The Boleyn Prince

Chapter 21

When she awoke, Mary found George Boleyn sitting in a chair beside the bed staring at her. He had been watching her sleep.
Instinctively, she pulled the linen sheets up over the thin chemise that covered her body. She hated being so exposed before a stranger. Even if the Kings law declared him to be her husband. She had hoped he would leave her alone now. His duty was done. She was a virgin no longer. He had robbed her of her maidenhead. Her virtue squandered on a man of the basest morals.
Most brides were afforded a couple of days of private seclusion. George clearly had no regard for her or tradition or he would not have tried to bed her again so soon.  She had won a reprieve last night but for how long? How long until he came to their rooms and bed commanding her to suffer her wifely duty? How long until he pressured her for an heir?

 "Good morning," he said softly, passing her a flagon of cold beer.

She shook her head. She had never liked the bitter taste of beer but would never drink anything she had not first seen him partake. His witch of a sister might have concocted some potion to kill her. She would not go that easily.

 "I have decided that we should leave court today," he said as he pulled on his jacket.

 She sat bolt upright in the bed. The covers still high above her chest. "Today?"

 "If that is agreeable to you?"

 "You are giving me a choice?"

 "I want to know what you want."

 "You must do as you will." She said pulling the sheets tighter around her body, wondering what this affability would cost her.

Her raw honesty mingled so well with her forced submission.  "We will leave this afternoon then," he said adjusting his linen collar. "We can spend tonight at Durham house and decide then."

 "Durham House?"

 "Yes. It is to be our London House. And then there is Beaulieu."

At the mention of her former residence, a long-time favourite of hers. Mary's grey eyes lost some of their sorrow.

"What about Beaulieu?"

"It is mine now." He said sitting down at the end of the bed. "The King granted it to me two years ago. I thought it could be our country home. It is nearer to court than Hever and bigger than Grimston Manor which was given to me when I married Jane. What do you think?"

Beaulieu had long been her favourite country residence. She had been residing there on that fateful day she had received the letter from her father announcing that he had married Anne Boleyn. It had been that same day that she had received orders to vacate the palace to make room for George. Despite the painful past, it still held some happy memories for her. "I would be glad to see Beaulieu again," she admitted.

"I did have Rochford Hall as well of course, but I offered it to my sister Mary. She has a growing family, and their home was rather small and unsuitable. I hope you do not mind?"

Mary shook her head. She did not mind one bit. The last thing she wanted was the lingering threat of having to take up residence at Rochford Hall. She would be glad to see Beaulieu again. She knew its people and the local countryside. It would be a comfort to have some familiarity around her.

He came to collect her when it was time to leave. She was surprised she was not ushered out as discreetly as she had arrived, hidden away into a waiting litter for fear that someone should see her. George walked her down to the landing stage where a barge emblazoned with the arms of the Boleyn Bull was waiting for them.
For a moment she paused, reluctant to board the Boleyn's vessel, but of course, she was a Boleyn now. She would travel in barges adorned with their sigil. Her servants would wear livery embroidered with their colours and crest. Her wardrobe would be full of the hue of their colours. She wore them now. The gown she had worn for the wedding was the only good dress she possessed. Even Beaulieu and Durham House would be decorated with their device.

The journey upriver from Whitehall to Durham House was mercifully short. Spring was unseasonably cold this year and she was grateful for the warm cloak Lady Clere had given her before she had left Hatfield.

"Durham House," George said proudly pointing to the large grey stone property on the waterfront to right as their barge passed by a walled garden.
A narrow landing stage led to the entrance in the centre of the building, next to two small patches of grass on either side.
George disembarked first, helped Mary onto the gangway and led her inside, down a short corridor where in a large hallway, the household staff, dressed in Boleyn blue were waiting to greet them.
George insisted on showing her around the whole of the property. The layout of the building was in the shape of a cross. A decorational nod to the religious iconography of the history of the building Mary thought since Durham House had once been the seat for the Bishops of Durham. That was until that villain Cromwell and his thieves had raided and pilfered its treasures to fill the King's coffers. Treasures no doubt that woman had now purloined and displayed in the rooms that were once belonged to Mary's mother.
The living quarters at the far end of Durham House boasted an excellent view of the river. To the left were the stables and kennels. Whilst the top, looking onto the main courtyard and gatehouse were the chapel and great hall.

"That is the strand," George said pointing to the street that lay beyond the Gatehouse. The Strand was one of London's most strategically important roads. It connected the City of London to the royal centre of Westminster. Mary must have ridden down it numerous times when she had come to visit the court when a young child.

"Let's go back inside," he said ushering her away from the gatehouse and back through the courtyard to the living quarters at the far end of the building.
Just like his chambers at Whitehall, George had clearly refurbished the rooms with no expense spared. Vivid tapestries lined the walls and thick rugs lay on the floor. Dark sideboards pressed against the walls boasted gold and silver plates, doubtless stolen from local abbeys. A blatant reminder of the criminality of how this luxury had been gained.

"The rooms at the far end are our bedchambers," he explained. "Your chambers, in particular, have a very good view of the river."

"Yes, I know. They were my rooms when I last stayed here." She did not mention that they had also been her mothers' rooms when she had lodged at Durham House as a young woman. She could already feel her presence within them, and it afforded her comfort for the ordeal of what lay ahead. She feared if she mentioned it, he would take it away. "If you will excuse me, I would like to visit the chapel."

"Before you go, Mary, there is something I would say to you."

She turned to face him, folding her hand against her stomacher. "As you wish," she said evenly.
She hated the familiarity he now presumed upon. Behaving as though he was her equal. She was a Princess of England, a granddaughter of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. The most prestigious royal blood of Europe ran through her veins. George Boleyn, ennobled as a Duke though he were, was a scheming chancer of low birth benefiting from unprecedented times.

"You are now my wife. It is now done and cannot be undone. It is perhaps not what you had envisioned for your future."

"On the contrary," she replied simply, standing tall in her dignity. "I always knew my husband would be one chosen for me by the King's Majesty. It is the custom for Princesses."
She did not add that as a Princess, she had been betrothed to the sons of the King of France and the Holy Roman Emperor himself. All eminent, noble, God-fearing men whom she considered far worthier of her hand than this upstart who only had risen so far because of his immoral sisters' loose behaviour.

George understood her meaning entirely. "I have no delusions that you probably care little if anything for me. But I am resolved to be a good husband and hope that in time we will reach an amenable compromise. I am willing to give you an allowance so that you may buy gowns or jewels, books as you wish."

'I would be gladder to have about me those that I care for, rather than any worldly possessions," she replied pointedly. "My Lady Governess, Lady Pole? I would be glad to have her with me."

"Your household has already been appointed and the Countess is in disgrace as well you know. Besides, you will not need to trouble yourself with running the household. That will be done by my comptroller."

"Then what am I expected to do with my days?" her tone was haughtier than she intended.

"Whatever you wish, within reason. My duties will keep me often at court. You are welcome to reside here or at Beaulieu, whichever you please. However, I must make it clear to you it is His Majesty's instruction that you will not be allowed to come to court until you have acknowledged his supremacy and Queen Anne as his lawful wife."

"I cannot, in all good conscience concede to such a thing," She insisted. "And I am sorry for it, for I fear that I might never see my father again."

"He will not," George confirmed. "He said as much last night when I dined with him. Now that you are married, you are no longer his burden."

His description angered her. "Burden?" Was that really how her father thought of his eldest daughter. His only trueborn child. She could clearly recall him telling a Venetian ambassador that all children were blessings from God. No, it had to be evil words invented by those despicable Boleyn's. They thought of her as a burden, not her father. He loved her. He may be angry with her, he may want to punish her, but she trusted that he loved her as dearly as she loved him.

"Responsibility," George corrected himself. "The point I am making is that your interest and mine are now one and the same."

She went to argue against his statement, but a sudden realisation hit her. He was right. For good or ill she was tied to him now. Her fortunes rested with him. No one else in England would trouble themselves to help her.
"Till death, us do part." The solemn words of the wedding mass reverberated around her memory. Never had truer words been spoken. She was bound to him now for the rest of her life.