The Court of Boleyn (Tudor Romance Book 1)

The Court of Boleyn

Tudor Romance: Part One

Bella Chase

Prologue

May 17
th
1536, Tower Hill

Francis Bowman managed to push his way through the thick crowds and find a spot at the foot of the scaffold. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed people. It seemed that every Londoner who could walk or hobble had turned out to watch the execution. As far as the people were concerned, this was an unmissable event. It was not every day you could throw rotten fruit at rich courtiers and go unpunished. It was not every day you could spit in their faces and watch them die.

   A warm river breeze ruffled Francis’s dark hair. He would rather not have been here. Indeed, he would have given his life to have prevented what was about to take place. God knew he had tried his best to swap places with Mark, but Thomas Cromwell had refused to listen. The least he could do now was to be here for his friend; to support him in his final moments. He noted grimly that everything was in place. The block was right at the edge of the platform – to give people a better view, Francis supposed – and the axe had been placed on top of it. Someone had scattered a bale of straw across the wooden boards.

   ‘God save his majesty!’ A greasy haired woman shouted in a rasping voice. ‘They’ll be coming out soon.’ She smiled at Francis showing a mouthful of what looked like chewed almonds. ‘Five men in one go. Filthy traitors.’

   ‘Indeed.’ Sometimes it was better not to argue. He turned to his right where the stone turrets of the Tower of London were washed in a golden sunlit haze. The royal pennants fluttered on the gentle summer breeze. Somewhere within that fortress, the men would be saying their final prayers. ‘God keep them’, Francis murmured, surreptitiously crossing himself. This was not justice. Mark Smeaton, George Boleyn, Francis Weston, William Brereton and Henry Norris were innocent men.

   A slight commotion coming from the western entrance to the Tower caused the crowd to turn their heads in anticipation. Francis watched as a troop of guards in red and blue livery began to emerge. They carried halberds before them and as they marched through the crowd, a passageway formed. ‘Make way for the king’s guard!’ Francis found himself pushed forward by the surging crowd. He caught a glimpse of George Boleyn, dressed plainly in a loose white shirt, walking up the steps to the block. He held his head high, proud to the last, but his face was pale. Francis watched as he spoke a few words to the Lieutenant of the Tower before turning to address the people. He seemed to hesitate, unused to such a hostile audience. The crowd began to chant.

   ‘Kill him! Off with his head!’

   Finally, Boleyn found his voice. ‘Christian men,’ he began. The crowd began to hush. ‘I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law hath condemned me.’ He swallowed and briefly closed his eyes.

   ‘Get on with it!’ The greasy haired woman yelled.

   Boleyn took a deep breath and continued. ‘Masters all, I am not come hither to preach, but to die. I am a wretched sinner and I have sinned shamefully …’

   As the speech continued, Francis looked around. The other prisoners were already waiting at the foot of the scaffold. There was Weston, weeping softly. Brereton and Norris were deep in prayer. Francis caught sight of his fellow court musician Mark Smeaton and raised his hand, catching his attention. They exchanged weak smiles and then Mark lowered his head and began to pray. ‘Have courage, Mark,’ Francis whispered.

  
He turned back to George Boleyn who was getting into his stride. ‘Beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court. And I cry God mercy, and ask all the world forgiveness, and if I have offended any man that is not here now, either in thought, or word, or deed, I pray you heartily, pray them to forgive me for God’s sake. I pray you masters all, for God’s sake stick to the truth and follow it.’

   The headsman approached him and bowed briefly. ‘Do you forgive me, my lord?’

   Boleyn glanced at him and nodded curtly, handing him a purse. The Lieutenant stepped forward and tied a black scarf around the condemned man’s eyes then guided him towards the block. He whispered a few words to him. Boleyn responded by kneeling down and reaching for the block. As he lowered his head in preparation for eternal sleep, the crowd began to murmur expectantly. Francis felt himself jostled about as people shifted, straining for a better view.

-

   Later that day, as Francis sat slumped over an empty bottle of wine at the Mitre Tavern, a series of dreadful images flashed through his mind.
Sunlight glinting on the axe blade as it swung through the air. A sickening crunch. The roar of the crowd as the executioner held up a succession of severed heads.
Mark had been the last to die. He had looked so afraid as he mounted the blood drenched scaffold. What had happened today was murder, pure and simple.

   Francis shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. He knew there would be more slaughter tomorrow when his mistress Anne Boleyn mounted the scaffold to face her doom. He would be there for her, as he had been there for Mark Smeaton. When the deed was done, he would avenge them both. 

   In the meantime, sweet oblivion was all he desired. He raised his hand and called for more wine.

Chapter One

Six weeks earlier.

Greenwich Palace

Anne Boleyn threw her cards upon the table and crossed her arms. ‘I refuse to play with you any more, George. You cheat!’ She watched her brother give a smug grin as he began to gather up the large pile of coins which had accumulated between them. It was not as if he needed the money. His black doublet was of the finest silk, the collar and hems lined with sable fur. Short dark hair framed his handsome face setting off his lively, dancing eyes. As queen, Anne was dressed even more finely than her brother. The square neckline of her purple gown was embroidered with expensive oyster pearls, and a diamond tiara nestled within the folds of her lustrous dark hair.

   ‘You really are useless at cards, Anne.’ George teased. ‘I shall seek out an abler opponent next time.’

   Anne threw a nut at him, aiming squarely for his forehead. It hit him in the eye.

   ‘Ow! You bitch.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s
queen
bitch to you.’ Picking up her glass of wine, she sat back and surveyed the Privy Chamber. A warm fire crackled in the grate, infusing the air with the scent of warm spices. The gilded tapestries which hung from two of the walls glowed orange in the candlelight. Seated upon two cushions in the corner of the little room were Cousin Madge Shelton and George’s wife Jane. The two women sat sewing together, their heads bowed in concentration. Mark Smeaton sat by the window, playing a gentle melody upon his lute. Dark wavy hair flopped over his eyes and he tapped his foot to the gentle rhythm of the music. Anne smiled at the cosiness of it all. Long ago she had determined that the court of Boleyn would be a place of gaiety, of wit, and of learning. She may have been born of a simple Kentish knight but thanks to God’s grace she would die the wife of a king. Her heart swelled with love as she thought of her royal husband. It was true, they had argued of late, but her passion for him would endure for as long as they both lived. Despite his dalliances with other women, she knew that Henry still loved her. Had he not sworn to serve and cherish her all those years ago? Back then he had belonged to someone else. But he was Anne’s now. She would not let him go without a fight.

   ‘Fetch Jane Seymour for me, cousin.’ Anne called to Madge. ‘I have not seen her all day.’

   ‘Yes, madam.’ Madge flashed a pretty smile, and put down her embroidery hoop.

   ‘Go with her, Jane and Mark.’ Anne said. ‘When you have found Seymour, seek out the king. Tell him I wish to dance.’

  Anne waited until Mark and the two women had left the room then reached across the table and took George’s hand. She liked it when they were alone together; they could talk freely at last. ‘I do hope the king comes tonight.’

   George squeezed her hand then pulled away and reached for his glass of wine. ‘Why should he not come?’

   ‘Why do you think?’ Anne scoffed. ‘Jane Seymour.’

   ‘That pale faced wench?’ George laughed. ‘You have nothing to fear from her, sister.’

   ‘Well, where is she then?’ Anne stood up and walked over to the window, gazing out upon the darkening parkland. ‘She ought to be here, attending on me, but I see no sign of her. Do you not think it strange?’ Nausea rose in her stomach as she thought back to that dreadful day in January when her worst fears had been confirmed. Henry may have served and cherished Anne, but his love spread far and wide:

  
She stood in the doorway gaping in shock. The king hurriedly removed his hand from Jane’s breast and the two of them jumped up, Jane hastily covering her modesty. Henry took some careful steps towards Anne. His hands were raised as if she were a wild beast who needed to be tamed. ‘Now, now, sweetheart,’ he had soothed, eyeing her swollen belly. ‘You must calm yourself. Do not endanger our son with reckless passion.’

  Anne slapped him hard on the chest with both palms. ‘Why do you humiliate me thus?’ Pure rage coursed through her veins. She nodded at Jane, not daring to look at her directly lest she dive on the wench and pull that blonde hair out. ‘It is bad enough that you spread your seed around the whole court but why must you mess with the likes of her? I want her gone! Tonight!’

  
Henry had given her such a strange look, as if he were seeing her for the first time. ‘If I were you, I’d hold your tongue and have a care for my unborn son.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Now, go to your chamber.’

   Anne stared at him for a long moment before curtseying and turning on her heel. With her head held high she walked back towards her apartments with tears in her eyes, ignoring the bowing courtiers who lined her path.

  
She suffered a miscarriage that night. Jane Seymour stayed at court but she was usually nowhere to be found. Like this evening. Curse the girl.

   ‘Come and sit down, Anne.’ George’s voice woke her from her reverie. ‘Let me beat you at cards again.’

   Anne turned and smiled. George always cheered her up.

-

   ‘Now, sweetheart, I hope you will not spurn this small token of my affection.’ Henry beamed at Jane Seymour as he held out a small silver box. ‘Go on, take it.’

   Jane smiled shyly, looking in turn at both the king and her father as if this latest gift had been entirely unexpected. No doubt it would contain yet another expensive trinket. A brooch, this time perhaps. Or even a ring.

   Her father, swathed in furs, raised his eyebrows and nodded at her encouragingly.

   ‘Your majesty …’ Jane said softly. It was becoming difficult to find sufficiently grovelling words. ‘You do me too much honour.’

   ‘Nonsense.’ The king said. He was still a magnificent figure, tall and golden haired. His beautiful smooth skin was pink from the heat of the fire and his white shirt was loose around the top of his chest. He wore black silk hose and soft, leather slippers. Since the jousting accident, comfort was all. Jane knew that the pain from his ulcerated leg tormented him daily, but he seemed to be making an effort to be pleasant. She basked in the warmth of his smile.

   ‘If it pleases you to give me a gift, it pleases me even more to accept it, your majesty.’ Jane took the box and curtseyed low. ‘Thank you.’ She murmured.

   ‘Thank you, Jane.’ He took her gently by the hand and raised her up, planting a wet kiss on her nose. ‘And now, I must leave you. I have business to attend upon with Cromwell. Let nobody disturb me, Seymour. Not even my wife.’

   Jane’s father bowed. ‘Of course, your majesty.’

   Father and daughter watched the king walk slowly, painfully out of the room then grinned at each other. ‘Shall I open the box, father?’ Jane fumbled with the catch then gasped as she withdrew a golden necklace complete with pearl locket. She held it up to the light, letting it swing gently like a pendulum. ‘It is beautiful.’ It was more than beautiful. It was a clear signal that the Seymour family had truly arrived. Nothing could stop them now. Jane smiled at her father as he placed a hand upon her shoulder.

  ‘You are doing well, my girl,’ he said. ‘Keep it up.’

-

   Anne Boleyn looked up as Mark Smeaton sauntered back into the privy chamber. ‘It looks as if you’ll have to dance with me tonight, madam.’

   Anne raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘You are the musician. How can I possibly dance with you?’

   Mark took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll lay down my lute and sing softly in your ear. We’ll dance slowly around the room and ...’

   ‘She is the queen, Mark.’ George cut him off. ‘I’d stop dreaming if I were you.’

   ‘My lord, she is the queen of my heart.’