Random Ramblings: A Rough Draft

“Break not the wind upon thy seal, and thrash this tiny heart;

Which bends and folds on bleeding wing,

And sings again, no more.”

It was the longest journey of my life. Of our lives. Through the rolling hills of northern Kent, and through the many ancient and auspicious towns we went down to the sea at Dover, and the great crossing across that fearsome channel that would change everything. Like the thousands of others girls that had come before, and the countless other girls that would come after, we were away to be “finished”, to gather what graces and charms we could from far away courts and lords and ladies whose names we did not know. A great Flemish nobleman accompanied us, Claude Bouton. In our whispers, Mary and I call him “phlegm”, for he does not speak much, only coughs; great, sputtering coughs. I laugh with her beneath the covers. Maybe he will die of consumption. Mary is shocked at my bawdiness. I am always the one that rubs darker. 

The crossing was briefer than others. Longer than the rest. For a few days, we are bashed about by great heaving waves. There was no way to tell when the waters would strike up in their wrath. Our ship was tossed about on great Poseidon’s waves, as if it were no more than the tiny floating toys that grace the waters at Hever Lake. Our cabin stank of vomit and piss. We could not leave our berths for the crashing of the thunder, the thumping of the waves, or the incessant vomiting. We cannot move but to spew from one end or the other. The journey was one that seemed would never end, but soon the clouds parted and the sun was shining, once again, on our progress into distant lands. We landed safe and sound on the shores of our destiny.

We were off and away to the great Hapsburg court at Mechelen in Brabant. I knew little of the country, Mary even less, but I had been instructed a little on the great Archduchess, Margaret of Austria, who ruled the low countries as regent for her young nephew, Charles of Burgundy. I hear he is of an age with me.

I laugh at Mary. She will be too old for so grand a youth. I tell her she will be the oldest girl at court. I tell her that father will wed her off to some old, stinking Flemish man. Maybe a cloths merchant. Maybe he will marry her to Phlegm. She would strike me if she was not so ill of this voyage. I did not doubt that she would strike me when we landed. Maybe in the night while we whispered under the cover of darkness in this exotic new land. That is how Mary always struck - under the cover of darkness.

We had left our home at Hever to become Maids of Honor, Mary and I. We were sent to serve this Archduchess Margaret, and to learn from her. All the important things. Needlework, propriety, singing, dancing. All the great parts of court life, and all the tedious parts of being a woman. But they said so much that Margaret’s court was one of great learning, of dignity and grace. They said that , there, you learn not only French, but Latin, the Low Country dialects, Italian. Her court was one that was decorated not by vain and silly women, but by the greatest painters, philosophers and humanists. True men of the new renaissance. Men of learning and politics. Men of theology. Men of forward thinking.

There is no forward thinking in England.

To think forward in England is to invite death into your bed, into your home, into the very roots of your family. But a new time was quickly dawning, said the men about my Father. A new time was coming when men need not hide in the shadows, but rise gloriously in the triumph of His grace.

Our days drew nearer.

We disembarked the ship, onto a dank and dirty pier. It stank of fish and sea and shit. The whores lurked in the backgrounds, hidden in the shadows. They dare not reveal themselves in the basking, radiant light of true and faithful ladies of the court. That would have been the utmost in disrespect. There were none who would so tarnish the court of the great Margaret of Austria.

But we see them all the same. We can smell them. The purification and corruption of their sins. The disease, masked in pomanders and cheap, French perfumes. The men are drawn to them like moths to the flame. The sailors fled to their fleeting shadows as if their souls could no longer be parted from their sinful endeavors. Even then, I knew the game of men and women. It is always the same with men. They chase always after the jewel a woman keeps between her legs. That one little red ruby that all men would have, yet only one may take.

Mary liked to use that jewel; many and often did she use it.

She liked to beguile the men and lead them, dangling, to her tune. I saw her games. I watched as they courted and she flirted. I watched, all the superficial promises and meaningless tokens. All the effort for just a moments ease. Even in my youth I saw just what she gave away to those men, what she lost every time. There is nothing to be gained, and everything to be lost in the game of lust and sex. A piece of your soul is taken, each time, and he gains naught more but a new notch in the belt, a new token to boast of. Even in the marriage bed, the game is the same. You are a token, he the purse and the hand that will wield it where he shall.

I have been tasked to look after her, my sister Mary. Look after her, my mother told me. Report to me of any disadvantageous behaviors, my father spoke solemnly. Write us. Warn us. Warn her too. She must make a good marriage. We are all of us depending on her success.

Though I am the younger, I am the more pious, the more serious, the most promising. I saw that then, even when they didn’t. Mary was given the blessed look of a saint - rosy cheeks, pale complexion, eyes as big and round and blue as sapphires. Her mouth is a rosebud, where mine is a dusty line drawn in murky sand. Her features are plump and round, her countenance always smiling. I am long and lean. Cut as if from dirty alabaster.

“Come and brush my hair, sister,” she always said to me. She loved to look at herself in the mirror while I brushed out the long and curly locks that framed her face so nicely. They were all spun gold and dirty straw, those locks. Her hair was never as dark as mine. Not even after the children came, when the hair often turns a deeper shade.

She was to be a jewel at the court, a shining beacon of feminine beauty. She was an utter embarrassment.

We were taken to the palace, straight from the docks. It was graceful there, full of determination and simultaneous whimsy; the sound of tinkling water and gentle lutes filled the maze of corridors and rooms. The smells here were sweet. Everywhere lounged beautiful men and women, soaked in the newest perfumes, ornate pomanders hanging about their waists. There were no dirty rushes on the floors, but polished, shining marble. Dogs did not run among the rats on the stinking floors piled with food. This was a delicate court. A graceful court.

The women were like a flock of beautifully dressed birds, all in the latest fashions of the French and Italian courts. The low cut dresses in damask and in silk. Their venetian fans colored in all the masterful artistry that can be summoned in Italy. Singers, the best that money could buy, dotted the court, lounging as cats in the many windows and embrasures. Music filled the stone and tiled halls. Painters, easels askew in rooms of supreme beauty, made little nests in the privy rooms and public halls alike, taking pains to paint the beautiful women and men that comprised the great Margaret’s court.

This woman was a great woman, they said. It did not take us long to discover the truth to these venerations.

Unlike her squat and glimmering sister-by-law, Queen Katherine of Aragon, this lady was not one that was addled and crippled by her convictions. Indeed, it quickly became clear to me, if not to Mary, that she was the very opposite. Where her great Spanish relative that reigned once in England was haughty and stern, viewing her faith as a thing that must be fed by mortification and self-denial, Lady Margaret saw every beautiful thing in the aesthetic is a pleasure unto God - a prayer.

To paint beautifully, and to surround yourself with the work of the masters - this was a prayer, a supplication unto god. To listen to the trembling voice of a singer, as he plucked his lute - this was a prayer. To cloak yourself in grace and dignity, acting with charity and humility to even those of the lowest birth - this was a prayer. A woman was the aesthetic. The beautiful embodiment of purity through Christ. She was to be pretty, light, intelligent. She must offer counsel where it was sought, she must offer temperance where it was without, she must offer grace and purity where it was missing.

But you must always remember your birth. This above all. God had, after all, called us all unto this holy station. To rise was to be favored by God. To be favored by God was only for one purpose - to do his will. His will was, and always would be, to deliver his laws unto the people of the lands. One must always remember this, especially in times of interacting with those who we must lead.

Unfortunately, these were not things that Mary could learn.

At a young age, we Boleyn children learned the meaning and value of power. Without power, without the grace of those who ran the land, you could never hope to rise, never hope to secure foundations for your family. Without the grace of our betters, how could we ever hope to lead others into the light of salvation? Without the grace of your betters, you can never hope to achieve the works of God across the land.

Mary saw that power, in its most miniscule nature, only in men.

Mary saw nothing but sex as this power to control men.

My sister was unable to see the larger picture, as ever. She could not see where dignity could lead you, where honor could lead you. It is not the woman’s mound that leads you into the arms of a true and loving husband. It is your honor. Your vows as a woman. Your honesty, above all else. You are to be the Blessed Virgin upon this earth, a symbol of her suffering and purity. Mary was never one who could grasp that picture. There was nothing in Mary’s simply, woman’s brain that could understand how standing on your dignity could lead to so much more. It was not until much, much later that she came to reconcile herself to that idea at all.

Mary drew herself into the small circle court of dashing young men and women that surrounded the young Archduke Charles. This was where she could “always find promotion”, she said. This is where she would better herself and make the connections that father so desperately seeks. It was through learning the ways of men, and what they truly wanted that she would rise and find the husband that she was truly meant to have. Maybe here she would find a wealthy husband, a merchant or the son of a duke or even a minor lord. Nothing was too good for Mary.

Nothing was too bad for her either.

But I had come for other lessons.

I, Anne, had come not out of the seeking of a husband, though that was always the ultimate goal of my father and mother. I had come to learn the skills of my father. I was to listen, to learn, to report. I was to watch everything, how Lady Margaret comported herself, how the great ladies about her comported themselves. I was to learn French, a most beautiful, if not dreadful, language, and I was to soak in all the glorious and gracious customs and skills of a court lady.

My eduction began long before I reached those foreign shores, however, but there was little that can compare between the simple, country education that Hever offered, and the life of a great court lady, awash in the throbbing light of pageants, balls and tournaments. At Hever, you did not find the masters of art and song. Hever was not crawling with philosophers and poets, writers and theologians. Hever was a country house, for coutnry people. Hever was not a house for the permanent life of a grand, and rising, courier’s daughter. A future rising star, herself.

But neither, too, was the English court.

For all its graces, all the grand words and pageants and tournaments of the new, fiery Tudor king, the English court was still a hovel among the learned and culture courts of the continent. In France, they had they Sun King, and they said he had a castle that was covered on the inside with a million fine tapestries, each one more priceless than the next. In the halls of the Italian courts, the finest painters, inventors and philosophers met to discuss and create the greatest aesthetics the world would ever know.

England was an oak throne with no more than a proud boy, playing at war and global dominance. It was a stable full of simple sheep and clingers on. Pretenders to something greater than they could ever aspire to be.

So we had come here for an education, and I meant to learn all that I could

We had earned this spot of honor on nothing more than the pleasing abilities of our father, Thomas Boleyn, ambassador to the new King Henry VIII. Two years earlier, he was given a mission from the fresh-faced King Henry. He bade my father to visit the Archduchess Margaret, in her court of light, learning and beauty. He bid him come and learn all that he could of the Archduchess, and to learn her ways and favors in the matters of his endeavors far and wide. Henry would have this woman and her court as a friend and ally. Against, always, our mortal enemies - the French. He would have the love of this great lady, and her respect and admonition, and that of the boy that would one day rule, Archduke Charles. That is what this King needed always, it seemed. This Henry, king of kings. A lion among roses. A simpering little boy in constant need of praise.

My father always had a way with those above him. He knows how to make those of royal birth smile. He knew, almost inexplicably, how to make them feel superior, how to give them power over him, while maintaining his own and reaching his will in the end. He was a man that you felt you could trust, almost from an instant. He always hide that darkness. That Boleyn darkness.

And so I learned at this court. I learned the songs. I learned the languages, I learned the poetry. I learned how to dance the galliard. I learned how to leap lightly on the balls of my feet, and spin as gracefully as a swan. I learned how to hold my head high and move my hands always as if they were floating in the water of a tub. Men liked this, the ladies said. They liked the little, subtle movements. It made them think of bed.

“You must be as a swan, always drawn toward the heavens, always floating on air,” they said to me. Grace. Grace. Always grace. Be graceful in all that you do.

I learned to play the lute and also the keys. I learned to compose music, and to write gay little tunes. My voice was low, but pleasant. Lilting over phrase and melody with that rosy, Kentish accent. We sang the tunes to please My Lady Margaret. She would often have me stand, burning red, in the midst of her great court of placid ladies and sovereign men, and sing my little songs. She laughed sometimes at the pleasing simplicity of my prose.

“Ma petite, you write music better than you speak the tongue your father so desires you to learn. Perhaps we should make all your lessons a song.”

Her praise was glowing, yet shaming. I would not confess to much love of the French language, or its learning. The delicate little sounds come so foreign to the heavy, course English tongue. But for what it was, I did love my lady Margaret, and I worked all that much harder to please her.

We learned too the theology of the times. There were books there, many books and more. Even the scriptures were there, written in French so that any soul that hazarded the ancient tongue could read them. Not here, in this court of great learning, were these texts only for the men of the holy houses. These were stories for us all, Lady Margaret said. These were lessons that we must all take to our souls and keep there, following them always as the light and truths to guide our sinful, meagre lives.

I took to the books and the learning like a duck to the water. I worried less and less about the grandness of my clothes, and more and more about the arguments against the corruption of the church. There were many men that came there, seeking the protection and guidance of the Lady Margaret. They sought her counsel in many things, including theology, politics, the running of their estates. These men, much learned men, dirty and travel stained from the road, talked long and often about the grievances of the church. They talked about the great evils committed at the hands of those who run the church. They spoke of the spite and corruption of the Holy Father. They said he had a lover, what’s more that he was followed day and night, and shielded, by a sea of bastard children; each of whom he had put in a place of great power and wealth, fouling the holy state of his Order.

These men spoke of a time when all men will read the scriptures in the privacy and the counsel of their own homes. They said that, one day, men and women alike would rejoice in the words of our most dear and holy Lord, and that we would keep his lessons in the deepest parts of our souls. We would read these holy tales to our children. Even the poorest of us would one day have the words, printed and close to our pillows at night. We would wear our holy knowledge as a shield against the temptations of that evil beguiler, the Dark One.

I watched these men. I listened to the romantic visions they inspired, any my heart was engulfed in the holy flame of God. But they were not there to speak to little girls in the frivolous frocks of women. I was forced to watch only as they sat with My Lady. As they argued with her. Discussed with her. Entreated her. She was moved. She was obstinate. She was graceful. Always graceful. Even in the most heated of discourses, she never lost that iron composure. Your grace is your armor. Wear it always.

***

We were months into our placement at the court in Mechelen. I had taken to many tongues, and Mary had taken to many beds. Try as I might to cleave her from her foolish ways, she would not relent, and soon, she was recalled to England, by our most auspicious father. He made little to no apology, and said only that she would be returning in order to join the great and merry company of Princess Mary, who would soon travel to France to become queen. She was the elder of us two, Mary. It was her right and her duty to leave here, seeking better fortunes and the pride of our family in the court of our other English princess. Still, the rage and envy burned in me like the most dedicated of sinners. No amount of prayer or music could cure it. It ate away at my breast like a cancerous growth.

There were few that truly lamented the leaving of Mary.

I was sad to see her leave, sad to be rid of my bed partner. She was the only piece of the childhood and home that I left behind. Not even my clothes remained, as I grew inch after inch and had to be refitted, in the modern and flashy styles of the Mechelen court. I had not been summoned by my father. I was to stay at the court of Margaret of Austria, to carry on in my learning. I was too young yet to be sent on such a precarious of court tasks. Mary was grown, a woman fertile who could begin to have heirs. I was the little girl still, no more than fifteen years old.

The Archduchess has spoken highly of me, the had letter said. My father was proud, and hoped that I would continue in my studies and lend myself to all the wishes of the great lady of the court. The man carrying the letter looked at me blankly, would I pen a reply? I sat and scratched upon a white sheet of paper all the words I knew he would want to hear. I told him of my dedication always to the cause and purpose of this endeavor. I told him I thought of him constantly, as much as the task at hand. I told him of my studies and of my learning, and of the praise that I received daily from her good and gracious Archduchess. I would continue in my work, I told him, and seek to continue to be the daughter that he deserved. 

I said nothing of the daughter had had summoned home. The daughter who was, even now, receiving the great honors I was due.

Mary was gone within a fortnight, and the beds of the men of the court were much the colder for it. My bed was soon warmed by another bedmate, a wispish little blonde girl called Hilde. She was a ward of the Archduchess. Newly sent to court, her father was some newly jumped merchant who had made his wealth in the booming textile trades in the low countries. He was also the printer and producer of books. He could produce any book, no matter how rare or precious. His daughter was without substance and rarely spoke. For the first few nights, she simply cried, keeping us both awake until all hours of the early morning. Her conversation was no better in the little rooms that we called home with all the other ladies of the court.

It was strange, at first, being there without my sister.

It is was as though we were shadows of one another; her the gold and I the shade. I was a miniature wraith in her shadows. Her with heaving bosom and buxom figure; kind countenance and bright and cheery looks. I was all storm and shadow in her wake. A creeping figure clad and covered all in black.

Black was my color. It suited me well, the darkness of my eyes, the darkness of my hair. It symbolized everything that I was. It was everything that my sister was not.

Without the foolish escapades of my sister, I was able to hone my skills and focus on my studies. Nothing ever came hard to me, I was both proud and shamed to say it. The languages had been a challenge only at first, but once their patters were recognized, they were simple enough to learn. The dancing was a natural, simple cadence; the real trick was recognizing the pattern of the body that held you, swaying to the music. I sang. I composed. I played extraordinarily well upon the instruments that were put before me. My fingers were so tiny and deft, that sewing and embroidery were their natural element. So too painting and drawing. Writing too came easily to me. Soon, I was learning numbers, and reading books in Latin, French and Greek. I beggared peeks into the books of the learned men who came to debate their beliefs. I learned of their faith and their belief in the corruption of the church.

It was hard to argue with their logic. They spoke of duck’s blood in the place of the blood of holy saints and martyrs. They talked about clergy who raped and stole. They recounted tale after tale of bishop, grown fat on the taxes and demands of his parish and people. The bones they sold to witless pilgrims, no more than the rotted bones of cattle and sheep. Taking advantage of men, women and children, both simple and endowed, they made a mockery of our Lord and Savior, and they desecrated his church and holy law with their vile incriminations.

Margaret did not speak of these things with us, her Maids of Honor. This was not her job, theology not the place of women. But it was there, nonetheless, always just below the surface; knowledge there for our taking should be choose to make it so.

Before long, I was speaking the French tongue like a natural. I was reading the holy scripture in the same. Latin too became easy to read and write for me. I wrote my father regular correspondence, to show him my progress.

He told me little and more of his life away in France and in England. He told me that all was well, and that my sister shone at the French court. She was often called to him beautiful and womanly, and was frequently the favorite of King Francis, himself. He said her grace knew no bounds.

I had not the heart, though I am sure he was much aware, that this was no reference to her womanly chastity, but rather the opposite. She was an open mockery to the Boleyn family, a constant and indiscriminate invitation to the men of the French court. Father said she would be married soon. If he could not settle her on some advantageous and conceding Frenchman, he would take her home, to England. There she would find a man who would readily tie himself to the rising Boleyn star.

He did not have to wait long.

Only three months after my father and sister’s triumphant arrival in France in the train of Mary Tudor, her husband, King Louis XII was dead. The old and pocky man had died in bed, they said, taking sport in his beautiful young wife. There were other rumors too, as there always were, that the princess had killed her new husband out of spite and love for another. Who this love was, no one was willing to say, but some had put their money on Sir Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, the King’s greatest friend and Mary’s oldest amor.

For six weeks, Princess, now Dowager Queen, Mary was concealed in a country Palais, far away from the licentious men of the French court. Here, there were no men, save her almoners and the new King, to see her, and she was surrounded constantly by her ladies.

How my sister must have raged then. She was nothing without the gallant men of the court. Had I not seen her work a thousand times? Without men, she was as the earth with no sunlight. She was cold, barren, without personality. She was a character that was defined entirely by men. Her very existence was dependent upon their very existence in every facet of her life.