‘None at present,’ said Margaret.
‘Thomas and I have begun discussing suitors for our girls, Mary and Anne,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s a huge responsibility. How my father managed to find matches for us Howards when there were so many of us is astonishing.’
‘Lady Boleyn,’ said Lady Carey, ‘perhaps you and I should form an accord. We have a common bond in the earldom of Ormond, your husband would be able to provide a generous dowry for…’ she hesitated as though unsure which name to suggest, then said, ‘Mary?’
‘Of course,’ confirmed Elizabeth, ‘and our children? Should they not at least meet?’
‘We must—’ began Margaret, but her sentence was interrupted by a trumpet announcing the arrival of the king.
With the rest of the court, they dropped in obeisance as the king entered with his usual entourage of friends. His eyes rovedthe crowd and Elizabeth hoped they would rest on Bessie Blount, who waited in a distant corner, but instead he gazed at her and walked swiftly in her direction.
‘Lady Boleyn, Lady Carey,’ he said in joyous tones, blushing deeply. ‘This is a happy day indeed.’
He waved to a page, and a goblet was thrust into his hand.
‘You were deep in conversation,’ said the king. ‘Was it scandalous court gossip?’
Behind Henry, Elizabeth saw her father and brother watching with interest.
‘We were discussing a potential match between your cousin, William, and Lady Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Mary,’ said Margaret.
‘A distant cousin, third, I believe, not too close,’ he muttered as though working out a puzzle in his head and Lady Margaret blushed at her faux pas. ‘My apologies, Lady Carey,’ the king continued, ‘I did not mean to embarrass you, it was more thinking aloud.’
‘Would your majesty be pleased by a proposition?’ continued Lady Carey.
‘Yes, I shall instruct Wolsey to consider it,’ said the king, ‘but for now, I have business with Lady Boleyn.’
Lady Carey curtsied and melted away into the crowd.
‘Did you receive my note?’ asked Henry urgently, speaking as though they were alone and not in the centre of his crowded court, then his voice took on a frustrated note. ‘Why do you never respond?’
Elizabeth stared at him in shock. ‘Your Majesty, I am married,’ she said in a low whisper.
‘A love like ours will find a way, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret, we shall soon be together or there will be hell to pay.’
He bent low over her hand, kissed it and, with a sorrowful smile, moved away.
A hand gripped her wrist, and she stared up into the terrified face of her husband. Without a word, they left, hand in hand, not looking back.
30
THE JOURNAL OF WILBUR SWANNE – JANUARY 1907
When I was a boy, my mother told me the tale of the Boleyn curse. It was one autumn evening, and the wind lashed at the windows, the thunder rolled and the lightning turned the sky an uncanny white. The fire crackled and I remember I was eating an apple from the orchard, which had been picked earlier in the day. My front tooth was loose, and my intention was to dislodge it entirely with the sharp, hard fruit in order to claim the financial bounty when it was left under my pillow overnight. As the wind rattled the windows, we heard an eerie cry, which my mother claimed was a curlew.
‘We must be careful,’ she said, her eyes full of mischief. ‘When the curlews cry, the Boleyn curse will taint us all.’
I laughed and asked her what she meant; with great relish, she told me this tale:
‘When Elizabeth Boleyn heard the seven curlews sing on the day her daughter Anne was executed, she knew the blood curse of her line was to blame…’
‘She was a Howard,’ I remember interrupting, showing off with my schoolboy history, but Mother shook her head.
‘By the time the curse took shape, she was a Boleyn through and through. She had borne the name of Boleyn longer than she wasa Howard and it was their line who perpetuated it. From Elizabeth, through Mary, to her daughter, Kathryn Carey, to her daughter Maud and all the way through the centuries to us.’
The apple in my mouth was sweet, the flesh pearlescent white against its blood-red skin, the fire cosy. All was safe and well, yet despite this, I shivered.
‘Curses are for fairy stories.’
