The Boleyn Prince

Chapter 4

Against her better judgement and the protest of her family, Anne reconciled herself to the idea of inviting Mary to court for Prince Henry's christening. She would never admit it to anyone, but she was curious to see what kind of husband this Stafford man was to her sister. How well he kept her.

Mary had lived in luxury all her life. She was the eldest of the Boleyn children and so had always received better investment from her parents than Anne. She was given the better bedchamber at Hever. The finer horses and gowns. She had been Henry's mistress before he had turned his attention to Anne and one of the lecherous French Kings' conquests during their girlhood in France. She had been gifted gowns, jewels and even had a warship named after her from her rich lovers. Things William Stafford could not afford in abundance. Mary was not easily seduced into acting rashly, at least not with men beneath her station. Something must have swayed her into so far forgetting herself.

Anne wondered if her sister ever regretted the choice she had made. The answer was evident when Mary was shown into her confinement chamber. She had a confidence about her that Anne had not seen since the early days of her romance with the King. The confidence of a woman in love.
Her sister was portlier than she remembered. Her oval face had become more rounded, yet there was not a line to be seen on her face. Unlike Anne's. Her troubles had indelibly aged her. She knew she looked years older than Mary. Her skin was pasty next to Mary's luminous glow. All the feelings of inferiority she had felt as a child came rushing back. Even now as Queen and the mother of the future King, Anne still felt inadequate next to her sister.
Her clothes, cut in Anne's favourite French style, were new, fashionable and expensive. George had taken the trouble to clothe her for her appearance. Neither their mother, father or uncle so much as mentioned her name, let alone thought of sending her money for clothes to properly present herself at court.
Her years in the country had not rusted her upbringing. She swept her sister an immaculate French curtsey. Her proud head locked eyes with her sister.

"You've grown fat!" Anne pointed out bluntly, without preamble. Promoting a smile from her older sister.

Mary had the good grace to laugh as her fingers nervously played with the embroidery on the blue silk stomacher. "Yes, I suppose I have somewhat."

"Your children are well?"

"They are thank you. Henry is doing splendidly with the tutor you found for him." Pulling a letter from the concealed pocket in her skirt, she handed Anne a sealed note. "He has written a letter to you. He wanted to write it in Latin, but I told him you preferred French."

"And your daughters?"

Mary's dark Boleyn eyes sparkled with joy. "Katherine grows more beautiful with every day. She hopes to come to court someday. She dotes on baby Anne. It's as well we could not afford to get a woman in to care for her. She rocks her cradle, changes her linens, and sings her lullabies. I barely get to see her from sunrise to sunset. She is always in her arms."

"You do not seem to lack for money," Anne remarked tartly. Nodding to the sumptuous court dress her sister was sporting.

"It was a gift," Mary responded unashamedly.

"From George?" The question sounded more like an accusation than a query.

"Yes."

There was little point in teasing her. No matter what Anne said, Mary showed no shame in her reduced circumstances. The woman who had been the lover of two Kings, who had held the court at her feet and was now reduced to living off the generosity of her relatives was as proud as she had been the day she announced to her family she was the King's lover. Anne conceded to be generous. She invited Mary to kiss her cheek and to hold the sleeping Prince Henry.

She allowed her sister to take part in the christening procession, charging her to spy on the behaviour of Lady Mary at a distance. So discreet was Mary that Anne barely saw her as the whole court processed to her chambers after her little Prince Henry had been baptised. Lying on a specially constructed daybed, cushioned with crimson damask and lined with cloth of gold, she was the very image of a Queen victorious.
The jewels of the Queens of England glittered around her throat. Her black hair, bathed and perfumed with the scent of French roses shone with health and looked striking against her crimson mantle edged with ermine.

Her aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk, who had refused to attend the christening of Princess Elizabeth, now took centre stage in Prince Henry's procession at the insistence of the Duke. Her head held high as she placed the gurgling infant in Anne's arms. Kissing his soft little head, she gave him her blessing, before handing him to the King.

Openly weeping tears of joy, Henry gave thanks for his son and his Queen who had borne him. "Bless you, child. In the name of God, the Virgin Mary and St George," He declared proudly, as he walked around the stuffy confines of the Queen's chamber, showing off his son to the court.
It was a sight Anne had feared she would never see. When she thought of how precarious her position had been at the beginning of the year, confined to her rooms to safeguard her pregnancy.
After three years of marriage and only their daughter Elizabeth to show for it her relationship with the King was strained and distant. The imperialists had been circling. Promoting that wench Jane Seymour, who now cowered at the back of her chambers. Her little head demurely bowed to avoid the gloating smiles of the Boleyn family.
Henry had refused to allow Anne to dismiss Jane throughout her pregnancy. Whether she had become his mistress or not during her confinement, Anne could not be certain. But her time was up now. The minute she was churched, she would be back in her husband's Jane Seymour consigned to anonymity. Of that, she was determined.