Catherine deserved a saint hood for putting up with Henry's crap as long as she did.
The Queen is Dead!: Katherine of Aragon dies in 1518
- Thread starter FalconHonour
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Section X: April-May 1519
The weeks passed and Bessie found herself spending more and more time with the King. He called to take her riding on an almost daily basis. They dined together; played cards together in the evenings. It built up gradually, but one day, Bessie realised that she was spending more time with the King than anyone else was; even his sister Queen Mary of France and her husband, the Duke of Suffolk.
Which meant that it was only a matter of time before the family found out. Mark and Cecily had known for from the beginning, of course, but now her father and uncle realised that their little girl was no longer the helpless little flower that they thought she was.
One morning, they called her to her father’s rooms.
“Father. Uncle,” Bessie curtsied. Her father nodded in acknowledgement.
“Elizabeth.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. It appears you’ve been spending quite some time with the King recently.”
Bessie shrugged, “His Majesty asks for me and I obey.”
“As you should. How far has he taken things? I know he is still grieving the loss of the Queen, but King or not, he is a man and many a lesser man takes a mistress in such circumstances.”
“Not far, Sir. But I am not ready for him to take them further yet.”
“Not ready?” Her father’s voice sharpened, “What do you mean, you are not ready?”
“His Majesty does not look to me for everything yet. I need him to do that before I am ready.”
“Look to you for everything! Good God, girl, are you playing for the throne?!”
Bessie hesitated. The truth was, though she might have been at first, now she genuinely just wanted to help the King through his grief. The last few weeks in his company had been more wonderful than Bessie had ever dared hope they would be. But she couldn’t tell the men in front of her that. They expected more of her. Closing her eyes and steeling her heart against the pang of guilt that stabbed at her, she kept her voice as steady as she could as she answered, “Not necessarily the throne, Father, but England has no Queen, so I do not see why I should not be at His Majesty’s side just as well as any other woman.”
“Nor do I,” he murmured, then sighed, “Very well, Elizabeth. You seem to be handling the matter well enough for the moment. His Majesty seems happy enough with you, so I do not see any reason to change things for now, but if we’re no further forward soon, things may be different. Is that clear?”
“As crystal, though we will be,” Bessie assured him, summoning a confidence she did not feel.
“Very well, you may go, Elizabeth.”
Bessie curtsied, then ran out of the room and changed her gown before riding to the lake to meet the King.
He was ahead of her and turned at the sound of her hoof beats.
“Bessie,” he greeted, attempting to smile at the sight of her, but not quite managing it. Groaning inwardly as the realisation that he was in one of his more morose moods dawned on her, Bessie drew rein and slid from the saddle.
“Henry!” She caught his hand and tugged him towards the lake with her, “Come in with me.”
“What?!” He started. Bessie nodded.
“It’s May. Surely it’ll be cold.”
“Cold but not too cold. Oh come on, Henry! Please! Come in with me!” she begged him, flashing him his favourite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry.
“Katherine wouldn’t like it. She’d say it was beneath me as a King and a widower.”
Stifling a sigh, Bessie splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholy like this.
“Katherine loved you, Henry. And you loved her. I’m not denying that. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Katherine would want you to be happy. So come on. Don’t just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?”
“Are you my sweetheart, Bessie?” His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Bessie just wanted to kiss the smile back on to his face, but forced herself to chuckle lowly, caress his shoulder and then reach up and ruffle his hair.
“You know I am, Henry. You know I am. Now catch me.”
Risking everything, she backed teasingly away from him and raced back into the shallows. To her delight, he chased after her. Spinning around, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it in his direction.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then she was rewarded with the sound of something she hadn’t heard before. The great bellow of his laughter.
“Oh, Bessie, you are the best girl in England! Oh that I could have you at my side every day!”
Bessie’s heart skipped a beat. If he was saying stuff like that, then she ruled him as completely as she could ever hope to, given that she could never be his anointed Queen. She swung round to him.
“Oh, but Henry, you can. You are the King. You have only to command and I would have to obey.”
“But I don’t want to command. I want you to come to me of your own free will,” he whispered.
Bessie pretended to hesitate, but her heart was singing and it seemed natural to her to say, “My will and my heart are one and my heart is yours.”
It seemed natural to her let him sweep her up and canter her back to the palace in his arms, abandoning her horse there by the lakeside; to enter his rooms beside him as though her rightful place was on his arm; natural to yield her most precious possession to him in one heated flood of bloody passion.
Which meant that it was only a matter of time before the family found out. Mark and Cecily had known for from the beginning, of course, but now her father and uncle realised that their little girl was no longer the helpless little flower that they thought she was.
One morning, they called her to her father’s rooms.
“Father. Uncle,” Bessie curtsied. Her father nodded in acknowledgement.
“Elizabeth.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. It appears you’ve been spending quite some time with the King recently.”
Bessie shrugged, “His Majesty asks for me and I obey.”
“As you should. How far has he taken things? I know he is still grieving the loss of the Queen, but King or not, he is a man and many a lesser man takes a mistress in such circumstances.”
“Not far, Sir. But I am not ready for him to take them further yet.”
“Not ready?” Her father’s voice sharpened, “What do you mean, you are not ready?”
“His Majesty does not look to me for everything yet. I need him to do that before I am ready.”
“Look to you for everything! Good God, girl, are you playing for the throne?!”
Bessie hesitated. The truth was, though she might have been at first, now she genuinely just wanted to help the King through his grief. The last few weeks in his company had been more wonderful than Bessie had ever dared hope they would be. But she couldn’t tell the men in front of her that. They expected more of her. Closing her eyes and steeling her heart against the pang of guilt that stabbed at her, she kept her voice as steady as she could as she answered, “Not necessarily the throne, Father, but England has no Queen, so I do not see why I should not be at His Majesty’s side just as well as any other woman.”
“Nor do I,” he murmured, then sighed, “Very well, Elizabeth. You seem to be handling the matter well enough for the moment. His Majesty seems happy enough with you, so I do not see any reason to change things for now, but if we’re no further forward soon, things may be different. Is that clear?”
“As crystal, though we will be,” Bessie assured him, summoning a confidence she did not feel.
“Very well, you may go, Elizabeth.”
Bessie curtsied, then ran out of the room and changed her gown before riding to the lake to meet the King.
He was ahead of her and turned at the sound of her hoof beats.
“Bessie,” he greeted, attempting to smile at the sight of her, but not quite managing it. Groaning inwardly as the realisation that he was in one of his more morose moods dawned on her, Bessie drew rein and slid from the saddle.
“Henry!” She caught his hand and tugged him towards the lake with her, “Come in with me.”
“What?!” He started. Bessie nodded.
“It’s May. Surely it’ll be cold.”
“Cold but not too cold. Oh come on, Henry! Please! Come in with me!” she begged him, flashing him his favourite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry.
“Katherine wouldn’t like it. She’d say it was beneath me as a King and a widower.”
Stifling a sigh, Bessie splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholy like this.
“Katherine loved you, Henry. And you loved her. I’m not denying that. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Katherine would want you to be happy. So come on. Don’t just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?”
“Are you my sweetheart, Bessie?” His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Bessie just wanted to kiss the smile back on to his face, but forced herself to chuckle lowly, caress his shoulder and then reach up and ruffle his hair.
“You know I am, Henry. You know I am. Now catch me.”
Risking everything, she backed teasingly away from him and raced back into the shallows. To her delight, he chased after her. Spinning around, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it in his direction.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then she was rewarded with the sound of something she hadn’t heard before. The great bellow of his laughter.
“Oh, Bessie, you are the best girl in England! Oh that I could have you at my side every day!”
Bessie’s heart skipped a beat. If he was saying stuff like that, then she ruled him as completely as she could ever hope to, given that she could never be his anointed Queen. She swung round to him.
“Oh, but Henry, you can. You are the King. You have only to command and I would have to obey.”
“But I don’t want to command. I want you to come to me of your own free will,” he whispered.
Bessie pretended to hesitate, but her heart was singing and it seemed natural to her to say, “My will and my heart are one and my heart is yours.”
It seemed natural to her let him sweep her up and canter her back to the palace in his arms, abandoning her horse there by the lakeside; to enter his rooms beside him as though her rightful place was on his arm; natural to yield her most precious possession to him in one heated flood of bloody passion.
You do realise that doesn't necessarily mean that you will like the woman I have selected to be his wife, don't you?
Section XI - May 1519
“Come, Mary. Say your farewells and we’ll be off to catch the tide,” Thomas Boleyn spoke gently to his eldest daughter. More gently than he normally did. Mary was fully aware of that fact, but knew exactly why he was playing the doting father, delighted to be taking his daughter home. He was in public, in front of King Francis, Queen Claude and the Duchess of Alencon, who had Annie beside her.
Still, though Mary raised her eyebrows inwardly at her father’s acting, she dared not challenge his authority so flagrantly, so she merely nodded, murmuring docilely, “Yes, Papa.”
She turned to the King, Queen and Duchess, curtsying swiftly. King Francis raised her up, whispered a few words of farewell into her ear, waving away her attempts at an eloquent thank you and then nudged her in the direction of her younger sister.
“Annie,” Mary breathed, embracing her younger sister, “Be a brave girl.”
“When am I not?” Anne asked, cocking an eyebrow. Mary chuckled.
“True. But still, you’re the only Boleyn left now. Stay strong. Stay strong and do us proud, hmm? I’ll be thinking of you.”
“And I of you, Marie. Take care. Take care and Godspeed, ma soeur.”
“Godspeed and God be with you, Marie,” The Duchess echoed Anne’s words, placing a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. Releasing her sister, Mary dipped down into a final curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Highness. God be with you.”
Then she took her father’s arm and backed out of the room.
Anne watched the two of them leave, feeling tears prick her eyelids. Why did Marie have to leave her? Couldn’t they go on being the Boleyn Sisters, as they always had? How was she supposed to cope now that the last of her family had left her?
“Annabelle, Ca-va?” Her Mistress touched her shoulder, “Renee is asking for you.”
At the words, Anne gave herself a little shake. Of course she’d cope. Wasn’t she Anne Boleyn? Duchess Marguerite’s bold little Boleynette? Besides, she was twelve years old. Practically a woman. She didn’t need a mother any more. Especially not when Madame Marguerite took such good care of her and Princess Renee thought of her so highly.
Drawing herself up, Anne nodded, “Oui, Madame. Ca va.”
With the words, she shut off the part of her that was still little English Annie and gave herself up to being French.
Gave herself up to being Annabelle.
Still, though Mary raised her eyebrows inwardly at her father’s acting, she dared not challenge his authority so flagrantly, so she merely nodded, murmuring docilely, “Yes, Papa.”
She turned to the King, Queen and Duchess, curtsying swiftly. King Francis raised her up, whispered a few words of farewell into her ear, waving away her attempts at an eloquent thank you and then nudged her in the direction of her younger sister.
“Annie,” Mary breathed, embracing her younger sister, “Be a brave girl.”
“When am I not?” Anne asked, cocking an eyebrow. Mary chuckled.
“True. But still, you’re the only Boleyn left now. Stay strong. Stay strong and do us proud, hmm? I’ll be thinking of you.”
“And I of you, Marie. Take care. Take care and Godspeed, ma soeur.”
“Godspeed and God be with you, Marie,” The Duchess echoed Anne’s words, placing a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. Releasing her sister, Mary dipped down into a final curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Highness. God be with you.”
Then she took her father’s arm and backed out of the room.
Anne watched the two of them leave, feeling tears prick her eyelids. Why did Marie have to leave her? Couldn’t they go on being the Boleyn Sisters, as they always had? How was she supposed to cope now that the last of her family had left her?
“Annabelle, Ca-va?” Her Mistress touched her shoulder, “Renee is asking for you.”
At the words, Anne gave herself a little shake. Of course she’d cope. Wasn’t she Anne Boleyn? Duchess Marguerite’s bold little Boleynette? Besides, she was twelve years old. Practically a woman. She didn’t need a mother any more. Especially not when Madame Marguerite took such good care of her and Princess Renee thought of her so highly.
Drawing herself up, Anne nodded, “Oui, Madame. Ca va.”
With the words, she shut off the part of her that was still little English Annie and gave herself up to being French.
Gave herself up to being Annabelle.
Last edited:
A shorter section this time, but I have realised that Chapter 6 of Beatrix (the source material for this) is an absolute pain to split up. And yes, I am going the traditional portrayal route with Thomas Boleyn, at least in this thread. Some of my other stories make him a little more human, but it just works for this one, I'm afraid...
Good update, but why are the French referring to her as Anna? French form of her name is same as the English AFAIK.
Good catch. I was learning Spanish when I first wrote this and got confused... I forgot to change it...
I have edited Anne's French nickname to Annabelle now, which sounds somewhat more French. Remind me if I make the same mistake again!
Annette or Nanette might be more likely. AIUI Annabelle is a whole different name.
Yes, but Annabelle includes 'beautiful', which considering it's Marguerite who comes up with that nickname for her Petite Boleynette, seemed plausible. It's like a mother calling her daughter by a pet name... Besides, nicknames don't always have to make full sense. But I will bear that in mind for any nicknames I might need for Anne in the future...
Section XII - June 1519
Mary’s heart was hammering as she knocked on the door of the Dowager Queen's apartments. A page in dark blue and soft grey livery opened it, “Yes, Mistress?”
“I am Mistress Marie – I mean, Mistress Mary Boleyn. I am to join Her Grace’s household this morning,” she explained, sensing the blood rush to her cheeks as she mangled the introduction. Thankfully, the lad only inclined his head and stepped back, “We’ve been expecting you.”
Mary felt at home as soon as she set foot in the Duchess’s apartments. They weren’t as opulent as they used to be; now that she wasn’t Queen, but only a Dowager Queen and Duchess of Suffolk, they weren’t the best in the palace, but they were still opulent enough to denote her status. They still had her spoilt pet dogs scampering around, making an absolute cacophony. Many of her old friends from when she’d first gone to France still sat sewing in the windows, laughing quietly with one another.
One of them, Sarah, caught sight of her and sprang up. “Mary! You’re back at last!”
“I am. Papa brought me back. He thinks it’s high time James and I were betrothed. I mean, we are both quite old enough to, in his words, ‘consent to and seal the union’.”
A stab of guilt went through her as she mocked her father, but it quickly dissipated as Sarah laughed and threaded their arms together.
“And so you are! Now come. I’d better present you to Her Grace so we can have you sworn in and then we’ll be free to catch up properly.”
The woman was slender and blue-eyed, with a mass of honeyed curls tumbling down her back. She wore an expensive gown of cornflower blue silk and carried herself nobly. Only the hint of arrogance in her eyes and the scarcity of ladies trailing behind her belied the fact that she wasn’t as high ranking as she clearly seemed to think she was.
The Duchess’s entire body tautened. “Mistress Blount,” she acknowledged icily.
There was a fraction’s silence and then Mistress Blount dipped into the merest hint of a curtsy, “My Lady Suffolk.”
Mary heard Sarah gasp beside her as she caught her own breath. To address their mistress by her lower title was a blatant breach of courtesy. Who did this woman think she was? She was certainly no shrinking violet, that was for sure. She may have bent the knees, but her head was still up; her eyes still locked with the Dowager Queen's. There was no submission or servility anywhere in her posture or indeed in her demeanour at all. The two women stared one another down for a few more seconds before Mistress Blount snapped her fingers.
“Come,” She instructed her ladies, sweeping past the King’s sister as though she owned the palace. Colouring, the ladies swept down to the floor in respect for Her Grace's higher rank and then followed. Mary glanced between the rapidly vanishing quintet and her fuming mistress, then, correctly supposing she wasn’t going to be able to ask her mistress, dropped back to talk to Sarah.
“Who was that?”
“That was Elizabeth ‘Bessie’ Blount,” Sarah hissed, spitting out the nickname as though it were belladonna, “You replaced her in Her Grace’s household, as it turns out.”
“Mistress Blount was in Her Grace’s household? They don’t appear to get on,” Mary murmured, a hint of question in her voice. Sarah growled.
“And they shouldn’t. Mistress Blount is the King’s latest paramour. Now, I’m not saying it’s not within His Majesty’s rights to take a mistress, but honestly, did it have to be Mistress Blount? She’s become insufferable. Less than three months she’s been at his side. Less than three months and she already thinks herself a Queen. Just because she’s lucky enough to have been granted a few ladies of her own, she thinks we should all be bending the knee to her.”
Sarah was about to say more when the Dowager Queen called, “Mistress Boleyn?”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Mary hurried forward.
“You’ve just come from France. Does King Francis keep a Mistress?”
“Your Grace, it is the right of every King to keep a Mistress.”
“Aye, I know that well enough. I’m asking; does King Francis exercise that right?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“I see. And how does the chosen lady conduct herself in Queen Claude’s presence?”
“My Lady, they barely meet.”
“But when they do?”
“Well then, Madam, Queen Claude is of course paid the full respect that is due to her as Queen of France. King Francis insists upon it.”
“Francis insists upon it, does he?” A look black as thunder rolled across Mary Brandon’s pretty features, “Francis insists upon it, yet my brother, the greater King by far, is content to let his spoilt teenage whore act as though she runs the Court.”
There was nothing Mary could say to that. Instead she merely curtsied silently. Her Grace peered down at her for a few seconds, before sighing loudly.
“Still, my brother’s whims are not your fault, Mistress Boleyn. Run and fetch my hawk, would you?”
Relieved to have got away so lightly – the old Mary Tudor would have thrown something at her for being the bearer of bad news – Mary straightened up, murmured “Madam,” and ran, all the time wondering whether she could have answered any differently. But no, she couldn’t have. She had been as diplomatic as she could while still telling the truth. Wasn’t one supposed to tell the truth to one’s monarchs, if they demanded it?
“I am Mistress Marie – I mean, Mistress Mary Boleyn. I am to join Her Grace’s household this morning,” she explained, sensing the blood rush to her cheeks as she mangled the introduction. Thankfully, the lad only inclined his head and stepped back, “We’ve been expecting you.”
Mary felt at home as soon as she set foot in the Duchess’s apartments. They weren’t as opulent as they used to be; now that she wasn’t Queen, but only a Dowager Queen and Duchess of Suffolk, they weren’t the best in the palace, but they were still opulent enough to denote her status. They still had her spoilt pet dogs scampering around, making an absolute cacophony. Many of her old friends from when she’d first gone to France still sat sewing in the windows, laughing quietly with one another.
One of them, Sarah, caught sight of her and sprang up. “Mary! You’re back at last!”
“I am. Papa brought me back. He thinks it’s high time James and I were betrothed. I mean, we are both quite old enough to, in his words, ‘consent to and seal the union’.”
A stab of guilt went through her as she mocked her father, but it quickly dissipated as Sarah laughed and threaded their arms together.
“And so you are! Now come. I’d better present you to Her Grace so we can have you sworn in and then we’ll be free to catch up properly.”
*** *** ***
The Duchess greeted Mary almost as warmly as Sarah had done and, within hours, she had regained her footing within the bevy of ladies as though she had never been away. Which meant it was only natural that she should be at her mistress’s shoulder when, as the group headed outside to hawk in the gardens, they crossed paths with another woman.The woman was slender and blue-eyed, with a mass of honeyed curls tumbling down her back. She wore an expensive gown of cornflower blue silk and carried herself nobly. Only the hint of arrogance in her eyes and the scarcity of ladies trailing behind her belied the fact that she wasn’t as high ranking as she clearly seemed to think she was.
The Duchess’s entire body tautened. “Mistress Blount,” she acknowledged icily.
There was a fraction’s silence and then Mistress Blount dipped into the merest hint of a curtsy, “My Lady Suffolk.”
Mary heard Sarah gasp beside her as she caught her own breath. To address their mistress by her lower title was a blatant breach of courtesy. Who did this woman think she was? She was certainly no shrinking violet, that was for sure. She may have bent the knees, but her head was still up; her eyes still locked with the Dowager Queen's. There was no submission or servility anywhere in her posture or indeed in her demeanour at all. The two women stared one another down for a few more seconds before Mistress Blount snapped her fingers.
“Come,” She instructed her ladies, sweeping past the King’s sister as though she owned the palace. Colouring, the ladies swept down to the floor in respect for Her Grace's higher rank and then followed. Mary glanced between the rapidly vanishing quintet and her fuming mistress, then, correctly supposing she wasn’t going to be able to ask her mistress, dropped back to talk to Sarah.
“Who was that?”
“That was Elizabeth ‘Bessie’ Blount,” Sarah hissed, spitting out the nickname as though it were belladonna, “You replaced her in Her Grace’s household, as it turns out.”
“Mistress Blount was in Her Grace’s household? They don’t appear to get on,” Mary murmured, a hint of question in her voice. Sarah growled.
“And they shouldn’t. Mistress Blount is the King’s latest paramour. Now, I’m not saying it’s not within His Majesty’s rights to take a mistress, but honestly, did it have to be Mistress Blount? She’s become insufferable. Less than three months she’s been at his side. Less than three months and she already thinks herself a Queen. Just because she’s lucky enough to have been granted a few ladies of her own, she thinks we should all be bending the knee to her.”
Sarah was about to say more when the Dowager Queen called, “Mistress Boleyn?”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Mary hurried forward.
“You’ve just come from France. Does King Francis keep a Mistress?”
“Your Grace, it is the right of every King to keep a Mistress.”
“Aye, I know that well enough. I’m asking; does King Francis exercise that right?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“I see. And how does the chosen lady conduct herself in Queen Claude’s presence?”
“My Lady, they barely meet.”
“But when they do?”
“Well then, Madam, Queen Claude is of course paid the full respect that is due to her as Queen of France. King Francis insists upon it.”
“Francis insists upon it, does he?” A look black as thunder rolled across Mary Brandon’s pretty features, “Francis insists upon it, yet my brother, the greater King by far, is content to let his spoilt teenage whore act as though she runs the Court.”
There was nothing Mary could say to that. Instead she merely curtsied silently. Her Grace peered down at her for a few seconds, before sighing loudly.
“Still, my brother’s whims are not your fault, Mistress Boleyn. Run and fetch my hawk, would you?”
Relieved to have got away so lightly – the old Mary Tudor would have thrown something at her for being the bearer of bad news – Mary straightened up, murmured “Madam,” and ran, all the time wondering whether she could have answered any differently. But no, she couldn’t have. She had been as diplomatic as she could while still telling the truth. Wasn’t one supposed to tell the truth to one’s monarchs, if they demanded it?