The Court of Boleyn (Tudor Romance Book 1) (2 page)

   Anne rolled her eyes and smiled at the musician. ‘Did you find the king? Is he on his way?’

   ‘Unfortunately not, madam.’ Mark said, reaching for his lute. ‘He is locked away with Cromwell and will not be disturbed.’

   Anne nodded and walked towards the fireplace, needing a moment alone. As the sweet sound of Mark’s music began to float through the air, she stared into the dancing flames, feeling the raw heat upon her cheeks. At one time it had been the king’s passion which had warmed her but he rarely came into her presence these days. She covered her flat stomach with her hands, feeling the emptiness of her womb. It had been months since she had miscarried of their son but Henry still refused to come to her bed. It was as if he no longer cared; as if he no longer believed she was capable of giving him what he most desired. Jane Seymour’s bland features suddenly swam in front of her eyes and her breath became laboured, panicked. Controlling her emotions with difficulty, she turned around and addressed her brother. ‘Your lovely wife seems to be taking a long time finding the Seymour girl. I wonder where she could be?’

   ‘I wonder, indeed.’

-

   ‘Very pretty.’ Jane Boleyn said, examining the pearl locket which dangled from Seymour’s neck. ‘I suppose the king gave it to you.’

   Jane Seymour was expensively attired these days. She wore a pale green dress of rich satin and her fair hair was covered with a pearl studded French head dress. With a little smile playing about her lips, she nodded her head and picked up her embroidery hoop. ‘His majesty is good to me.’

   ‘You should not flaunt his favour in front of the queen,’ Madge spoke warmly. ‘It would be too cruel.’

   ‘I would never wish to hurt her majesty,’ Seymour replied with a shrug. ‘But my first loyalty is to the king, whose love we should strive for above all others. If it pleases him to honour me, I must submit to his will. We should
all
submit to those who are set above us.’

   Jane Boleyn laughed. ‘I suppose the jewellery helps you submit?’

   ‘When you mock me, Jane, you mock the king.’ Seymour looked up, fixing Jane with a look that was both calm and deadly serious at the same time. ‘The king and I both know what we want.’

   It was true, Jane thought to herself. Seymour was just biding her time until the day she had a ring on her finger and a crown on her head. Jane did not know when that day would come but, whatever happened, she would make sure that she was on the right side of history. She leant forward and took Seymour’s hand. ‘I was only joking, Seymour. Anne no longer pleases the king and I think we all agree that he deserves a chance at happiness. He deserves to have a son.’

   ‘Thank you,’ Seymour smiled.

   Jane looked at Madge’s worried face. ‘We shall be glad to serve Seymour, shall we not, Madge?’ Cousin Madge looked down at her hands and mumbled her agreement. It was time to face the truth; the Court of Boleyn could not last forever.

Chapter Two

The next day

Radley Hall, Warwickshire

Life at the court of Boleyn would not be so desolate as life at Radley Hall, Cecily Askew thought as she burst into her bedchamber. She slammed the door behind her. Edmund had pushed her too far now. It was time to leave. It was time to seek a better life with that most gracious of queens. Anne Boleyn understood ambition. Her court was said to glitter with the finest young people of the realm. It was a place to thrive, not suffocate.

   Through a haze of angry tears, she saw her maid Joan rise to greet her. ‘Whatever is the matter, madam?’ The old lady asked gently. ‘Come, sit you down and tell old Joan.’ Cecily felt herself guided towards a chair before the looking glass and wiped her tears away.

   ‘That man makes me feel so grubby,’ she said, her voice rising in distress. ‘I’m his lawful wife, not some nun.’

   ‘There, there madam.’ Joan began to unpin Cecily’s hair. ‘I’m sure he will come around in time. It’s not always easy for the man, you know.’

   ‘He’s had three months, yet still he refuses to consummate our marriage. I don’t understand.’ Cecily gazed into the mirror, seeking answers in her reflection. As her hair came loose, lock by lock, it began to stream over her shoulders in a golden wave. Her green eyes were slightly red rimmed and watery with the remnants of her tears and her cheeks were flushed but there was no denying her delicate beauty. Her chest heaved prettily against the confines of her silvery blue satin bodice as a hot flood of indignation coursed through her veins. ‘I think the fault is not with me.’

   The day had begun promisingly. The rolling hills of Warwickshire lay beneath a fresh blanket of unseasonable snow. Despite this, Cecily and her husband Sir Edmund had joined the hunt. They had galloped for miles, their shouts of glee piercing the crisp air of this persistent winter. They had come back laughing and shaking snow from their boots, leaving it to melt upon the floor of the Great Hall. A huge feast of roast hare and boar followed. They toasted each other’s health with rich malmsey wine and Edmund had smiled warmly at her. A merry fire crackled. Cecily finished her meal and went to stand before it, warming her backside by the flames. She stretched and yawned. The hour was late. She looked at Edmund who had suddenly taken a sheaf of papers and gone to sit at his desk by the window. ‘Will you come to my bed, husband?’ she raised her eyebrows, knowing full well what answer to expect. His range of excuses did not vary much:
Sweetheart, I’m weary,
or
, I have a megrim.

   ‘I have work to attend to,’ Sir Edmund replied, not looking up. And indeed his quill pen scratched busily across the paper. Cecily looked at his ink stained finger tips and wondered if she would ever feel their touch upon her bare skin. Three months they had been married and yet she was still a maid. He was more tactile with his menservants and his grey wolfhound Alfric than he was with her. Each night she asked if he would come to her bed and each night he demurred. She knew her duty, felt keenly aware that this marriage had been arranged for the getting of heirs to the Radley estates. At this rate there would be oak trees before there were children.

   With a sigh she leant down and kissed him chastely upon his forehead. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

   ‘Goodnight sweetheart,’ he murmured.

   Cecily hesitated for a moment, gazing down upon her husband. His red hair flopped over his eyes as he worked. The warmth and companionship they had shared, her very presence, was seemingly forgotten. She turned on her heel and walked towards the door, tears pricking her eyes as she went. Her pace quickened and she found herself running blindly through the dark passages towards her chamber.

-

   Edmund Askew laid down his pen and put his head in his hands. His wife was beautiful; the lust in other men’s eyes told him so, yet he could not bring himself to touch her. God had ordained that man should lie with woman but the very thought left Edmund cold. He sat up and stared into the dying embers of the fire.

   Ever since he was a boy he had known he was different. He had preferred the company of his mother and sisters to that of the local boys. His night dreams had been filled with unsettling images of men which left his sheets wet with shame.

   He exhaled sharply.
I expect I am damned.

   If he had not been compelled by penury to take a rich wife, he would have stayed a bachelor and been much happier for it. Yet he fretted, knowing how simple it would be for Cecily to complain of his marital neglect and have the marriage annulled. He could not allow that to happen. He needed her dowry. But he also needed love. The love of a man.

   A servant approached him with a jug of wine. Edmund watched as, unbidden, the man began to refill his glass. He was handsome, with lively eyes and fine cheekbones. Edmund had never see him before.
Another mouth to feed.
Cecily was too soft. There would be soon be more servants than rooms at Radley Hall. ‘What is your name?’ Edmund asked lazily.

   ‘Tom.’ The servant smiled then raised an eyebrow in a way that made Edmund’s crotch twitch.

   ‘Well, Tom.’ Edmund blew out the beeswax candle on his desk. A trail of fragrant smoke curled up into the air. ‘I think we should get acquainted.’

   Tom’s smile widened. He put down the jug.

-

   Cecily lay calmly in bed as Joan tucked the covers about her and plumped the pillows. Her tears had dried now and she felt sleepy and relieved of all care. ‘I need love in my life.’

   ‘Sweet madam, he loves you truly.’ Joan said.

   ‘No, he doesn’t.’ Cecily murmured drowsily. ‘He may love me as a sister but not as a wife. And I meant what I said earlier.’

   ‘What’s that sweeting?’

   Cecily closed her eyes and imagined how it would feel to lie next to a man. To feel his breath on her cheeks, his soft caress. To be held tightly and loved, appreciated as a woman in her prime should be. To her surprise, the man in her mind’s eye no longer looked much like Edmund. The secret world she had conjured in her mind was populated by chivalric knights, dashing gentlemen and benevolent queens. Somewhere in this beautiful world there had to be another life waiting for her. There had to be another man. ‘I’m leaving here, Joan.’

   Silence hung in the air as both women allowed the import of these words to sink in. Women did not just leave their husbands. ‘But, that’s impossible,’ Joan stuttered helplessly.

   ‘Not for me.’ Cecily opened her eyes and looked at her maid. She smiled. ‘I will find a way to escape this gilded cage. Sometimes I dream …’

   Joan cut her off. ‘Dreams, madam, dreams. You’d do best to reconcile yourself to Sir Edmund and seek his affection.’

   Cecily closed her eyes and turned away.

Chapter Three

A tavern in Warwickshire

Weak winter sunlight streamed into the tavern bedchamber and caressed Francis Bowman’s sleeping face. From within the depths of his slumber he sensed its muted glow and he turned over with a groan, the memory of last night’s revels flashing before him like a play. His throat was parched and his head was foggy with what promised to be a mighty hangover. It was with dismay that he felt a thin, feminine arm encircle his torso. Who had he corrupted this time? He peeled open his sleepy eyes and looked over his shoulder. The wench had a shock of red curly hair which obscured her face. He felt her soft breath against the back of his neck. Her generous bosom pressed warmly on his back. It was all coming back to him now.

   His mistress, Queen Anne Boleyn, had granted him a fortnight’s leave from court. As one of her two musicians he held a favoured position, attending on her when it pleased her to hear sweet music. But holidays were rarely granted so he had been happy to wave goodbye to his fellow musician Mark Smeaton and take his leave for a while. With a sweet sense of liberty in his heart he had ridden north to Warwickshire, intending to visit his widowed mother at her home in Coventry.

   He had stopped at this flea pit of a tavern last night and dined in the taproom, enjoying the attention of several whores who had seated themselves in a circle around him, firing questions at him.

   ‘Are you truly come from court?’ One of them had asked.

   ‘Yes, truly I am.’ Francis waved a hand across his mud spattered doublet, drawing her attention to the purple livery of Queen Anne Boleyn. The wench laughed and leaned in closer, running her hand over the fine fabric of his doublet until she found the top button. With nimble fingers she loosened it, seeking access to his chest. She smiled wickedly, displaying gapped teeth and dimples. In the candlelight her voluptuously curled hair seemed to glow like fire. Despite his travel weariness Francis grinned. He was far from the strictures of court now. Maybe that was a good thing; he needed some fun. The drinks flowed. He and the girl spent a merry evening laughing and talking of sweet nonsense until Francis was filled with contentment and joy. At some point in the evening he had brought out his lute and begun playing songs he would normally perform for Anne Boleyn. He was enjoying this homely audience. A small crowd began to form, clapping and cheering him on. He had not felt so relaxed for months. Somewhere though, in the dark recesses of his drink addled brain, an uneasy feeling began to form. He should probably not be doing this, playing to prostitutes whilst dressed in the queen’s livery. The habit of alertness and tension he had formed at court was strong. Carefully, he laid down his lute and rubbed a hand through his hair. What was he doing? The strain must have shown on his face for he had felt hands rubbing the back of his shoulders and his companion’s soft voice whispering in his ear.

   ‘Come to my room, sweetheart. I shall ease your pain.’