The Only Boleyn

Spring 1522 - Two Declarations

Mary danced with the King that evening before the whole court, and the next day she rode her new horse at his side when they went hunting. If Mary were not my sister, and if our family were not being rewarded for doing this, I would be pained to see the Queen watch the two of them dance together, and when they ride out, wave farewell to him from the great door of the palace. Yet, we were rewarded, and the first of those rewards was announced on the day after the gift of the new horse. My father was appointed treasurer of the King's household; a great post which brought him access to the King's daily wealth - which he could embezzle as he thought best. Everyone knew that the King was courting Mary, and everyone knew she would consent when she was ordered to by our family. Naturally, behind closed doors there was much discussion of the subject, and even bets were being wagered as to when she would give in. The only person who did not know that was Henry, the King. He thought that the pace of the courtship was determined only by his own desire.
    "You've done very well," I said to Mary a few weeks later. I was sitting in front of the mirror in our bedchamber, brushing my long, dark hair, so that it fell like a scented waterfall over my shoulder, "Your Uncle and Father are pleased with you; they tell me that they are pleased with you."
    Mary dipped her head in acknowledgement and smiled a little, secretive smile.
"This is just the start for us, though. You have to have him and hold him," I watched her flinch at the echo of the words from her wedding vows, and I must admit that my words were, perhaps, ill-chosen.
"I understand."
She's a good girl, our Mary - but I've always felt older than my fifteen summers and our relationship is almost as if I were the elder sister.
Here, though, my natural, inquisitive curiosity shone through - it was as if I was finally playing the part of the younger sister that I am, asking my sister to reveal the secrets of the world she knows.
I hesitated noticeably before asking; it was a question so uncharacteristic of me.
"Mary?" She looked up from the letter she was reading.
"Yes?"
"What is it like to be in love?"
Mary sighed and put her letter on the sideboard beside our bed. She gestured for me to join her on the grand bed so I hopped onto the side of it, and sat, patiently waiting for her answer.
    After a short pause, she opened her mouth and shut it again, shooting me a sidelong glance.
    "I don't even know if I am in love, Anne. It's all so confusing."
    I snorted, perhaps unkindly.
    "Anyone watching you can tell that you are." I paused for thought for a moment, then turned my serious gaze to her. "Tomorrow, Mary, I'll tell you that you can't fall for the King. But tonight," I turned my back to her and leant against her chest, "I want you to tell me what it's like."
I couldn't see her expression, but I felt sure that Mary was blushing. I closed my eyes and relaxed against her as she stroked my hair, waiting for her to speak.
    "It's terrifying," she began tentatively, "but wonderful, too. I feel... I feel alive when he is with me, and that's not anything I'm ashamed of, because he is a magnificent man - even you can't deny that, Anne." Her voice took on a dreamy quality as she spoke of the man she loved, and I must confess myself very concerned about the attachment, should it prove to be long-lasting.
    "I want to please him; I want more than anything for him to think well of me. I want to be the one who cares for him when things don't work out for him, and I want to be the woman who makes him happy again. Oh, Anne, tell me truly. Is this really so terrible?"
    I didn't want to say anything to ruin her story, more than anything, I didn't. So I took hold of one of her hands and squeezed it gently, to show her that no matter what I might say about this love, I am on her side for the moment, at least.
    "I love him dearly, Anne. I want to twirl my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, and I want to know whether his moustache is soft or rough when he kisses. I want to know him, and I want him to need me."
    With another soft, almost inaudible sigh, I realised Mary had said all she was going to say, so I opened my eyes and asked, perhaps crudely,
    "Has he done anything yet?"
    "Just eyes and words," She replied plaintively.
    I nodded and thought that if I was to confide in anyone, it should be my sister. Plucking up the courage took a while, but the silence was by no means uncomfortable. At some point, I snuggled further into Mary's warm embrace, and we sat like that for some time.
    "Mary?"
    "Yes, dearest Anne?"
    "I feel strangely about Henry."
    "Strange how?" Mary's voice had a teasing tone to it, as if she knew what was coming.
    "I am nervous when I speak to him. I'm not nervous when I speak to anyone, not even Queen Katherine. And if his hand brushes mine whilst we are composing poetry, I cannot look at him for fear of him knowing how much it affects me. I feel awkward, ungainly, when I can see him watching me. I don't know what it is, and I wouldn't call it love - but I believe myself to be very much on the way to falling in love."
    Mary withdrew her arms from around me and I felt her stiffen against me. "You write poetry with Henry?" Her voice had turned cold, hard.
    "Why, yes." I replied, sitting up, a little bewildered by her sudden change in attitude. "Most days when the hunt is out."
    "What? But I ride with Henry in the hunt." Mary looked as confused as I felt, now.
    The moment of confusion passed between us, until I realised my mistake.
    "Oh!" I laughed, "I don't mean your Henry! I was talking of Henry Percy - you know, the one who will be the Earl of Northumberland when his father - God forbid - passes away."
    Mary found the misunderstanding as funny as I, and we entertained ourselves talking of nothing until the daylight ceased to fall through our narrow windows, and it was a long time after that when we finally snuffed our candle out.