The Other Boleyn Girl Read online

  With my hands clasped over my belly I thought it was a long time since I had stood before the altar and promised to forsake all others and cleave to William Carey. He glanced across at me with a slight smile, as if he too was thinking that we had not foreseen this when we had been handclasped, and hopeful, only four years ago.

  King Henry was at the front of the church, watching my brother take his bride, and I thought that my family were doing well out of my heavy belly. The king had come late to my wedding, and more to oblige his friend William than to honor the Boleyns. But he was at the forefront of the well-wishers when this pair turned from the altar and came down the aisle of the church, and the king and I together led the guests into the wedding feast. My mother smiled on me as if I were her only daughter, as Anne left quietly by the side door of the chapel and took her horse and rode home to Hever accompanied only by serving men.

  I thought of her riding to Hever alone, seeing the castle from the lodge gate, as pretty as a toy in the moonlight. I thought of the way the track curved through the trees and came to the drawbridge. I thought of the rattle of the drawbridge coming down and the hollow sound that the hoof beats made as the horse stepped delicately on the timbers. I thought of the dank smell of the moat and then the waft of meat cooking on a spit as one entered the courtyard. I thought of the moon shining into the courtyard and the haphazard line of the gable ends against the night sky, and I wished with all my contrary heart that I was squire of Hever and not the pretend queen of a masquing court. I wished with all my heart that I might have been carrying a legitimate son in my belly and that I could have leaned out of the window and looked out over my land, just a little manor farm perhaps, and known that it would be all his by right one day.

  But instead I was the lucky Boleyn, the Boleyn blessed by fortune and the king’s favor. A Boleyn who could not imagine the boundaries of her son’s land, who could not dream how far he might rise.

  Summer 1524

  I WITHDREW FROM THE COURT FOR THE WHOLE OF THE MONTH of June to prepare for my lying in. I had a darkened room hung with thick tapestries, I should see no light nor breathe fresh air until I emerged six long weeks after the birth of my baby. Altogether I would be walled up for two and a half months. I was attended by my mother and by two midwives, a couple of serving maids and a lady’s maid supported them. Outside the chamber, taking turn and turn about night and day, were two apothecaries waiting to be called.

  “Can Anne be with me?” I asked my mother as I eyed the darkened room.

  She frowned. “Her father has ordered that she must stay at Hever.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “It’ll be such a long time and I’d like her company.”

  “She can visit,” my mother ruled. “But we can’t have her present at the birth of the king’s son.”

  “Or daughter,” I reminded her.

  She made the sign of the cross over my belly. “Please God it is a boy,” she whispered.

  I said nothing more, content to have carried my way by getting Anne to visit me. She came for a day and stayed for two. She had been bored at Hever, infuriated by our Grandmother Boleyn, desperate to get away, even to a darkened room and a sister biding her time by sewing little nightshirts for a royal bastard.

  “Have you been over to Home Farm?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve ridden past it.”

  “I wondered how they were getting on with their strawberry crop?”

  She shrugged.

  “And the Peters’ farm? Did you go over for the sheep shearing?”

  “No,” she said.

  “D’you know what hay crop we got this year?”

  “No.”

  “Anne, what on earth do you do all day?”

  “I read,” she said. “I practice my music. I have been composing some songs. I ride every day. I walk in the garden. What else is there to do in the country?”

  “I go round and see the farms,” I remarked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “They’re always the same. The grass grows.”

  “What d’you read?”

  “Theology,” she said shortly. “Have you heard of Martin Luther?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of him,” I said, stung. “Enough to know that he’s a heretic and his books are forbidden.”

  Anne gave her small secretive smile. “He’s not necessarily a heretic,” she said. “It’s a matter of opinion. I have been reading his books and others who think like he does.”

  “You’d better keep it quiet,” I said. “If Father and Mother find you’ve been reading banned books they’ll send you to France again, anywhere to get you out of the way.”

  She shrugged. “No one pays any attention to me, I’m quite eclipsed by your glory. There is only one way to come to the attention of this family and that is to climb into the king’s bed. You have to be a whore to be beloved by this family.”

  I folded my hands over my swollen belly and smiled at her, quite unmoved by her malice. “There’s no need to pinch me because my stars have led me here. There was no need for you to set yourself at Henry Percy and onward to disgrace.”

  For a moment the mask of her beautiful face dropped and I saw the longing in her eyes. “Have you heard from him?”

  I shook my head. “If he wrote to me they’d not let me have the letter,” I said. “I think he’s still fighting against the Scots.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep back a little moan. “Oh God, what if he is hurt or killed?”

  I felt my baby stir and I put my warm hands on my loose stomacher. “Anne, he should be nothing to you.”

  Her eyelashes flickered down over the heat in her gaze. “He is nothing to me,” she replied.

  “He’s a married man now,” I said firmly. “You will have to forget him if you ever want to get back to court.”

  She pointed at my belly. “That is the problem for me,” she said baldly. “All anyone can think of in this family is that you might be carrying the king’s son. I have written to Father half a dozen times and he has had his clerk reply to me once. He doesn’t think about me. He doesn’t care about me. All anyone cares about is you and your fat belly.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I said. I was trying to sound serene but I was afraid. If Henry had got a girl on me and she was strong and lovely then he should be happy enough to show the world that he was potent. But this was no ordinary man. He wanted to show the world that he could make a healthy baby. He wanted to show the world that he could make a boy.

  She was a girl. Despite all those months of hoping and whispered prayers and even special Masses said in Hever and Rochford church, she was a girl.

  But she was my little girl. She was an exquisite little bundle with hands so tiny that they were like the palms of a little frog, with eyes so dark a blue that they were like the sky above Hever at midnight. She had a dusting of black hair on the crown of her head, as unlike Henry’s ruddy gold as anything one could imagine. But she had his kissable rosebud mouth. When she yawned she looked like a very king, bored with insufficient praise. When she cried, she squeezed real tears onto her outraged pink cheeks, like a monarch denied his rights. When I fed her, holding her in my arms and marveling at the insistent powerful sucking on my breast, she swelled like a lamb and slept as if she were a drunkard lolling beside a tankard of mead.

  I held her in my arms constantly. There was a wet nurse to attend her, but I argued that my breasts hurt so much that I must let her suckle, and I cunningly kept her to myself. I fell in love with her. I fell completely and utterly in love with her and I could not for a moment imagine that anything would have been any better if she had been a boy.

  Even Henry melted at the sight of her when he visited me in the shadowy peace of the birthing room. He picked her up from her cradle and marveled at the tiny perfection of her face, her hands, her little feet under the heavy embroidered gown. “We’ll call her Elizabeth,” he said, rocking her gently.

  “May I choose her name?” I asked