The Boleyn Prince

Chapter 19

"Do you have anything else you wish to confess, my lady?" the priest asked Mary Tudor tentatively.
She longed to say more. To unburden her soul and give voice to her fears. To have the comfort of an honest confession and true absolution.
For three long years, she had carefully confessed her sins, lest they be reported back to her father and his woman to be used against her.
A confession, by God's law, was a secret known only to the sinner, the priest and God. Yet Mary was convinced that these heretics who preached of a new religion and scorned the role good priests played in the true catholic faith, would have no respect for the sanctity of a confession. She would give them nothing they might use against her.
By God's great mercy, the Lords of the council had not been coerced into fabricating evidence that implicated her in the northern rebellion. It was a sliver of integrity she had feared they all lacked.

She was dressed for her wedding in silence by Lady Clere. Her stomach was bound in knots so tight she feared she would vomit down the front of the new gown.
She had forgotten the thrill of putting on new clothes for the first time. To see how the wonder of a new gown could transform a person, as if by magic.
She had always had a weakness for finery. She took after her father in that respect.
It was beautiful, she thought begrudgingly, pinching the soft fabric of the French oversleeves. The Boleyn's could afford the very best of course. French silk, Venetian lace, Gold metal work, they were all present on her wedding gown.
Mary cast her eye back to the discarded mourning gown that lay upon the bed. It suddenly seemed very pure in comparison to the ostentatious court dress.

"Lady Clere smiled at her. "You look beautiful."

"Anyone could look beautiful in such a gown," Mary thought to herself, but beauty was not her desired effect.  She wanted to look like the girl her father remembered. His beloved daughter, "the pearl of his world," as he had taken to calling her when she was a child. She wanted his mercy to move him to take pity on her and save her from her fate.
She would have to go by Lady Cleres compliment for there was no looking glass in Mary's chamber.
When she had been Princess of England, she had owned a magnificent looking glass brought from Venice and studded with Rubies Emeralds and Pearls in the shape of the Tudor Rose.
Doubtless, it now took pride of place in that woman's chambers. Or Elizabeths. They had been given everything else of hers that was of value.

No message from the King came by the time she was finished dressing, and so she took the first few steps to her new life tentatively, still hoping that a messenger had been waylaid searching for her and he would tell her it had all been a test and that the King loved her once more.
Mary walked with her heart in her throat through the deserted corridors, her short-sighted eyes leaping from one side of the room to another, desperately looking for any glimpse of a messenger.
But no-one came.


By the time she reached the open doors to the chapel, Mary felt all the hope in her heart had sunk away.

"I cannot do this," she blurted, her voice quietly trembling with emotion, as she struggled to fight back her tears.

"You have no choice, Your Grace," Lady Clere reminded her softly, handing her a handkerchief.

Lady Clere was right, she admitted to herself. The choice was no longer hers. It was her punishment for her defiance of her father. As she handed the handkerchief back, she noticed Lady Clere's eyes fixed ahead of her.
Mary followed her gaze to the door of the chapel royal ahead of her. There he stood. Her father, flanked by two of his gentlemen, stood clad in an outfit of green and gold brocade.
A rush of anticipation swept through her, and small smile found its way to her lips. This was her chance, one last try to stop this madness. She would be able to plead for his mercy, his forgiveness. She would implore him to see that her defiance of him stemmed not from any desire to wilfully defy him, but only the dictation of her conscience and fear for her immortal soul.
She sank into a low curtsy as she approached. Bowing her head reverently low in the faint hope that he might just give her his blessing. She waited patiently for him to speak since royal custom dictated the King must be the first to initiate conversation.
Each second ticked by agonisingly slowly. However, no words were forthcoming, nor did she feel the gentle placing of his hand upon her head in blessing. When she dared to raise her head she saw only his hand, outstretched, ready to give her away.
He would not even speak to her.
He must have known that she would try and plead with him. He had been moved by women in the past. He was known for his kindness to them.
All the hope that she had briefly felt fell from her heart like a free-falling stone. A tear of resignation fell from her eyes.
Defeated, she placed her childlike hand on his and they began the walk into the chapel.
As she stepped inside, she was struck by the lavish decoration of the chapel. Along the top of the walls were carved the King's arms: the Tudor rose combining the red and white of York and Lancaster, and the heraldic badge of the portcullis, inherited from her great-grandmother Lady Margaret Beaufort.
The Great beams over the ceiling were gilded in gold and despite the setting sun, the chapel was bathed in a golden light. It was a magnificent display of the Kings wealth. As equally so as that woman who stood in the front row of the left aisle, dressed in a  French gown of purple and gold.
Mary had last seen her father's paramour two January previously when she had come to Hatfield just after her mother had died. Even in her grief, she had not been left to mourn in peace. Once more that woman had tried to exploit her suffering, manipulating her with honeyed words into recognising her as Queen.
She had vowed then that she would bring down Mary's "high Spanish blood."
This was it. This was her revenge, and her father was her instrument in executing it. How else would she find herself in such a cruel situation? Married to a man of dubious reputation. To a house that had caused her nothing but pain and who had certainly wished her dead no less than a dozen times.

That man awaited her at the altar now. She joined him at the head of the congregation and had her first glimpse of George Boleyn, dressed in blue and silver satin. He was tall like that woman but well-built rather than slender. However, he had her oval face, hooked nose, and dark eyes.
A soft smile played upon his thin lips. If it were any other person Mary might have interpreted, it as a smile of kindness. But she knew these Boleyn's gave kindness only to their own. Of course, she was about to be one of their own she reminded herself with repugnance. The name she had despised for the last ten years was about to be hers.
The moment came sooner than she thought. She had attended many weddings over the years, but her own ceremony was the briefest of any.
The priest, whom Mary did not recognise, joined her in matrimony with the barest of solemn words. George Boleyn placed a thick gold band studded with rubies and sapphires onto the third finger of her left hand and the proceedings were closed with a prayer which prompted the dozen or so attendants to burst into applause. Only her father and his woman did not join in clapping for them.
As soon as the service was complete, her father gave the briefest nod of approval and turned from his pew and limped out of the chapel. His woman's train from her silk skirts following him like liquid gold.

"Shall we?" George Boleyn said offering her his arm.

She had no choice but to take it. He led her from the chapel and through several deserted corridors.

"These are our rooms," he said as two ushers clad in blue livery threw wide two double oak doors that opened into a spacious receiving chamber.

Exquisite tapestries shimmering with gold and silver embroidery threads lined the walls. A large table of comfits and pastries stood on top of a large table, placed before a great bay window, framed by heavy yellow and silver damask drapes.
It was as luxurious as any of the rooms she had given when she was a Princess. Yet the faint smell of fresh paint served as a reminder that this was all new to him.
Two lines of young girls, immaculately dressed in the French style, stood at the far end of the table on either side, ready to greet her.

"These are to be your attendants," George explained as each one was presented before her with a curtsey and gave their name. Nearly all of them gave their family name as Howard.

"Spies," she thought bitterly. "Here to serve me but not to be loyal." She longed for the comfort of true companionship from the women who had served her at Ludlow castle. For her governess Lady Salisbury, who had been as dear as a mother to her. She had offered to follow Mary to Hatfield on the day the Duke of Norfolk had come to take her away. Promising to serve her at her own expense rather than be parted from her but was refused.
She had not seen any of them since that dreadful day. She had been given no word of how they faired or whether they still enjoyed her father's favour.

When all the introductions had been made, George turned to her. "I shall return this evening."
"You're leaving?" her tone was more hopeful than questioning, and he did not fail to miss it.

"I am to meet with the King before he leaves on progress with the Queen the day after tomorrow."

"Are we not to accompany them?"

"No," he said simply. "I will return later."

Mary let him go without protest. The door clanged shut with a thud and she was left to endure the intrusive looks of her new household alone.

She sat before the mirror as the Howard women, now her kin attended to her, combing out her thinning auburn hair. One of them, a plump but pretty little girl of no more than fourteen daubed her wrists with a sweet-smelling scent. She flashed Mary a smile that seemed genuine enough. But she was in no mood to reciprocate. She pulled her hand away from the girl. She disliked the familiarity she had presumed on. She did not want to befriend them. They were Boleyn's or Howards. Whatever their family names, they were no friends to her. The women who had attended her when she was a princess were her friends. Susan Clarencious, a woman she had loved as a sister had been her closest confidante. And dear Lady Salisbury. They were her friends. Mary prayed they were all well and had found new positions and not been brought to destruction by the loss of their livelihoods.

The merry laughter of men approaching outside in the corridor startled her and the feeling of butterflies came on strong in her stomach. Would her father come to give her his blessing before she became a woman? Would their distance be left in the past, along with her girlhood, she wondered. She wanted desperately to see him or receive some kind word from him. Yet she knew deep down it was a forlorn hope.
Her new mother-in-law, the Countess of Wiltshire smiled at the sound of the rowdy noise coming from the outer hallway.
"Make ready, my dear," she said softly.

Mary let the familiarity of her words pass without reproach. Her positivity was gone and what remained of her bravery was fading fast. Her nerves had bound her up so tight she felt as though her voice would not come even if she were to speak.
She slipped between the sheets the countess held up for her, still clutching at her rosary.

"Shall I take that for you?" the Countess asked, holding out her hand.

Her reply was a frown and a tightening grip on the coral beads. Mary felt she needed the guidance of the Lord now more than ever. As she thought about what was about to happen, the unease was sinking lower into the pit of her belly and further, down towards the chaste folds of flesh between her legs.
The laughter from outside grew louder and louder until the door was flung open to admit George Boleyn and his friends, all clutching their goblets and clearly drunk.

Mary pulled the sheets up to her neck. No man had ever seen her without so much as a hood upon her head, let alone in her night-time chemise.
For a dreadful moment, she wondered if these reprobates, who were tearing the clothes from their friend's body were even going to leave.
One of them, a terrifying-looking man with an eye patch walked over to the small table by the side of the bed and poured some of the wedding ale into a goblet for himself. "To a happy night," he declared in raising a toast to the terrified young virgin laying in the bed.
Only Elizabeth Boleyn saw the look of fear in Mary's eyes. "Come, sirs," she ushered them to the doorway. "My son is disrobed enough. Let us leave them to themselves."
"A happy night!" a thin-faced, sandy-haired man declared, drunkenly raising his goblet.
"To your duty, Your grace," came another with a wry smile on his face.
Mary felt her cheeks burn with shame. The vulgarity of those men, her new husband's friends were crude and brazen.
Of course, they would not be real gentlemen, how could they be if they were friends with a Boleyn? They were probably all as loose in morals as each other.
The click of the lock echoed within the room as the realisation settled. She lay frozen, watching him anxiously, unsure of what to do now that she was alone with him.
He was handsome, there was no denying that. Though he had a coldness in his eyes that was synonymous with his kin, it was his name that repulsed her far more than his appearance. Had she not been forced into the union and him, not a Boleyn, she might have chosen such a man for herself, if she had ever possessed such liberty.

George raised the covers and slowly slid himself in between the soft linens so that he was lying next to her.
Mary watched him anxiously. She was afraid of what the night's events would bring and her new husband's power. Her breath quickened as her nervousness intensified. His hands felt like a monster's paws as he slid her thin chemise up her legs and mounted her.
Mary froze. For a second, she didn't know what had happened. Her entire midsection seemed to explode in pain. Her breath stopped and let out a stifled whimper as every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes filled with tears, and her body writhed against his intrusion. She felt as if she was being ripped open. She could feel him, inside her, the head of his manhood pressed deep into places she didn't know existed.
The pain was intense, she was overcome by the sensation as he filled her. She knew had little choice other than to allow him to do as he wished. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, praying that would be over quickly.
For a moment, he lay there, his weight bearing down on her. Until eventually, he began to slide away.
As her walls closed behind him, she allowed a faint sigh of relief to escape her lips, and then he was inside her fully again. Mary's stomach heaved and twisted as he moved in and out of her, His pace growing quicker and quicker. Each thrust made her whimper anew. Her mind swimming with the pain that only comes from defloration.
She thrashed and wriggled, trying to get free. However, his weight held her down. He thrusts became more aggressive, his breath becoming ragged and then cried out as his efforts brought him to climax.

She did not know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. That was more brutish than anything she had ever experienced in her short life. Was this what men enjoyed. what women risked their reputations and the sanctity of their souls for? How could women want to experience that kind of pain for pleasure? For a moment, she feared he might try and do it to her again, until he rolled off her and onto his back.
For what felt like an age she lay there in the darkness, wetness seeping out of her. She felt disgusting. Violated.
Mercifully, George was soon snoring softly. worn out by a mixture of his exertions and the wedding ale.
Mary gingerly manoeuvred her scored body into a more comfortable position, pulled the sheets up around her and gave way to silent weeping.