The Only Boleyn

Spring 1522 - Queen Katherine

I am presented to the Queen later that day, as a matter of courtesy. Mary and my Lady Mother led me through the tangle of corridors that to my trained eye appear dowdy and old-fashioned. My opinion reflects the gossip in France; Queen Claude had warned me with ill-concealed laughter that the English Queen was ageing and terribly unfashionable. God forbid, Claude's ladies even reported that she still wears a gable hood! What a terrible embarrassment for poor Henry she must be. By all accounts, the golden prince that he was as a young man has evolved into a golden king, as perfect as one of the Roman statues from antiquity that are still littered gloriously around Italy. I slide a conspiratorial sideways glance as Mary, who is practically bursting with pride at the dark, dank chambers. Poor girl - she must think this is as good as she would find anywhere in the civil world, I think with a disdainful glance at the dusty curtains kept closed in broad daylight. Still, I am curious.
     "He is as wonderful as everyone says?" I wish to know about the fabled King Henry before I meet the man himself. After all, it is hard to impress a man knowing not a thing about him.
     "Oh, yes!" Mary's eyes sparkle as she talks of him, "He rides every day, hunting on a grand horse - he looks magnificent, and he dances... Oh, the dances and the masques! I'd wager you wouldn't find anything as glamorous as that in France!" She looks enormously pleased with herself at that last comment. She probably assumes she is some great wit, now that she has insulted my country.
     "I'd thank you to remember who you are talking to," I remark haughtily, my fashionable skirt swishing out behind me. "I have spent my life at the most glamorous court in Christendom. I can assure you, Mary, dear, sweet, naïve Mary - I will see nothing here," I gesture at the dingy antechamber we just passed, "that we could not do better in France."
     "We, is it now? You forget I spent part of my childhood at the French court, too, Anne. You are no more French than I am. We are English born and bred, and Father won't be pleased to hear you speak of France so familiarly - France is England's natural enemy."
     I look at Mary, with her gable hood and old-fashioned style of dress. Although the palest green of her gown nicely compliments her golden hair, in comparison to my rich, bold red velvet one - fashionably cut and lined with gold, and my French hood that outclasses her gable by no short amount, I know that I outshine her in class, style and intelligence.
     "What a preposterous idea you suggest! Why, after all these years of friendship between France and England do you still insist on holding out-dated ideas? The last Queen of France was Mary Tudor, the very sister to your precious King Henry! Why, Mary, you should be ashamed of yourself." I turn my chin away from her to emphasise my point. For her part, she looks like a scolded child. In this world, a woman will do much better from keeping her emotions hidden behind a veil of pleasant humour. Mary, however, seems to wish to be taken for a spoilt child, not a young lady on the cusp of adulthood.
     "But why do you need to pretend to be something you're not?" Mary's voice is a thin whine now. I do so long to slap her.
     "Mary, a woman must have something that singles her out at a court. Something that makes people notice her. I am going to be French." I say simply. Mary still looks displeased, but the guards at the door of the Queen's presence chamber have uncrossed their spears at a nod from our Lady Mother. The great oak doors swing open and reveal a huddle of modestly clothed women, bent over their sewing in the low light. The Queen, once I had identified her by her slightly raised seat, was nothing remarkable. In fact, she wore nothing to distinguish herself from her regular ladies. I understood now Queen Claude's concerns.
     Nevertheless, Katherine of Aragon looked up from her sewing when we entered and coolly regarded me with a sweeping gaze of her blue eyes. I strode towards her, undaunted, and swept her an immaculate French curtesy, and rose up as if I were the Queen herself.
     "Anne Boleyn. I understand you are Mary Carey's sister?" The Queen seemed unimpressed by my French courtesy, but I was hardly concerned with impressing her. And her clothing! She looked like an old woman dressed in the ugliest clothes in Europe.
     "I am delighted to meet you, Your Grace." I spoke with a rippling voice filled with the seductive French accent. Every gesture I made was that of the French court.
     "Let us hope you shall be a credit to your sister, Mistress Boleyn. Lady Carey is a most gracious lady." Katherine spoke coldly to me.
     "I shall endeavour, your Grace." I swept another beautiful curtesy to her, and rose up laughing, as if I had suddenly thought of a most amusing jest. "We shall be alike in our struggle, you and I," I addressed the Queen with a taunting sparkle in my eyes, "You shall endeavour to be a credit to your King, and I shall endeavour to be a credit to my family."
     The Queen understood what I was insinuating. Her face remained impassive, but I knew I had struck her hard. Never again will she underestimate Anne Boleyn.
     Mary drew me to a windowseat. She looked shocked at my impetuosity.
     "Anne," she hissed, "you cannot insult the Queen like that! It is surely no fault of her own that she and the King have not been blessed with a son yet. It will come in time, I am sure of that." I glanced at Mary dismissively. The whole room appeared as if a coop of hens when a fox appeared. The ladies were furiously gossiping amongst each other, several attempting to subtly listen in to our conversation. Only the Queen appeared unruffled, continuing dutifully with her sewing.
     "Mary, can you not even laugh at her hood? She looks like someone stuck a roof on her head!" Mary persisted and shook her head at me.
     "Anne, you are cruel. Henry loves her and she has the trust and respect of her ladies. It is not your place to insult her, when she is so far above you!" I slid a sly smile at her and regarded her from under my thick dark eyelashes.
     "But does he take mistresses yet?" My question inquires into whether the Queen's marriage is quite as secure as Mary makes it out to be - as I expected, Mary squirms shiftily under my intense gaze. "At least he could legitimise a bastard son, then." I continue, assuming that her reluctance to answer means he does indeed take mistresses. "What on earth would become of England if Queen Katherine fails to produce a male heir? The gossip in France is that her daughter Mary, who has albeit seen six summers and should be well past her dangerous childhood years, is sickly."
Mary gasps in horror at my suggestion.
     "Anne, what you suggest is treason. I do not wish to hear you speak of it again, and God forbid Henry finds out."
     All the same, I think lazily as I settle into my sewing, I wouldn't mind being Henry's mistress. If I bore him a son, he could be the King of England. Mary would benefit, too, even though now she is either too slow or too stubborn to see it. Mary would see her nephew on the throne of England. I would be called 'My Lady the King's Mother', and a Boleyn would sit on the throne of England, where we are all born to be.