The Boleyn Bride (16 page)

I remembered how I had felt like a prisoner condemned to rusticate at Hever, and though my daughters had known no other life, I wanted to spare them the same fate. I wanted greater and grander things for my girls; even if Anne must go to a nunnery, I didn’t want Mary to squander her beautiful youth as a bucolic broodmare while her husband was away in London, caught up in the merry whirl of court with his mistresses, or, even worse, see my daughter married to a ambitious, mercenary, favor-currying zealot like Thomas Bullen—I mean
Boleyn!
They had gone as far as they could with their governess, and though Mary, never a one for books, seemed not to mind it, Anne was stagnating. I sensed, and sympathized, with her impatience; she wanted to go further and learn more. And their mad old witch of a grandmother filled their heads with all manner of nonsense—Irish folktales, fairy lore, and stories of goblins, ghosts, mermaids, and monsters. Though these had no apparent ill effects upon George and Anne—on the contrary, both seemed to relish such tales and delight in composing their own little dramas, stories, and songs based on them, which always delighted Lady Margaret—they had poor Mary afraid to go to bed, wetting it with fright and calling out every few hours imploring her nurse to bring a candle and look under the bed or in the clothes press to see what evil was hiding there. Lady Margaret insisted on dosing her thrice daily with a syrup of Saint John’s Wort to keep evil spirits and demon lovers away from her; Mary being such a great beauty, she explained, she was in even greater danger than most of being visited at night by such creatures. No wonder my poor daughter was afraid to lay down her head and close her eyes at night!

I knew it would be good for them to get away; after all, it had been for me. I was no longer there, and even when I had been, I was at best an indifferent mother who always put herself, her own capricious whims and carnal pleasures, first and foremost. How many days had I passed in my private pleasure garden, my red rose bower, where wooden trellises densely covered with roses red as blood concealed my naughty deeds, never knowing where my children were or what they were doing, blindly trusting the servants and their grandmother to keep them occupied and safe and out of my way until I had time for them again? I was far too selfish to ever make a good mother. Now was the time for me to make a sacrifice and do something for their greater good.

In the end, it was easy, not much of a sacrifice I must say, nothing worthy of the Bible, drama, or epic poetry; all I had to do was smile and agree with my husband that yes, this was indeed “a golden opportunity” for our daughters, not cut out my very own heart or shed even one drop of blood—only a tear or two perhaps. But they were soon dried, and I had Remi to console me. I wept in his arms and then, overcome by the fervor of our kisses, forgot what I was crying about.

 

My daughters had been gone only a few months when an even more splendid opportunity came their way, engineered, of course, by their ambitious, avaricious father.

The King’s beautiful sister, Mary, the one everyone called “the Tudor Rose” for her white rose complexion and red gold hair, was betrothed to a loathsome old man probably suffering from the pox—His Majesty King Louis XII of France.

I remember standing beside my husband in the Great Hall of Greenwich Palace, watching the peculiar ceremony in which the ravishing red-haired Tudor princess was wed with the French ambassador, the debonair, silver-haired Duc de Longueville standing proxy for the poxy bridegroom, when Thomas leaned in and whispered in my ear that our daughters would soon be joining her household in France.

“An appointment at the court of France trumps
anything
Brussels and Margaret of Austria can offer,” he said.

“But surely they are far too young for such a lascivious court!” I protested, watching, wide-eyed, as a mammoth gilt-posted bed covered in quilted purple satin edged with fringe and great tassels of Venetian gold was wheeled in.

Princess Mary and the Frenchman, wearing matching robes of checkered gold and purple, knelt before the crimson-clad Cardinal Wolsey and solemnly exchanged marital vows, replete with rings and kisses, then walked to stand on opposite sides of the bed. Aided by an attendant, each stepped out of their velvet slippers and doffed their robes, revealing their white lawn bed gowns beneath. They lay down side by side atop the quilted purple coverlet and joined hands. The Duc de Longueville reached out a bare leg and let it rest, for just a moment, against the princess’s bare ankle. Then it was all over. The marriage was declared consummated, and thus legally binding, and each rose from the bed, bowed to each other across its great width, and donned their robes and slippers again, and went to change into more festive finery for the feasting and dancing that was to follow.

“Nonsense!” Thomas scoffed. “This will be the start of a
glorious
career of court service for
both
of them. We may have to rethink sending Anne to the nunnery, but time enough for that later. The Mother of the Maids has vast experience in these matters and will look after them; I’ve already spoken to her. Your fears are groundless, Elizabeth. It is settled, and I will hear no more about it.” With those words he left me and went to offer his heartiest congratulations to King Henry for arranging such a dynastically advantageous marriage, one that would ensure peace and prosperity for both England and France, and prevent them from ever again making war with one another.

My husband’s ambition-driven assurances failed to completely quiet my fears. Everyone knew that there was no court more wanton, lascivious, and immoral than that of France. Rarely did any maid who served there leave it with her virtue intact. The heir to the throne, the Dauphin Francois, was a notorious sybarite, a sensualist nonpareil, an insatiable satyr, who lived for lust and pleasure; they said he could not go an hour without a woman and sampled everything from barmaids to duchesses. And virgins newly come to the court were a particular favorite of his, like a box of candy he must dip his greedy fingers into and take a bite out of each to test its flavor. And, being young, dark-haired, diabolically handsome, and endowed with a powerful and charming virility, these innocent young girls, especially those from foreign courts, found it impossible to say no to him and readily succumbed, willingly, in one wild moment discarding the teachings of their little lifetimes to guard their virtue as the most precious gift they would bring to their husbands.

But I was powerless to save my daughters, and I knew all too well that I had set a poor example when it came to feminine virtues like chastity and fidelity. If they ever made good and obedient Christian wives, it would not be because of me or anything I had taught them.

8

T
he years danced by, and the cherry fair that is life went on. I danced and flirted and was an ornament to the court and a credit to my husband, despite my single, unforgettable, unforgivable failure in his ruthless, mercenary eyes, the one he continued to rub my face in every chance he got. I enjoyed Queen Catherine’s confidence and friendship. And, best of all, I had Remi. On the whole, it was a happy life. I grew accustomed to my daughters’ absence and learned not to spend too much time brooding about it or to let my fears for their virtue and well-being get the better of me.
What will be, will be,
I sighed and went on with my life.

I had miniatures of my three children painted and set in a gilt frame with pretty enameled forget-me-nots encircling some words of scripture-based wisdom I had stitched in purple silk inside a border of seed pearls and my exquisitely embroidered violets and forget-me-nots, words that I found most comforting whenever my fears resurfaced or idle gossip disturbed the hard-won peace of my mind.

And aye, I knew all too well that worry ages like nothing else! I tried not to, but I could not help worrying about the lines I saw forming around my eyes and mouth. Time, and worry too, I knew would only make them deeper. Whenever I saw a strand of silver standing out stark against the ebony of my hair, I would cry out in horror and pluck it out. Later I resorted to rinsing my hair in walnut juice to keep it dark. I wasn’t ready to be old and gray. I was still young inside, so why should I not do everything in my power to appear youthful on the outside as well as within? Besides, I owed it to my daughters to remain beautiful for as long as I could. Any prospective bridegrooms would be sure to look hard at me, to get an inkling of how my daughters’ looks would fare as they aged.

Vanity,
I sighed, as I sat before my mirror, leaning my elbows on my dressing table.
All is vanity!

 

When my daughters came back to me, they were no longer the little girls I remembered but grown women of eighteen and sixteen. Anne was the same age I had been when I was forced to swallow my pride and become the Bullen shopkeeper’s grandson’s broodmare bride. Already my husband was eyeing the gentlemen at court to prune out the perfect bridegrooms for them. There was no longer any talk of the nunnery for Anne.

But my worst fears had come true, and Mary, my golden girl, came back to me with her reputation badly tarnished; tattered like a beggar’s ugly, dirty rags. She had been initiated into the arts of love by none other than the Dauphin Francois himself, who had succeeded to the crown when old King Louis died, leaving Mary Tudor a widow merry and free to do as she pleased. The French had dubbed my sweet and beautiful daughter “the English Hackney” or the King’s “English Mare,” and she had gained a reputation for being an “easy ride,” natural and unrestrained when it came to the carnal act, one who freely bestowed her favors on any handsome gallant who caught her fancy or asked nicely. All it took, they said, was a pretty compliment to get Mary Boleyn into bed.

Like mother, like daughter,
I sighed and left it to Thomas to chastise her, for I hadn’t it in my heart to play the hypocrite and scold her for sins I had committed myself. He blamed me, of course; I was her mother, and it was my duty to teach her proper feminine behavior and mold and shape her into a good and obedient Christian wife, and I had obviously failed. The fact that I had objected to my daughters going to live at the French court, beyond the sphere of my, or any other, restraining influence, was conveniently overlooked.

“Your golden girl has proven base and brass,” Thomas said to me, “not
true
gold after all. You used to sit her in the sun with chamomile and the juice of lemons on her hair to keep it golden; it was your way, you said, of helping Mother Nature along. But a little gilding, madame, does
not
make tin a precious metal worthy to stand side by side with solid gold!”

Yet the tarnish did not show upon her face and figure; she didn’t look like a soiled dove at all. To the naked eye, this was no rampant, ready whore. When I first saw her standing before me, round as a dumpling in butter yellow satin, with her hair piled up in rich gleaming mounds of golden curls dotted with yellow silk and gilt buttercups, diamond brilliants, and ropes of creamy pearls, she took my breath away. It seemed impossible that such divine beauty could truly be of this flawed and all too human world; my voluptuous golden girl was earthy yet ethereal. The rich fare of France, all the cakes and creamy sauces, had rounded her figure, upholstering her with soft, womanly curves, including a bodice-bursting bosom and bountiful hips that promised any prospective husband that she would be a good breeder as well as afford him countless hours of carnal pleasure, all of which only served to enhance her alluring doll-like beauty even more. She presented the most beguiling combination of innocence and sensuality, like a little girl trapped inside a woman’s body. The men found this simply irresistible. I think the problem was her sweet nature. Mary was too amiable and obliging, a naturally nice girl who in the end was just
too nice
for her own good; she lacked that strong, hard inner core of steel, and it left her too soft, too pliant, vulnerable, and easy to bend, especially by a man bent on satisfying his own base pleasure.

But it was Anne who presented the greatest surprise. Remi was right—she
did
astonish us all! My ugly brunette duckling had become a graceful and elegant black swan. I could not believe my eyes when I saw her standing there, clad in a dramatic gown of black velvet and dark wine satin embroidered with a flamboyant array of black-hearted heart’s ease pansies, with a choker of black velvet and pearls about her neck, and a great golden
B
with three milky teardrop pearls hanging below it resting in the hollow of her throat, hiding the unsightly brown strawberry she had been born with. Long ropes of silvery black pearls flashing rainbows of pink, purple, and blue hung about her long, gracefully slender swanlike neck—my, how she had grown into it; she no longer looked like a gangly-necked goose! And she had adopted the most cunning sleeves, fitting tight to the elbow, then belling out gracefully over her full under-sleeves and hands to hide that hideous nubby deformity on her littlest left finger. Her black hair hung glossy and free, thick as a cloak of inky satin, all the way down to her knees, and she had eschewed the boxy gable hood for a charming crescent of pearl-bordered wine satin called a French hood to crown her dome.

She was not beautiful, and never would be in the classical sense, or even by English standards that celebrated partridge plump blondes as the epitome of feminine beauty, with those with ruddy-hued tresses running a close second. But by the time the critical eye realized that, it was already too late; the trap had been sprung. Her eyes—large, lustrous, and dark, flashing like black lightning—cast a powerful spell only a few seemed immune to in those days.

I could not believe it, but I was
jealous,
actually
jealous
of my own daughter! The one I had thought so irredeemably ugly and destined for the nunnery! How it stung me to realize that I was actually
jealous of Anne!
No longer would she live and languish in my or Mary’s shadow; she had surpassed us both, and I couldn’t quite figure out how. She wasn’t beautiful, yet she had something more, something inexplicable and indefinable that was uniquely hers.

The Anne who returned to England exuded an exotic charm. Those years spent in France had left her more French than English and blessed her with the most enchanting accent, lilting and musical, yet all too capable of a sword-sharp cynicism. An aura of the most supreme confidence, such as one would equate with an empress, enfolded her, and she didn’t just walk, she
glided,
gracefully, serenely through life. Every step she took, every gesture she made, was like a dance, carefully and perfectly choreographed yet at the same time, most maddeningly, vexingly, contradictorily, au naturel. And how she dressed! Rather than follow the flock, Anne wasn’t afraid to take chances and rise above the ordinary. She made every woman, even elegant and graceful me, seem overdressed, fussily or even dowdily overdecorated in comparison. What a sense of color she had—black cherry, damson plum, dusky rose, spicy orange, regal amethyst, various shades of green running the gamut from spring to seaweed, and of course vibrant emerald, tawny, midnight blue, deep heart’s blood crimson, and amber filled her wardrobe, sharing space with burnished and brilliant gold, copper, bronze, silver, pewter, bold scarlet, and shimmering satiny or velvety black. And those oh so cunning sleeves! Soon not a woman at court would dare be seen without them, and everyone was calling them Boleyn sleeves. They even imitated the chokers fashioned from broad ribbons, pearls, or beads she wore about her throat to hide that unsightly strawberry even though their own milky throats were blessedly unmarred. Because of Anne, gable hoods were disappearing too; every day it seemed I saw fewer of them and more French hoods about the palace. And her pearls! Rarely was my daughter ever seen without her pearls, her favorite gem, great, long, creamy, lustrous ropes of them, often wearing a silver or gold initial pendant,
AB
or just
B,
from which a teardrop pearl or two or three usually dangled. Pearls had been popular for years, even in my mother’s and grandmother’s times, yet Anne made them seem all of a sudden new again. There was just something about her!

“Who wants to appear as everyone else?” she would laugh whenever anyone questioned the choices she made, arching an elegant, plucked black brow. “I please myself; if others are pleased as well”—she shrugged—“so be it.”

Many thought her a heartless creature who cared for nothing and no one but herself. But that was not true; there was one she loved more than any—her brother George. From the moment she returned, he was at her side and rarely left it. I don’t know how they did it, but they could say more to each other with a look than most people could in whole reams of words. It was uncanny the way they could read each other’s minds and finish each other’s sentences. They joked that they were twins, only Anne had arrived fashionably late, a year after George, who had gone ahead to prepare the way for her; words that would come back to haunt me at the end of their lives when they took on an even more poignant meaning when George would again go first.

Together, they gathered around them a close set of friends, a clever little band of wits and poets, all happy-go-lucky and devil-may-care. Closest of all were the flamboyant red-haired Sir Francis Weston; tall, dark, and handsome Sir William Brereton, who at first sight seemed awfully staid and serious, the calm voice of reason until you got to know him better; and baby-faced blond Sir Henry Norris, a man many thought too gentle and endowed with too much heart to ever succeed at court, yet was amongst King Henry’s most intimate and highly favored body servants.

In no time at all, the finest poet of the court, Sir Thomas Wyatt, was infatuated with Anne and composing sonnets by the score in tribute to her beauty, wit, and grace, declaring his love for her in every word just as John Skelton had done for me. But Anne only laughed, clicked her goblet against George’s, and declared, “It is good to be alive!”

 

As for my golden girl, Mary would redeem herself in her father’s eyes when King Henry, always a one for a buxom and obliging blonde, took her into his bed after seeing her in a gown of silver that made her golden hair shine all the brighter. Thomas embraced her and called her “my darling” and magnanimously assured her “all is forgiven,” and paid for several beautiful silk and lace bed gowns and crystal vials of costly perfume to entice and excite King Henry. “An investment,” he said to me as he nodded approvingly over Mary’s selections.

But Mary was too sweet-natured to ever make her fortune as a courtesan. Indeed, I think she would have failed as a ha’penny whore if she had been turned out to walk the streets of London. She asked for nothing and got it, declaring that she loved the King and lay with him as an expression of the great love she bore him. Even when her exasperated father threw up his hands and insisted, “Love is ephemeral. Assets are tangible,” Mary refused to use her position to barter for favors or fill the family’s money boxes.

“Enjoy your time in the sun, daughter; it will be brief,” I told her in words cold and clipped and followed my husband out of her luxuriously appointed palace apartment with a secret passage discreetly connecting it to the King’s bedchamber so he need never be seen creeping down the corridor to visit her. I was glad of that paltry attempt at discretion. How it grieved me that my own daughter should be the one to cause Queen Catherine pain by embracing wholeheartedly what I had spurned out of loyalty, love, and marital spite.

When they danced together, their desire for each other blatantly apparent, Queen Catherine, despite her pain, sought to comfort me. She took my hand and, gazing kindly into my eyes, said, “Do not blame yourself; I know it is not your fault, Elizabeth. You have always been a good and faithful friend to me. Your daughter is a sweet girl caught fast in the grip of love; she means me no harm. She will be the one who is hurt in the end, and for that, I am sorry. I pray for her each day.”

In the end, Mary’s own tranquil, domestically inclined nature would be her undoing. She did not understand that the kings, and other great men, she bedded were not interested in
her,
that they came to her for sensual delights, not the bland and cozy domesticity of hearth and home. They wanted naughtiness, unabashed nakedness, pumice stone–smoothed bare limbs, not woolen stockings; a woman comfortable in her own skin who knew how to cast modesty aside as though she were a naked Eve for whom clothes didn’t exist and who wasn’t inclined to try on fig leaves; a mistress endowed with an adventurous, spicy sensuality and a zealous, zesty passion that wasn’t afraid to take chances, to experiment and play, to revel in hot sweaty lust, whisper dirty words, and perform daring deeds upon the satin sheets; a playful kitten who might at any moment unsheathe her claws; not a placid, proper lady sitting by the fire embroidering and inquiring, “How was your day, dear?” with amusing little anecdotes to tell about children and servants and tidbits of palace gossip. They wanted a tigress in a diamond collar, not a fireside tabby. But Mary’s mind never could grasp that. I broke it down for her in a simple equation that even the most mathematically inept should have been able to comprehend:
Time + Familiarity = Boredom,
but still understanding eluded poor Mary.