Anne Boleyn- Command of the King Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedications

  The_English_Channel

  Hever Castle — Revelation

  London -_Rejection

  Hever_Castle - Ambition

  Greenwich -_Procession

  London -_Persuasion

  Greenwich -_Intention

  Hever Castle -_Concession

  London — Obsession

  Hampton - Accusation

  London -_Expectation

  London — Conviction

  Anne Boleyn

  Command of the King

  By

  Christine Elaine Black

  Dear Reader:

  This is a work of fiction based on the relationship between Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII. Many of the events are true and regularly recounted by historians but details are adjusted and fabricated for the enjoyment of fiction readers and fans of the Tudor period. Names, characters, places, and incidents in history are used to weave this tale in an entertaining fashion.

  The creative choices, noted at the end of the book, provide an insight into the writing process.

  The idea for the story came while researching Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, as part of an ongoing series of Tudor romance. A story featuring Anne Boleyn was the furthest thing from my mind but an interest in presenting a different view of Anne’s life consumed my thoughts and the book became a reality.

  Many thanks to the countless bloggers, website hosts, article writers, and storytellers who promote the inexhaustible topic of Anne Boleyn, and to the army of interested Tudor fans. No matter which side of the ‘Anne Boleyn fence’ you are on, I wish you much joy and love.

  Happy reading,

  Christine

  Anne Boleyn: Command of the King

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Christine Elaine Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: http://ceblack.wix.com/author#!contact

  Cover Art by Christine Elaine Black

  Publishing History First Edition, 2016 Digital (Canadian English)

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  To the many Anne Boleyn enthusiasts and supporters who search tirelessly for the truth hidden beneath the layers of time.

  To family and friends for their love and support.

  Other Books by Christine Elaine Black

  A Rose for Lancaster

  The Only Good Roman

  Book I

  The Only Good Roman Returns

  Book II

  MAXIMUS

  Book I Imperial Desire Series

  (Published by The Wild Rose Press)

  TAURUS

  Book II Imperial Desire Series

  (Published by The Wild Rose Press)

  ~ 1513 ~

  The English Channel

  Drops of cold rain bit into my hands and face on the crossing from England to France. I stood on the deck of a small ship with Monsieur Bouton and his family and watched the land fade into a tiny dark strip. The son of Monsieur Bouton moved out of reach when his mother tried to hold him close as we rocked upon the unruly waves. I stepped away from the family. Young Claude’s gaze followed me but I ignored him, pretending not to care. Moments later he appeared at my side, his eyes large with wonder at my show of courage. The memory stayed with me for many years and I learned a valuable lesson. Show no fear. Walk away. They follow.

  ~ Anne Boleyn ~

  ~ 1522 ~

  Hever Castle - Revelation

  Early in my return to England from the French Court the quiet days passed, one after the other, at Hever Castle and the ever-present rain maddened me. I often spoke of France and its elegant court even though Mother chided me into silence. She loved French culture but worried over the current warmongering between England and France. It mattered not to me. France reigned supreme in style, manners, elegance, fashion, and most of all in courtly masques and balls. I considered myself an expert in French matters and searched for willing ears in which to pour my knowledge.

  Our seamstress stitched a new white satin gown for the forthcoming Chateau Vert pageant while I perfected my dance steps. No other woman at court must outshine my performance and though I numbered among many graceful ladies of the English Court it only gave me the will to excel.

  Mary, the princess who once married the old King of France, and later rashly married the lecherous Duke of Suffolk, offered the best challenge to my skill, if indeed she retained her former elegance and grace after the getting of three children. I thought not.

  The pageant preparations provided a much-needed distraction from my unfortunate return from France. I daydreamed over the coming event and wondered which men of the court may attend the pageant. They must rescue the Virtues, and my chosen name, Perseverance, suited my nature, though my sister, Mary, was to play Kindness and I laughed knowing she wished for Beauty.

  My sweet sister, mistress to a king, but tied in marriage to William Carey, reportedly found her way into the beds of both France and England but lacked the foresight to truly benefit from her situation.

  The night of the pageant a man ran toward me howling a great cry to frighten away the Evil Vices, his eyes fierce with intent, his hair a shade of chestnut brown, his body tall and lean in stature, a tower of strength. Not many men stood taller than my rescuer, or looked more handsome. I sighed and fell into his arms, reveling in the warm manliness encircling my body.

  “I am Loyalty come to free you, Lady Perseverance.”

  “Loyalty is an admirable quality.”

  We edged into a small recess of the miniature castle to evade pursuit until an escape from our evil attackers presented itself. I gazed into eyes that returned a steady interest from behind a mask.

  “It appears we will be closeted here for some time, Milady.”

  I shivered at the sound of his teasing voice. His arms tightened.

  “Are you afraid?”

  If I tilted my head, even a tiny bit, our lips may touch.

  “A little.”

  My hands pressed against his hard chest and the heat from his body gave me a thrill. “If you stay by my side I will never be frightened again.”

  “Lady, to stay with you would surely be the greatest gift a man could ask.”

  His smile filled my heart.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  “Henry.”

  He chuckled at the look on my face.

  “No, not that Henry, but Henry Percy of Northumberland.”

  “Henry Percy, I am Anne, daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

  Boldness gleamed in his eyes.

  “Yes, I know, Mistress Boleyn. Word of your beauty and grace is fast spreading through the Court and I intend to win your favour.”

  The evening ended too soon and without further opportunity to keep company with Henry Percy my joy faded into bitterness as the long wait for the next exciting occasion to break the monotony of country life stretched ahead.

  Weeks later George strode into my chambers full of boisterous charm. How I loved my brother, the bright spot in my English prison.

  “How fares my marriage plans,” I yawned, feigning disinterest but desperate to hear of failure.

  “There is a sticking point with our Irish cousins. Father takes his time over the negotiations.”

  “Poor Father. He should have the Ormond title for himself and not be asked to gain it through my marriage to a Butler.” I yawned again.

  “Never mind, Anne. I had an interesting conversation the other night. I understand you met Henry Percy.”

  “He rescued me during the pageant. Were you too busy to notice?”

  George, mayhap, had the skirt of an adoring girl up around her waist at the time.

  “Percy asked if you serve in the Queen’s chambers. I mentioned it to Father, as talks with the Butlers have halted you may as well go to Court.”

  “It is preferable than listening to Mother’s prattle.”

  The strength of my person sat uneasily upon my mother. She had a strange way of looking at me as though expecting the worst, and on some occasions I caught the glances she gave my father when questions arose over the day I was born. They claimed to have forgotten the date of my birth and entered my name into the family bible without providing exact details.

  “Will I be forced to watch our sister play mistress to the King?”

  “We’ve gained by it,” George muttered.

  “Have we? I don’t see much gain sitting here waiting for the grass to grow.”

  “Be patient, Anne. I know you miss the life you had in France. If it wasn’t for the present feud between Henry and Francois you may well have stayed there indefinitely.”

  I thought of Henry Percy. The knowledge he had asked for me, and surely hoped George would mention his name to me in passing, filled me with hope.

  “If father arranges it I am willing to serve the Queen.”

  “I don’t doubt it will happen soon.”

  “And you, George, will you be at Court?”

  He laughed. “Of course. The King owes me money for a game of dice and he hopes to win it back at cards.”

  Before leaving for London I met the old woman who attended my mother during my childhood. Martha sat by the fir
e in the kitchen sipping a cup of cheap ale, advising the washerwoman on female matters.

  “Out,” I snapped at the washerwoman.

  Martha eyed me with suspicion as I drew near. “Good day to you, Mistress Anne.”

  “You remember me?”

  “And all them I ‘elped deliver into the world.”

  “My parents did not record the date of my birth. They do not speak of it, as though it is unimportant.”

  “Not unimportant, Mistress, but difficult to forget, and yet too painful to recall.”

  “I pained my mother so much?”

  “The day of your birth was a disastrous day for all England, Lady Anne. A more painful day I cannot imagine.”

  “It’s not possible. My birth hardly made an impression.”

  “The whole kingdom sat under a black cloud that day.”

  Martha must be mad with old age.

  “I’ve never heard such lies.”

  “You were born the day young Prince Arthur died. No one cares to recall such a black day. At first we didn’t know. It took a week for word to reach us but when it came your parents struck your birth date from the family record. The hopes of old King Henry died that day and of course it led to another death.”

  “Another death?” Morbid fascination held me prisoner to the woman’s words.

  “Gentle Queen Elizabeth died the next year trying to give old Henry another boy. They say he wept for weeks over her death.”

  My skin crawled.

  “How foolish to risk the Queen’s life over the chance of another son when they had one ready and waiting.”

  Martha grunted like a pig. “I ‘eard tell old Henry and Prince Harry didn’t see eye to eye. A thrifty man with a young son throwing money and gifts to anyone and everyone who took his fancy, well, you can imagine the arguments.”

  Sharp eyes passed over me as a gust of wind blasted the walls of Hever.

  “Didn’t matter in the end.” Martha muttered. “The Queen died after labouring over a girl that wouldn’t have ‘elped no one.”

  “How terrible.”

  “Now you know why your birth is forgotten. It brings up old memories for ‘em that loved young prince Arthur and his sainted mother. The second day of April, fifteen hundred and two was a day the old king forever cursed.”

  I had the urge to run from Martha but I refused to give her the satisfaction.

  “The family thought you carried ill luck. At least ‘em that know the date.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Martha. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. ‘Tis what the bible says.”

  “Who knows this, apart from my mother and father?”

  “Not many. Perhaps your uncle, Thomas Howard.” The old woman smirked at my discomfort. “We might do well to learn a lesson by the Queen’s death.”

  “And what lesson is that, pray tell?” I wished for a way to make Martha regret her insolence.

  “Desperate to provide ‘er husband with a son she signed ‘er death warrant.”

  “’Tis a woman’s lot to provide children, Martha. Any of us may die of it.”

  “Perhaps if she had not tested the will of God to please ‘er husband.”

  “Who among us knows the will of God?”

  “Or the will of the devil?” Martha hissed.

  Cold fear ran through me but anger at this woman’s effrontery overpowered it. I left her standing by the fire as I recited words often used by the Queen of France to ill-wish her enemies.

  Poor Martha did not speak French.

  ~ Anne Boleyn ~

  ~ 1523 ~

  London - Rejection

  Henry Percy strode across the Queen’s chambers. I busied myself talking to men of the Court in an effort to conceal our mutual interest. I had met him in secret a number of times, but the ladies of the chamber spoke with loose tongues and, while Father continued negotiations in the attempted union of our family with the Butlers, discretion ruled over me. I could not rely on Percy for his face told everything. I held him off with a cool glance.

  As the room filled with courtiers, many waiting for the King to arrive, Percy and I moved ever closer to one another in an attempt to meet without blatant intention. My harmless flirtations with other men drove him mad with jealousy but in a sweet, endearing way.

  “I cannot wait to be with you,” he murmured into my ear.

  “Patience,” I whispered.

  Percy waited upon Cardinal Wolsey’s beck and call but found time to meet with me while his master worked tirelessly on political matters.

  “You will come tonight?” His eyes sparkled and I could not resist my love’s eager advances.

  “Yes, when the time is right, after the Queen retires.”

  I was not one of Queen Katherine’s intimate ladies-in-waiting for she preferred her Spanish companions and older English women to attend her most personal needs.

  As she aged so did her women, and they spent their time praying, and stitching, and praying over again. The younger women fidgeted and, much to the Queen’s mild displeasure, continual devotion to God held little interest. A woman in her late thirties need not be reminded of her dwindling youth or her husband’s roving eye by surrounding herself with pretty, young girls as each day came to a close.

  Questions ran rife through the court about the royal couple. Did they sleep together? Had the Queen’s childbearing years come to an end? Had the King’s eye landed on a new mistress?

  Such information held minor interest to me. I, content to dream of Percy, the heir of Northumberland, had something of the utmost importance to discuss tonight when we met behind closed doors.

  “My courses have not come to me this month.”

  I watched Percy’s face for signs of shock, anger or disappointment. He smiled in his endearing way.

  “Anne, my love. We must marry as soon as possible. I shall write to my father at once.”

  “No, not yet, ‘tis soon for such a measure. But let us pledge to one another before God and a priest.”

  “Who can we trust to arrange it?”

  “My brother will see to it. I trust him completely.”

  We stripped one another of clothes and settled in for a night of love. Percy whispered sweet endearments all night long, begging me to marry him. I lay in his arms, happy and peaceful, imagining the child we created together.

  I feared nothing and no one. My father had favour at court, my sister had the ear of the king, and my brother charmed and befriended everyone. Percy held the key to my freedom from the Irish match and a dreaded exile to Kilkenny Castle, the childhood home of my grandmother, Margaret Butler. I had no wish to revert to Ireland after living in France among the most fashionable courtiers in Christendom. Better to marry Percy and live in the North.

  And I loved Percy and he loved me.

  We stood together before the priest, with my brother in attendance, as we pledged to be faithful and true. Dressed in a lilac gown trimmed with gold, and Percy in his best blue doublet, I smiled radiantly. George grinned with pleasure and hugged us both. After the exchange we returned in haste to our court positions and pretended strange with one another but word spread that Percy paid special attention to Lady Anne Boleyn.

  A week later I fell ill with an ague and my body betrayed me. My courses came, heavy with gobbets of blood. I cried for days in frustration.

  Percy held me and stroked my hair. “Anne, I love you and will marry you no matter the circumstances. We are sworn to it, remember?”

  I sobbed. “Yes, but I release you from it.”

  “No,” he soothed, as he took my hand. “I consider you my wife.”

  He could not know how much I loved him at such a moment.

  It was decided. Our affair would continue as soon as I recovered.

  A letter arrived from my mother to inquire after my health. I read it with caution, concerned she had spies at court and knew of the gossip. At the end of the letter she mentioned her old midwyfe, Martha.