XXXV - July 1520
On the other side of the Hall, Thomas Boleyn caught sight of a tall, slenderly built man, who was standing alone. He looked across at him, sizing him up. Henry Courtenay, the Earl of Devon. A valuable ally to have, perhaps, given that his mother had been a York Princess, making him cousin to the King. Yet that same royal blood had caused suspicion to fall on him. Not enough to mean he might lose his title, but enoughvthat he might be open to an alliance with the newest-risen family at Court.
Going over to him, Thomas called for wine and placed the goblet into his hand, “You look like you need it, Lord Devon,” was all he said, as the other man looked to him in surprise.
“Thank you, but shouldn’t you be celebrating? His Majesty has just honoured you most highly, Lord Ormonde. You ought to be showing him your gratitude.”
“Aye, and I will, Lord Devon. But I fear my rise will not be as gleefully celebrated by some as the King and I would like.”
“What do you mean?” Henry looked across at Thomas, who raised an eyebrow and placed a paternal arm around his shoulders.
“Come, Lord Devon, we both know all too well what I mean. There are some in this Court who believe I have risen too far, too fast; that I owe my title to the King’s love for my daughter and not for my own merit. There are some in this Court who believe I am not worthy of them.”
“I assure you, Lord Ormonde, that if His Majesty believes you worthy, then so do I. I know what it is like to live in the shadow of one taint or another.” Henry sighed, unable to stop himself. He loved his mother, he truly did. But she didn't have to pay the price he did. Half the Court treated him like a traitor for his mother's York blood. And this when all his father had ever hoped to do was to not only marry the girl he loved, but also keep the late King happy by binding her to him in marriage so that she couldn’t be a threat to him. He hadn’t thought as far as the royal blood his children would have. In his foolishness, his father hadn’t thought that far, and now he, Henry, was paying for it dearly.
At the sigh, Thomas knew he had the Earl of Devon right where he wanted him. He was so desperate to prove himself; to reverse the shadow that hung over his name, he probably would have made an alliance with anyone.
He said nothing of these suspicions, of course. All he said was, “It is good to know that someone else at Court feels the same way I do.”
“I do. If only there were some way we could rid ourselves of the feeling.”
“We can.”
Henry stared at Thomas in astonishment. “We can?” he repeated stupidly. Thomas nodded, his voice silky smooth as he took the other man’s arm.
“My daughter has the ear of the King; you know that as well as I. Who knows what influence she might exert, given time? Who knows how we might rise, if we work together?”
“Work together?” The Earl of Devon said slowly, and Thomas bit the inside of his cheek in impatience. Had he not needed this man so desperately, he would have left him standing and gone in search of cleverer allies.
“You have a sister, do you not?”
“Yes, Margaret. She’ll be nineteen this coming September.”
“Why, she’s merely a year younger than my Marie! Marie was twenty just this past April. And Marie has a brother. George.”
Thomas hesitated and Henry Courtenay walked straight into the trap. “How old’s your boy? He must be a fine knight, if his sister and father are any indication of the Boleyn family.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it, Lord Devon. That is a great compliment, thank you. George is about to be seventeen.”
“Just two years younger than my sister Margaret.”
“Yes.”
The two men stood in silence, until, judging he had left it long enough for his words to sink in, Thomas pressed his point home, “What do you say, Lord Devon? Shall we work together? Will you join forces with me to clear our names of the shadow of unworthiness that taints them?
Going over to him, Thomas called for wine and placed the goblet into his hand, “You look like you need it, Lord Devon,” was all he said, as the other man looked to him in surprise.
“Thank you, but shouldn’t you be celebrating? His Majesty has just honoured you most highly, Lord Ormonde. You ought to be showing him your gratitude.”
“Aye, and I will, Lord Devon. But I fear my rise will not be as gleefully celebrated by some as the King and I would like.”
“What do you mean?” Henry looked across at Thomas, who raised an eyebrow and placed a paternal arm around his shoulders.
“Come, Lord Devon, we both know all too well what I mean. There are some in this Court who believe I have risen too far, too fast; that I owe my title to the King’s love for my daughter and not for my own merit. There are some in this Court who believe I am not worthy of them.”
“I assure you, Lord Ormonde, that if His Majesty believes you worthy, then so do I. I know what it is like to live in the shadow of one taint or another.” Henry sighed, unable to stop himself. He loved his mother, he truly did. But she didn't have to pay the price he did. Half the Court treated him like a traitor for his mother's York blood. And this when all his father had ever hoped to do was to not only marry the girl he loved, but also keep the late King happy by binding her to him in marriage so that she couldn’t be a threat to him. He hadn’t thought as far as the royal blood his children would have. In his foolishness, his father hadn’t thought that far, and now he, Henry, was paying for it dearly.
At the sigh, Thomas knew he had the Earl of Devon right where he wanted him. He was so desperate to prove himself; to reverse the shadow that hung over his name, he probably would have made an alliance with anyone.
He said nothing of these suspicions, of course. All he said was, “It is good to know that someone else at Court feels the same way I do.”
“I do. If only there were some way we could rid ourselves of the feeling.”
“We can.”
Henry stared at Thomas in astonishment. “We can?” he repeated stupidly. Thomas nodded, his voice silky smooth as he took the other man’s arm.
“My daughter has the ear of the King; you know that as well as I. Who knows what influence she might exert, given time? Who knows how we might rise, if we work together?”
“Work together?” The Earl of Devon said slowly, and Thomas bit the inside of his cheek in impatience. Had he not needed this man so desperately, he would have left him standing and gone in search of cleverer allies.
“You have a sister, do you not?”
“Yes, Margaret. She’ll be nineteen this coming September.”
“Why, she’s merely a year younger than my Marie! Marie was twenty just this past April. And Marie has a brother. George.”
Thomas hesitated and Henry Courtenay walked straight into the trap. “How old’s your boy? He must be a fine knight, if his sister and father are any indication of the Boleyn family.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it, Lord Devon. That is a great compliment, thank you. George is about to be seventeen.”
“Just two years younger than my sister Margaret.”
“Yes.”
The two men stood in silence, until, judging he had left it long enough for his words to sink in, Thomas pressed his point home, “What do you say, Lord Devon? Shall we work together? Will you join forces with me to clear our names of the shadow of unworthiness that taints them?
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