me.
I wrote twice to Percy, each time hiring secret couriers to carry the missive to his hands in Northumberland. I waited endless weeks that went to months for his replies. My heart grew still by measures till one grey morning when hope finally died, so died my heart. It withered then and turned hard like some sweet fruit that once past ripeness dries and goes to leather.
The quiet as I lay abed is terrible to me. Beyond these walls are only blackness, meadows, cattle, trees. No chambers gaily candlelit with gentlemen and ladies amused by jesters, jugglers, fools. No fetes, no masques, no dancing, music, lovers loving. I sometimes think that I shall go mad with the quiet and the dark and the loneliness. O sweet Percy lying cold and comfortless in your married bed, are we not cruelly punished for loving truly? I swear I will not have my Mothers helpless fate. I swear it on the stars.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
6 June 1524
Diary,
A celebration! George my brother rode home to visit Hever Hall and stayed a fortnight and a day. He is a charming boy who ladies love with handsome grace and reckless wit, and for these things I love him dearly too. Our Mother came alive with him at home, the only living son, adored and he adoring her. Special meals were made and we three sat for hours to gab, drink, make music, play at games.
But when I could I’d steal him far away, and we would ride for leagues, Urian running at the horses hooves. We’d take the hawks and hunt or walk the grassy path beside the River Eden, and idle days away. Full of gossip, current courtly jests and puns, he amused and filled me full where I had been bereft.
One day we lay beneath a shady elm, the hound lazy at our feet. He told the news that stirs our family’s fate. Our Sister Mary is still mistress to the King. “She does our family proud,” said George, a wicked grin upon his lips. “The saying has it that with Mary Boleyn, a King and his codpiece are always parted.”
“And how grows our good King’s manly accessory?” I asked gravely.
“Large as a pie plate, sister, and embroidered with the Tudor crest, all swords and stags and pomegranates.”
“Pomegranates!” We laughed together till our eyes were wet.
“I swear that girl is bold” he said and made a crown of wild daisies for my head. “She’s looking well. She glows in jewels and fine gowns he heaps upon her every day.”
“And what of William Carey? How does our brother in law enjoy his cuckolding?”
“As tho it happens every day, his wife made the Kings whore. I would think him wise if he were making use of it, seeking favor in return for use of Mary. But he does nothing.”
“A pity,” said I, thinking now upon my sister’s fate.
“No pity really,” replied my brother. “From Marys lot I’ve been shown some favor from the King. A manor house is mine. Small but very sweet. But our Father, he is in very great favor. A ceremony making him peer of the realm was held together with one making Henry’s bastard by Bessie Blount the Duke of Richmond. ‘Twas a sweltering hot day, but the new Royal Palace at Bridewell was very grand — all trumpets and golden canopies. Of course the main ceremony was for the child, but it was a great day for our Father. Very great in deed.”
“I suppose he was given money too.” I felt my mouth go hard.
“A pension of a thousand crowns. What is it, Anne? You look as tho a cat had crossed your grave.”
I said nothing then. My Father’s fortunes risen over Mary’s debauchery was natural to George. To all men. And should have been to me. But I was sickened. I thought, but did not say to him, “A woman is a castle or a piece of land, most valued, oft admired, improved upon. Then she’s sold or bought for fortune’s sake, for heirs, a bribe, a prize, a debt repaid. Her flesh, mind, aching heart forgot, nay, considered not at all!”
I stood and made to go. But George begged me stay. The sun was warm, he said the castle dreary. He
I wrote twice to Percy, each time hiring secret couriers to carry the missive to his hands in Northumberland. I waited endless weeks that went to months for his replies. My heart grew still by measures till one grey morning when hope finally died, so died my heart. It withered then and turned hard like some sweet fruit that once past ripeness dries and goes to leather.
The quiet as I lay abed is terrible to me. Beyond these walls are only blackness, meadows, cattle, trees. No chambers gaily candlelit with gentlemen and ladies amused by jesters, jugglers, fools. No fetes, no masques, no dancing, music, lovers loving. I sometimes think that I shall go mad with the quiet and the dark and the loneliness. O sweet Percy lying cold and comfortless in your married bed, are we not cruelly punished for loving truly? I swear I will not have my Mothers helpless fate. I swear it on the stars.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
6 June 1524
Diary,
A celebration! George my brother rode home to visit Hever Hall and stayed a fortnight and a day. He is a charming boy who ladies love with handsome grace and reckless wit, and for these things I love him dearly too. Our Mother came alive with him at home, the only living son, adored and he adoring her. Special meals were made and we three sat for hours to gab, drink, make music, play at games.
But when I could I’d steal him far away, and we would ride for leagues, Urian running at the horses hooves. We’d take the hawks and hunt or walk the grassy path beside the River Eden, and idle days away. Full of gossip, current courtly jests and puns, he amused and filled me full where I had been bereft.
One day we lay beneath a shady elm, the hound lazy at our feet. He told the news that stirs our family’s fate. Our Sister Mary is still mistress to the King. “She does our family proud,” said George, a wicked grin upon his lips. “The saying has it that with Mary Boleyn, a King and his codpiece are always parted.”
“And how grows our good King’s manly accessory?” I asked gravely.
“Large as a pie plate, sister, and embroidered with the Tudor crest, all swords and stags and pomegranates.”
“Pomegranates!” We laughed together till our eyes were wet.
“I swear that girl is bold” he said and made a crown of wild daisies for my head. “She’s looking well. She glows in jewels and fine gowns he heaps upon her every day.”
“And what of William Carey? How does our brother in law enjoy his cuckolding?”
“As tho it happens every day, his wife made the Kings whore. I would think him wise if he were making use of it, seeking favor in return for use of Mary. But he does nothing.”
“A pity,” said I, thinking now upon my sister’s fate.
“No pity really,” replied my brother. “From Marys lot I’ve been shown some favor from the King. A manor house is mine. Small but very sweet. But our Father, he is in very great favor. A ceremony making him peer of the realm was held together with one making Henry’s bastard by Bessie Blount the Duke of Richmond. ‘Twas a sweltering hot day, but the new Royal Palace at Bridewell was very grand — all trumpets and golden canopies. Of course the main ceremony was for the child, but it was a great day for our Father. Very great in deed.”
“I suppose he was given money too.” I felt my mouth go hard.
“A pension of a thousand crowns. What is it, Anne? You look as tho a cat had crossed your grave.”
I said nothing then. My Father’s fortunes risen over Mary’s debauchery was natural to George. To all men. And should have been to me. But I was sickened. I thought, but did not say to him, “A woman is a castle or a piece of land, most valued, oft admired, improved upon. Then she’s sold or bought for fortune’s sake, for heirs, a bribe, a prize, a debt repaid. Her flesh, mind, aching heart forgot, nay, considered not at all!”
I stood and made to go. But George begged me stay. The sun was warm, he said the castle dreary. He
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