Madge agrees with a yawn as she drifts off to sleep, leaving me to ponder these great things in a mind that, to me, feels very small.
I have become interested in writing verse. Though I do not find myself to be of any unique talent, I am compelled to scribble my little observations and feelings to give them vent. There is a solace in it, an escape. Even bliss, when the words flow right and inspiration surges through my limbs like the aftereffects of mulled wine. I even set some to music, as I am quite accomplished on the virginals and lute, but I dare not say a word about it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hear me sing, anyway.
The only person I cannot wait to discuss my newfound passion with is my brother Surrey, who once told me I had a "poet's heart." Like him. I would be glad to be like Surrey.
This is a poetic circle, and the ladies and gentlemen often share their compositions. I do not share mine, however. I keep them to myself, in my little locked casket with the few letters and other treasures it is my privilege to hold dear.
Often I write about God, His love, His mercy and kindness--traits I feel are not exalted enough. Everyone knows about His wrath and judgment, but not many sing the praises of His gentler virtues. Anne has talked a lot in secret about the New Learning, aspects of church reform that I find myself agreeing with. Anne believes everyone should be allowed to read the English Bible that William Tyndale translated in 1525. I admit I would love to study the Bible myself, lowly girl that I may be. I would love to read the Psalms and get lost in the poetry of those so inspired by the Spirit that they commended their hearts to timeless verse.
But these are thoughts kept to myself, and when I am not writing about the Divine I write about Anne: her temper, her wit, her beauty. When I feel frivolous I pick out one handsome gentleman or another to spark my muse, careful not to assign them with a name in case my poems are ever discovered.
To keep everyone amused during these tense times while the King's Great Matter persists (his Great Matter being Anne), the other courtiers make a show of their poetry, and it is not long before Anne catches on to the fact that I am concealing my own.
Unfortunately it is in front of the king himself that she chooses to point this out. Everyone is engaged in gambling in her apartments; there's a sort of laziness about it. People are drinking and conversing idly; in a corner a young musician is playing his lute and singing in a soft, sweet voice.
As I am, for the most part, invisible at court, I do not think anyone will call attention to me, curled up in a corner near the fire writing my verse, least of all Anne herself.
"What is little Mary Howard doing over there? Has she taken in too much wine?" she asks, her tone light and musical. "Come here, little Mary, and bring whatever it is you're writing with you."
I clutch my verse to my chest, my cheeks blazing as I approach the table. I sink into a deep curtsy before the king. "Your Majesty," I whisper, ever awed by the man.
He laughs. "She's a dear lass," he says. "Do tell us what you were doing all by yourself."
"Oh, she's always by herself," Anne informs him. "Except for Madge and her little pup, our Mary is as silent as a mouse."
I stand before them, my legs shaking so hard that my knees are knocking together. I am grateful they are concealed by my voluminous blue skirt.
"Won't you read us what you were writing?" she asks. "Or is it a love letter?"
I cannot discern if Anne is being kind or if she is trying to humiliate me. Now and then when in a temper, she derives a strange pleasure from the humiliation of others. I am spared this fate most of the time because of my "mouselike" virtues, but now and then her black eyes fall upon me with a wicked glint and she sees fit to wrangle me into an oral beating that brings me to my knees. Most of the time it is over my clumsiness; if I drop something or trip over my gown
I have become interested in writing verse. Though I do not find myself to be of any unique talent, I am compelled to scribble my little observations and feelings to give them vent. There is a solace in it, an escape. Even bliss, when the words flow right and inspiration surges through my limbs like the aftereffects of mulled wine. I even set some to music, as I am quite accomplished on the virginals and lute, but I dare not say a word about it. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hear me sing, anyway.
The only person I cannot wait to discuss my newfound passion with is my brother Surrey, who once told me I had a "poet's heart." Like him. I would be glad to be like Surrey.
This is a poetic circle, and the ladies and gentlemen often share their compositions. I do not share mine, however. I keep them to myself, in my little locked casket with the few letters and other treasures it is my privilege to hold dear.
Often I write about God, His love, His mercy and kindness--traits I feel are not exalted enough. Everyone knows about His wrath and judgment, but not many sing the praises of His gentler virtues. Anne has talked a lot in secret about the New Learning, aspects of church reform that I find myself agreeing with. Anne believes everyone should be allowed to read the English Bible that William Tyndale translated in 1525. I admit I would love to study the Bible myself, lowly girl that I may be. I would love to read the Psalms and get lost in the poetry of those so inspired by the Spirit that they commended their hearts to timeless verse.
But these are thoughts kept to myself, and when I am not writing about the Divine I write about Anne: her temper, her wit, her beauty. When I feel frivolous I pick out one handsome gentleman or another to spark my muse, careful not to assign them with a name in case my poems are ever discovered.
To keep everyone amused during these tense times while the King's Great Matter persists (his Great Matter being Anne), the other courtiers make a show of their poetry, and it is not long before Anne catches on to the fact that I am concealing my own.
Unfortunately it is in front of the king himself that she chooses to point this out. Everyone is engaged in gambling in her apartments; there's a sort of laziness about it. People are drinking and conversing idly; in a corner a young musician is playing his lute and singing in a soft, sweet voice.
As I am, for the most part, invisible at court, I do not think anyone will call attention to me, curled up in a corner near the fire writing my verse, least of all Anne herself.
"What is little Mary Howard doing over there? Has she taken in too much wine?" she asks, her tone light and musical. "Come here, little Mary, and bring whatever it is you're writing with you."
I clutch my verse to my chest, my cheeks blazing as I approach the table. I sink into a deep curtsy before the king. "Your Majesty," I whisper, ever awed by the man.
He laughs. "She's a dear lass," he says. "Do tell us what you were doing all by yourself."
"Oh, she's always by herself," Anne informs him. "Except for Madge and her little pup, our Mary is as silent as a mouse."
I stand before them, my legs shaking so hard that my knees are knocking together. I am grateful they are concealed by my voluminous blue skirt.
"Won't you read us what you were writing?" she asks. "Or is it a love letter?"
I cannot discern if Anne is being kind or if she is trying to humiliate me. Now and then when in a temper, she derives a strange pleasure from the humiliation of others. I am spared this fate most of the time because of my "mouselike" virtues, but now and then her black eyes fall upon me with a wicked glint and she sees fit to wrangle me into an oral beating that brings me to my knees. Most of the time it is over my clumsiness; if I drop something or trip over my gown
Similar Books
