The Boleyn Prince

Chapter 7

"You know I cannot offer you a position at court," Anne explained to her sister as they walked through the privacy of the privy gardens.

To Mary, this was a blow. She had been counting on her reunion with Anne to pave the way for her rehabilitation at court. A position in the Queen's household would go far in alleviating her husbands' debts and bring them out of obscurity. The last few weeks had reminded her of how much she missed the thrill of courtier life when the Boleyn's were in the ascendancy. As the aunt of the future King of England, there was no limit on what she might achieve. She might have secured a position in her sisters' household, or Princess Elizabeth's. She had hoped that the birth of her son might have softened her sister. They had been close as children. But Anne the Queen was too proud to let a scandalized woman amongst her elite. She prided herself on running a disciplined household.

"I made my choice years ago," she conceded bravely, resolving to keep her sister on side.

"Yes, you did, Anne agreed dispassionately. "You could have married an Earl or even a Marquis...."

"But none would have loved me the way that William loves me," Her sister argued. "None would have respected me as much or cared for my children the way he does for them. I am the poorer in station for marrying him, but the richer in fortune."

"You chose him for yourself, not for the family." Anne rebuked her, in a tone that sounded much like their tutor Doctor Knight had used when they were in the schoolroom. "We had a duty to marry for our family."

Deep down Mary knew her sister was right. She hadn't wanted to marry a rich man twice her age. She had married once at her family's instructions. A good man to be sure but not once that had stirred her heart in the way that she knew it could be triggered. Her heart was softer than Annes. Mary had known true passion in her life and knew her heart demanded it for her future. She had loved the King, but he had chosen Anne over her. William Stafford was the last man she had ever expected to fall in love with, but love him she did. It was a love a love without sense, without reason. She could not explain why of all the men who had paid court to her after William Careys death why it was the plain speaking, common born soldier her heart had chosen. But it had. He was the one her leapt for on sight. He who stoked the ambers of the fire in her soul. She allowed Anne her sermon, accepting it with resolved contrition.

"I have been talking with George," Anne said continuing their walk around the Hampton Court gardens, sombre in their black mourning clothes for the Duke of Richmond. "Since the King has granted him the Palace of Beaulieu and other manors, he has no real need for Rochford Hall. He is willing to offer it to you and your family."

At this, Mary was stopped in her tracks. Rochford Hall was a grand manor house, part of her fathers' inheritance from his mother and considerably larger and grander than Chebsy. She could only imagine what he would make of his disgraced daughter and her family moving into it.
The Boleyn girls had known Rochford Hall for years and the rustic grandeur and it familial ties had always held a special place in Mary's heart.
Anne was not quite so sentimental. She had always complained that Rochford and Hever were stiflingly boring to her. All she had ever craved was the heady life of a courtier. To keep company with the nobles of the land rather than tenant farmers. To live in Palaces rather than manors or modest country castles.
How she had crowed when Cardinal Wolsey had finally been vanquished and she had taken possession of his splendid London residence, York Place for her own. She had never looked so smug. Including the night the King had officially proposed to her.

"Thank you," she stammered. She could barely speak for gratitude. She was truly taken aback.

Anne caught sight of George, waiting for them at the far end of the garden and changed their path to meet him. "And you will send Katherine to me when she is thirteen. She can be my little maid. Henry will continue his education until he comes of age. Perhaps he will be a diplomat or governor of my sons' household."

"Thank you, Anne. I am grateful." She said as they joined George, who was waiting to escort Mary back to Chebsy and then onto her new home at Rochford.

"And you may keep the dress," Anne nodded to the black silk gown she had given to her elder sister when the King had insisted the whole court go into mourning following the death of the Duke of Richmond.
Mary did not own any gowns in black. The colour was far too expensive for her modest budget.

"Thank you, Anne," Mary said again. "Thank you very much."

"Adieu, ma souer," she said in her typically dramatic French fashion, before heading back inside

Mary smiled at her brother. "I understand I have you to thank for my new home,

"Well, I couldn't very well let you return to that little hovel at Chebsy," he said flashing her mischievous grin.

She reciprocated his smile. "It's not quite a hovel you know."

"But not quite fitting for the aunt of the future King of England." He insisted.

A broad smile broke out on Mary's face at his words. Even now it still seemed surreal to Mary that it had actually happened. After all, they had been through, Queen Katharine's defiance. The intervention of the Vatican. Weathering the storm of disappointment that had greeted Elizabeth's birth. The secret sorrow for the babies Anne had lost. There had been a point when she had wondered if another child would ever come for her sister.

"What is it?" He asked, bringing her back to the present.

"It's just, I still can't quite believe it. Anne's son. After everything that has happened. Everything we have worked for. She has a son. There is finally a Boleyn Prince in the royal cradle."

"And it will be a Boleyn King who sits on the throne," George mused. A proud smile played upon his handsome face.

The smile slipped from her face. "I just can't help thinking, what if it been me. If he had married me. If it was my Henry as the Prince of England. I think a small part of me will always hate Anne for tempting the King away rather than encouraging him to do right by me." Lowering her eyes to the ground she added. "I suppose you think that sinful. That I should be grateful for the honours done to the family."

"I think there are many who would say that Anne's faults outweigh her virtues," he said charitably placing his arm around her. "But for good or ill, she is our Queen and our blood. If she rises, then so do all of us."

"You all rise," she pointed out. "Anne was made a Marquess in her own right before she married the King. You are a Viscount, Privy Councillor and master of many great offices. Father has two Earldoms, which will one day be yours, whilst I am disowned because I chose to marry a man for myself."

"You're right, you do sound prideful," he teased her gently slapping her on her back, leading her towards the stables.

Across the lawn, at the stone steps that led to the royal apartments, Anne discreetly observed her sister and brother embracing.
She knew Mary wanted to return to court, to be one of her ladies again. But Anne was adamant. She prided herself on running a strict and well-disciplined household. Stricter than Katherine of Aragon had ever been. She had retained the services of King Henry's lovers when they had been her attending ladies. Anne was determined she would not do the same. Katharine had never seen her women as a threat because she thought her position unassailable. It was unthinkable to her that she could be put aside despite her failure to give the King a son. What threat could a humble country knights' daughter be to a Queen born from the most powerful and prestigious country in Europe. The answer was of course Henry. Her Henry who had chosen her over every other princess. The Henry who had jousted with his and Katharine's initials entwined with lovers' knots had been the driving force3 in ostracising his beloved wife of twenty years. His desperate need for a son had turned the devoted husband into a dispassionate browbeater.

As Anne returned to her rooms, her eye caught the plump figure of Jane Seymour shrinking in the doorway of her antechamber trying to avoid detection.
Anne could feel her familiar irritation for Jane's meekness resurfacing. There was no reason to keep Jane at court among her ladies any longer, and Anne could not wait to be rid of her.

"Mistress Seymour."  Her tone commanded Jane to follow her mistress, and the rest of the household along with her. Anne seated herself against the soft cushions on the ornate chair under her dais and feigned an attempt to stifle a little giggle of amusement as Jane attempted to perform a badly practised French curtsey. For two years she had stumbled through her position, yet Jane had never mastered the art of the polished French manners in which Anne had excelled.
There was nothing graceful or elegant about Jane Seymour. She wore the mandatory French style of clothing that Anne required of all her ladies, but they did not suit her plump frame. Remarkable in itself really since French clothes were the epitome of sophistication and glamour. The rich and vivid colours only served to emphasise Janes pale features.
How, Anne thought to herself contemptuously, could her husband have been attracted to this inferior dullard? How could anyone have thought this meek maid was a serious successor to replace her on the throne?

"Mistress Seymour, I will be frank. I am displeased with you."

"Your Majesty, I"

Anne silenced her with a wave. She did not want to hear her speak.

"As you will recall, when you were first sworn into my service, you took an oath before God to serve me faithfully, honourably, and virtuously. Yet these basic standards, which I require of all my ladies, have been found lacking in you. You have proven yourself to be a woman of loose morals so contemptible; the whores of Southwark would blush."

A collective gasp from Anne's ladies rippled through the room at the brazen audacity of the Queen of England calling her attendant lower than a whore.

"Madam, I..."

"You are dismissed, Mistress Seymour," Anne cut in. Determined not to give one more minute of her time than was necessary to her. "Pack up your things and return to Wiltshire at once. I never want to see your face in my court again."

Jane could not answer. She could tolerate the Queen's mocking of her curtseys or poor attempts at speaking French, but her vicious words had humiliated her to new lows. She turned from the Queen without a curtsey of farewell, before the smirking face of Anne Boleyn could see her tears.