The Last Boleyn | The Tudors

vi. a lover and his lass

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THE KING HAD paid another visit to the Boleyns, taking supper with them one dreary night, and Henriette was driven frantic, ensuring she found the best dress, though not so pretty that it should overshadow Anne, and she ensured to keep her wits about her. Anne was quite content that the King had chosen to sup with them, and made certain that the finest food was prepared, and of course allowing the royal taster to try it in case the King was being poisoned.

Henriette was overcome by her anxiety, thumbs twiddling all evening, her mind very much occupied with comporting herself in the correct manner, and ensuring that she should not make a fool of herself in front of the King. She was intrigued by him, she had to admit, she could understand his charms, and why he was so appealing to others; after all, he had already seduced her sisters.

However, more than anything she wanted to please Brandon; he had sought her out for this particular task, and she had to ensure it all flowed perfectly. A small part of her was wrought with anxieties about whether it would go wrong, but she took a deep breath and glanced at herself in the mirror. The dress was her second-finest, of a rich burgundy velvet, with a damask kirtle and heavy blackwork sleeves, and she had ensured that she wore her hood to match. She looked almost as pretty as Anne did, though she had less of the intense allure her sister had, but it would still prove tempting to the King, nonetheless.

Time came for the King to arrive. Platters were laid out, and all had been tasted for poison by the royal food tester, as the King felt he could be threatened at any moment. Trays of gilt were laid with venison, swan, pigeon; even a suckling pig, its head charred and crisp, a bright red apple in its snout. It was all mouth-watering, and of course, fit for a King. The Boleyns were all anxious to make a good impression, one wrong move and their social status would tumble—the threat of being kicked out of court loomed over their heads like a fat storm-cloud, ready to rain at any moment.

Anne, Mary, Henriette, George and their father all stood in the lounge, anxiously awaiting King Henry, tapping feet and biting lips. A rapt knock sounded, and in came a servant, and behind him, the brooding figure of the King, a smouldering look drawn upon his face. His gaze was fixed on Anne, her ebony gown and heavy sleeves the height of fashion; her bosom ripe on display.

'Your majesty,' They all bowed and curtseyed accordingly, but he was quite dismissive, making a beeline for Anne, taking her by the hand and kissing it.

'Ah, Mistress Boleyn, it is a pleasure to see you this evening,' He remarked, and Anne bowed her head, her typical nonchalance shining through, that somehow charmed every man who laid eyes upon her. It was something about their determination to win her hand—and knowing that she would never relent. Something Henriette had yet to understand.

Henriette's own jealousy struck her, more out of fear than envy; she knew what had to be done, and while she knew Anne was number one in his heart, Brandon would be keen to have her slowly wrap the King around her finger. She had something Anne did not, her beauty was far more youthful and beguiling. Innocent, even. Anne's was darker, more lustful, and her deep brown eyes bore some enchanting intelligence that seduced men in an instant. But she could never feign sweet charm, and though Henriette was fast learning to become cunning, she still seemed as innocent as a rose.

They were all promptly seated, the King in a heavily cushioned, gold plated chair brought in from his own collection, while the rest sat on more humble wooden chairs. Henriette was lucky enough to be seated next to the King, though he was focused on Anne, who was speaking to him in French, the rich timbre of her voice echoing throughout the room. She scowled, but could not be put off by this, and so determined she would do the absolute most to garner his attention.