December 14: The Falcon's Fall
Thank you to historical novelist Natalia Richards for sharing this excerpt from her work in progress The Falcon's Fall, a sequel to bestsellers The Falcon's Rise and The Falcon's Flight, which are wonderful novels about Anne Boleyn. The first two books are available now so they'll keep you busy while you're waiting for number 3!
Debut
Peering through the heavy drapes in the hall at York Place, I felt excited. I had danced before royalty and ambassadors many times in Flanders and France, but this was different. This time I would be performing in front of my family and friends.
The queen, sitting on a dais, appeared magnificently attired, her jewels glinting in the torchlight. Beside her, sat Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Warham, and the imperial ambassadors. Since they had complained of the cold, a great fire blazed filling the hall with heat, and making the ladies fan themselves. Stepping back, I joined the other performers and climbed up the precarious ladder leaning against the green, leaf-covered, castle. I say castle, but I was not impressed and Signor da Vinci would have rolled his eyes at the cumbersome design, for I had seen far better at Amboise. From the three towers, banners hung limp, each poorly painted with a heart split in two, and I thought it all rather old-fashioned.
Up on the castle battlements, the ladies vied with each other to stand next to the French Queen. However, my sister appeared reticent. Not so I. I fully intended to be seen for I knew the alterations to my costume would be admired. As I looked down, eight boys of the Children of the Chapel, with blackened faces and dressed in foreign female costumes, took their place beneath the castle. On their caps were embroidered the words: Danger, Disdain, Jealousy, Unkindness, Scorn, Strangeness, Malebouche, and Pride.
When a loud fanfare sounded, eight masked gentlemen entered from the back of the hall, led by a man in crimson satin decorated with flames of burning gold, his cap bearing the words Ardent Desire. Each of the men – three very tall – wore mantles of blue satin, their gold caps embroidered with the names: Amorous, Nobleness, Youth, Attendance, Loyalty, Pleasure, Gentleness, and Liberty. When Ardent Desire demanded the surrender of the castle, I recognised the voice of Sir Henry Guilford. Of course, Scorn and Disdain refused to surrender and the audience began to chant ‘to the walls, to the walls!’ As the men rushed towards our castle, the children shook their silver bows in mock anger, accompanied by hissing from the audience. When the boom of guns sounded, all the ladies, including myself, cried out, and the lords began attacking the children with volleys of dates, oranges, and apples. In reply, they received a barrage of tennis balls, and – more gently – splashes of rosewater from our silver bowls. As the smoke cleared, the French Queen leaned over the battlements, laughing, and threw down comfits from her bowl. However, although the boys had also been given comfits to throw back at the gentlemen, they became over-excited and threw their caps as well. Other pieces of costume quickly followed and were trampled underfoot in the chaos. Mr. Gibson, his face puce with rage, cried out, but nobody listened. As the gentlemen climbed up onto the battlements, the children fled, and cheering followed. Loyalty – raising his mask momentarily – leaped so close to me that he startled me. On seeing his flushed face and auburn hair, I dipped in reverence, and, for a brief moment, the king’s eyes fell upon me. Then, just as quickly, he turned away and kissed the hand of his sister. Amorous – Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk – proffered his arm to Lady Courtney, and I was escorted down the steps myself by, judging from his height, Sir Edward Neville, a man who appeared so like his cousin the king, he was often mistaken for him. As the musicians picked up their instruments and tuned them for the pavane, we stepped over the remains of bruised fruit and took our places behind the king and his sister.
‘Mistress, forgive me, but are you new to the court? I have not seen you before.’ With my arm resting on his, I told my partner my name and he turned to face me.
‘The sister of Mary? Mary Boleyn?’
So – this was how it was going to be. Well, I refused to let Mary spoil my entrance.
‘I am,’ I said, dipping in reverence. As we swept around the Great Hall, murmurs of appreciation, curious looks, and the question of who this newcomer might be reached my ears. I relished the attention.
After the banquet, I joined my father and he smiled as I sat down.
‘Father, what are your thoughts on Mary?’ I asked, sipping my wine and staring out at the crowded hall. He turned to me.
‘I have none,’ he said, helping himself to a date from a dish. ‘She is William’s care now, not mine. If he is amenable to any ongoing ‘arrangement,’ with His Grace, however infrequent, then that is his business. And I do not believe any damage has been done.’
Damage? I thought.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘told me William turns a blind eye only because he is afraid to offend the king.’ Father spat out a stone.
‘Indeed. Well, what young man comes to court only to slip his dogs for a wager? I didn’t. No, he comes to advance his prospects and if a man falls foul of the king, he might as well go hang himself.’
I asked if Mary had secured any such rewards by a grateful sovereign.
‘The Boleyns need no rewards,’ he replied.
This was disingenuous for need and want were two different things and I knew, despite what my father professed, he would sooner act from self-interest than from any other motive, craving money, and position. Besides, Mary was now a Carey.
‘A steep hill requires a slow pace,’ he said, ‘and I’ve worked doggedly over the years, gradually, determinedly, building up my reputation at court.’
It was true. He excelled at administration and had put in place several new rules of procedure. As a result, as a privy councillor he was respected and trusted by the king, although was not entirely popular amongst his peers.
‘Of course, family connections have also made me wealthy. Wealth, I might remind you’ – and here he prodded my arm, – ‘that provided you with a good education, puts fine clothes on your back, and pays your court bills.’
‘So was it you, Father, or Mary who asked the king to find me a place here?’
‘I believe she may have moved matters on a little quicker,’ he said, avoiding my eyes. He then patted my hand and smiled. ‘Forget Mary. I am just delighted to have my clever girl back.’
As the musicians played I observed Queen Katherine, her head close to the king in conversation. They appeared content together as he kissed her cheek.
‘I had an audience with the queen,’ I said, ‘and found her quite welcoming, regardless of Mary. Tell me, do you think Her Grace will have another child?
My father took an orange and began to unpeel it. I refused his offer of a piece.
‘In truth,’ he whispered, glancing about, ‘her womb is a grave pit. She knows she has not given the king the male heir he needs and her six pregnancies have only resulted in one child – a girl. Now, at thirty-seven, her womb has turned to dust.’
‘Well, Father, we must send a gift to Queen Claude on the birth of her son, Charles.’
My father said he would leave my mother to choose something suitable.
‘So, is it true the king is thinking of divorcing Katherine?’ I asked, my eyes again on the queen.
My father paused from eating his orange and stared at me.
‘Did your mother say that? Because if she did, you had better not repeat it.’
He went on to say the king could never divorce Katherine. Just because he had no male heir, she saw no reason why her daughter could not be queen regnant, since her mother had ruled Spain in her own right. And, in truth, Father agreed with her, for he had seen the power a woman could wield at the French court. However, Katherine was cunning and manipulative, despite her sanctity. She had long desired this Spanish match and made it quite clear to her nephew, Charles, that she loved him ‘not only as an old friend and ally but as the son and heir of this kingdom.
‘Habsburg rule – here?’ I said. ‘Why, the English would not suffer it, for surely the people demand an English prince – or princess?’
‘Katherine lives in a dream,’ said my father. ‘Besides, in the treaty, we have made sure that Charles must waver his rights to the succession should Mary succeed as Queen of England.’ He went on to explain that the emperor and the pope were desperate for an Anglo-Imperial alliance against France, but the emperor was unlikely to wait until Princess Mary was old enough to consummate the marriage. More to the point, he didn’t think he could afford her. He had already asked the king for a loan of 200,000 ducats. As he held out his cup to be refilled he grimanced and held his side. I asked if he was sick.
‘No, daughter, just bilious. Too many late nights, too many rushed suppers.’
I told him he was working too hard.
‘Perhaps, but Wolsey wants a show and a show he will have, although the emperor has requested that no pomp attends his visit, and says he wishes to go privately to the king and not waste money.
‘Father, do you hold store by the emperor’s friendship?’
‘Officially or personally?’ he asked. ‘Officially, we declare there is no man more faithful to the King than the Emperor. Personally, I have no more confidence in him than in a custard tart.’
I smiled.
‘As to not wanting any pomp, he’s planning on bringing over from Brussels two thousand persons and one thousand horse, all of which have to be fed, watered, and accommodated. We’ve arranged to lodge him at Dover, but it will be necessary to first repair the broken chimneys on the castle.’
‘Would he notice?’ I asked.
‘He will if the fires can’t be lit. It can be chilly in May on the coast.’
I asked if he had any news from Uncle Howard. He said since he had come out of Dublin he had been continually laid low with the shits and was now mewed up at his estate, barely three feet from a privy.
As my eyes gazed out on the company my father nodded towards Wolsey, standing some distance away.
‘Speaking of which,’ he said, over the rim of his cup. I watched as the cardinal turned to speak to James Butler.
‘The sooner we push with Surrey and Suffolk to get that fat arse removed from power the better.’
I was surprised at this. It was Wolsey who had saved Suffolk from losing his head when he married the king’s sister. Was there no loyalty in men?
‘Mark me, Anne,’ he said, ‘when you formally meet James say nothing that may uncover your true mind – or mine. Arrange your face so not a glimmer of your true feelings may be revealed. Keep matters light, let him think all is well. Do I have your word on this?’
I squeezed his arm in reassurance but he might as well have asked for the moon to turn blue.
It is the year of Our Lord, 1522, and Anne Boleyn has now returned to England to finalise her betrothal to Sir James Butler. French in style and manners, she attracts the attention of the English court, in March, at the Château Vert pageant organised by Cardinal Wolsey, at York Place. Amongst the dancers is her older sister, Mary, now married to Sir William Carey, but matters are not cordial between the two girls. Speaking with her father, Anne is curious as to what his thoughts are on Mary…and is surprised by his response.