me my dog,” said Madge.
“And what makes you think Sir Thomas will allow you to keep this mutt? He’s known for killing off what’s weak and small,” said Cate, handing the dog to Madge.
“I’ll keep her whatever way I can. I’ll hide her in our rooms and Sir Thomas won’t find her,” said Madge. She gathered some rushes from the floor into a small bunch and set the pup in the center of the reeds, near the fire.
“I’m warning you, my Maddie, you mustn’t anger Sir Thomas. He’s grown powerful these last ten years and your family’s fortunes ride on him. And now, they’re riding on you, too,” said Cate.
“I know, good Cate, I know. I will try to please Sir Thomas as best I can. But I can’t live for his good pleasure—I have a life of my own.” Madge slipped her feet from the stiff leather boots and stretched her toes toward the warmth of the fire.
