Hever Castle, Kingdom of England, September 1524
There was a slight breeze in the air where they all stood. Awaiting the return of some of the King’s men from the campaign in Boulogne and the rest of Flanders Giovanna’s feet grew numb. The wait grew to be rather tedious, but she had company, and a duty to be there. For Elizabeth, who eagerly awaited her son’s return from France, and for Margarery, his young wife, who had been constantly jittery since George had left. She wasn’t quite sure if the two were in love, but it seemed clear that regardless of the reason for the marriage, Margarery intended to be a good wife to her husband. While she wished to solely focus on helping the two women, her son was also there, distinctly displeased with how his brother had reacted to his marriage.
Her son Charles hunched his shoulders and hissed,”Henry makes me pay a fine for marrying the woman I love, yet he sins by committing constant adultery? Has my brother no shame?”
“But he is a hypocrite!” The Duke of Somerset asserted
“He is still the King.” Giovanna replied, stony-faced.
Charles’s face fell, but he continued,”Surely you can see what he does is wrong, don’t you mother?”
Anne Boleyn, the new Duchess of Somerset, who stood in a jewel-encrusted, yellow dress squeezed her husband’s hand, quietly pleading,”Charles please, not right now…”
The Dowager Queen sighed, irritated that her son was complaining about a fine while many had lost their lives in the war,”It is not my place to say anything. I am glad that you have married Anne, but this would not have happened had you had asked for his permission.”
Charles angrily shook his head but said nothing else, and Giovanna rolled her eyes
He is just like his father when he is angry.
Of course, this isn’t to say that Giovanna resented her late husband, she still mourned him, but there were times when she found the occasional similarity between her children and their father to be amusing. The waiting would end, however, as a man dressed in the green livery of the Tudor dynasty dismounted his horse across the green grass. Doffing his hat, the man had a downcast look on his face, and bowed before them all,”Your Majesty, Your Grace, milord, milady. I regret to inform you that Sir George Boleyn was slain in a skirmish outside of Béthune. His Majesty recognizes Sir George’s heroism, and assures you that the Boleyns will be secure in the inheritance of the Earldoms of Wiltshire and Ormonde, through George’s sisters.”
Giovanna’s jaw dropped at this, she would miss George, but her first concern was for his mother, who stood shaking, her face white as snow. Hugging the Countess, Giovanna would be her refuge in grief, comforting her closest friend as she sobbed against her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was all that the woman could do.