THE JOURNAL OF WILBUR SWANNE – DECEMBER 1905
My darling girl is having a baby. The doctor confirmed it today and I am delighted. She was nervous about telling me, poor love.
‘Other girls I know who have ended up in the family way have always lost out when they’ve told their gentlemen friends,’ she explained after she burst into tears with her announcement. I gathered her into my arms and hugged her, assuring her of my happiness. ‘Tilly’s fella gave her money to move away and not to contact him again.’
‘Then Tilly’s fella is a scoundrel,’ I replied. Although, I know ‘Tilly’s fella’; it’s Rupert Constantine, wealthy beyond belief but with the morals of an alley cat. His poor wife is at her wits’ end. Rupert has a mistress in every town, so Tilly is better off out of Rupert’s way.
This weekend, it is imperative to return home to Cerensthorpe Abbey to attend to estate business. My heart is full with the thought of seeing my son, Ernest, and, it is with the deepest regret, he is never likely to know he is to have a brother or sister. My joy is tinged with sadness: will they ever meet? This is a sobering thought and, not for the first time, the precariousness of this new life of mine is revealed. During my time at Cerensthorpe, I shall organisea meeting with my solicitor to ensure provision for Helena and the little one.
Helena has asked whether she may visit Cerensthorpe Abbey. It’s an interesting request and she has not pushed the point. After all, if anything were to happen to Veronica, then my sweet Helena would be the lady of Cerensthorpe Abbey. There would be no doubt I would marry her in an instant. I shall think on it. Perhaps one day when Veronica is away staying with her family in Norfolk, I could arrange for Helena to visit the home I love so dearly.
Such is my excitement over the baby, I have quite forgotten to record the other astonishing fact, and other reason for my trip home. Selwyn believes the manuscript I found is a genuine work by the poet and writer, Geoffrey Chaucer. He claims it is a copy ofThe Canterbury Talesfrom the time of the great man himself and has suggested it was written between 1397 and 1400. The extraordinary thing is, instead of the usual twenty-four stories with prologues, there is a twenty-fifth entitled,The Mother’s Tale.
Selwyn believes it may have been added at another time by a different writer. The writing style is akin to later in the fifteenth or early sixteenth century. Chaucer died in October 1400, making it impossible for him to be the author of the twenty-fifth story. It’s a mystery, but Selwyn has said the boffins at the British Museum have agreed to authenticate the document. I have decided to build a strongroom behind a bookcase in the library where the book shall remain safe until I have decided its future.
Last night, Helena and I discussed the mysterious manuscript at length. She is a well-read girl, who loved libraries when she was growing up, and suggested I should leave it to our child, as she too will be hidden, a mystery, like the manuscript. It made me feel uncomfortable, especially when I explained the document was part of the estate and would, in the fullness of time, pass to Ernest. Helena cried and was quiet for the rest of the evening. She ismy heart and soul, my desire is always to ensure her happiness, therefore, I shall rethink the parameters of my will.
20
GREENWICH PALACE, LONDON – CHRISTMAS 1509
Elizabeth walked into the queen’s chambers, searching the glittering crowd for her sister Anne, Lady Dacre of the South. Elizabeth’s husband, Thomas, had been playing cards late into the evening with his friends and the new young king, Henry VIII, and had been in the great hall when Anne and her husband Thomas Fiennes had arrived. He had reported their arrival to Elizabeth and now, as she made her way through the crowds searching for her sister, she laughed at the sights around her. Greenwich Palace was a hubbub of excitement and elegance as the eighteen-year-old king and his wife, Katherine of Aragon, celebrated their first Christmas as monarchs and a married couple.
Laughter rang from all corners, music spiralled through the air and the heady perfumes of the courtiers joined with the burning logs and guttering candles, creating a cocoon of wondrous scent. The spicy aroma was intensified by the strategically placed cauldrons of mulled wine which were being distributed by liveried servants and the fresh rushes on the floor, which were strewn with dried lavender, rosemary and sage, added to the festive ambience.
A voice called her name, and Elizabeth turned to see Anne waving to her from near the fireplace.
‘Over here, Elizabeth,’ Anne summoned, and a path opened through the milling courtiers, allowing her through.
‘How wonderful to see you,’ said Elizabeth as the sisters hugged. ‘It’s a delight to be at court for Christmas. The time has passed so quickly, I can’t believe the last time I saw you was at the king and queen’s coronation in June.’
‘It’s hard to know where the time has gone,’ agreed Anne, then she gazed around. ‘This is rather different from last year when the old king was ailing. Christmas was a very low-key affair,’ said Anne. ‘Have you brought the children?’
‘No, they’re at Hever Castle, watched over by an army of staff and with Lady Margaret in charge.’
‘Did your mother-in-law not wish to join the revels?’ asked Anne.
‘No, she claimed her days at court are over,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s a new world, a young crowd and she would prefer to stay where things are familiar. How are your children, Anne?’
The change of subject was a necessary diversion away from discussion about Thomas’s mother, a woman of great fortune, fine lineage and short temper. Since the death of Sir William Boleyn in 1505, Thomas and Elizabeth had moved from Blickling Hall, the Boleyn residence in Norfolk, to the beautiful Hever Castle in Kent, which had been the home of Sir William and Lady Margaret in their later years.
‘They’re thriving, but, like your offspring, I have left them at home. They are at Herstmonceux Castle. Sussex is not far away, but far enough for my husband and I to know we are free of all parental duties for the Twelve Days of Christmas.’
‘You are funny, you speak as though you are a wet nurse,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Your children have more servants than mine to care for their every need.’
Anne grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘True,’ she agreed, ‘as is correct. We are women of the queen now and not to be bothered by troublesome issues.’
‘If Mother were here, she would remind us that our highest duty is to provide children, especially sons,’ said Elizabeth.
Anne laughed. ‘She would also remind us that our duty is to the crown and the queen.’
Elizabeth’s eyes strayed to where the young queen had risen from her chair and was organising the removal of furniture to create a dance space. The swell of her pregnancy was obvious below her clothes and her women guessed the child had been conceived around the time of their marriage in June, a few weeks before their spectacular joint coronation.
‘How fares Queen Katherine?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘She appears to be well,’ replied Anne, ‘but we both know, you take nothing for granted until the babe is in your arms.’
Elizabeth did not reply; she understood both the soaring joy of giving birth and the debilitating lows of loss. She had been a Boleyn for ten years and during that time her life and the path of English destiny had both seen huge changes. In April 1502, five months after the marriage of Prince Arthur and Katherine of Aragon, the heir to the throne had died. His parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York had been devastated. Prince Henry, once destined for the church, became the heir to the Tudor crown.
