At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn - Softcover

Anne Clinard Barnhill has published short stories, poetry, a memoir and hundreds of articles and book reviews over the last twenty years. At the Mercy of the Queen is her first novel. Barnhill has taught writing in a variety of venues and been keynote speaker for numerous events. She lives in North Carolina.

One
 

Already the grassy fields surrounding Hever Castle were greening, though Easter was several weeks away. The nearby forests had put out tender buds and the barley fields sprouted fresh green shoots. Though the gray sky still shrouded the land, one could feel a hint of warmth, the first indication that spring would come, after all. This, along with the birth of her favorite bitch’s puppies, made Madge Shelton frisky that morning, able to shake, finally, the feeling of dread she had carried since her arrival in the south of England. Although she could not know it yet, this was the last morning of her old life, the first morning of the life she’d hoped would never come.
“The fat one, the one with a bit of red on his chest,” said Madge, leaning over the roughly made pen that housed ten setters, her uncle’s newest stock of hunting dogs.
“He’s already been spoken for. Master Boleyn left word that the biggest and best pup was to be trained for the hunt,” said Ben Whipple, the son of the yeoman who managed the Boleyn farm.
“We’ll see about that. My birthday’s coming soon and I shall ask my uncle about the hound. I’m likely to get him, you can be sure of that. My uncle gives me whatever I fancy these days,” Madge said. She held the pup to her bosom and stroked behind his ears.
“You’ll be mine, pretty boy. And we’ll roam the fields together. I’ll teach you to point. We’ll show my uncle how a good dog and a brave girl can hunt with the best of them,” Madge said.
“Master Boleyn’s a-wanting to groom the biggest pup for the queen. He knows how she fancies a smart cur. You won’t get your way this time, mistress,” said Ben. He picked up the runt of the litter, a pitiful-looking setter with only a spot of white at the tip of its tail.
“Shall I drown this one? It’s only a bitch,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” said Madge.
“Master Boleyn told me to get rid of the runt and spare only the smartest, healthiest ones. He can’t afford to keep the whole passel,” said Ben.
“Give me that little one, then. I’ll keep her safe,” Madge said. She put the fat pup back into the pen and wrapped her hands around the small black one. The pup nuzzled against Madge and licked her hands. “She knows I’m saving her from a watery grave. Look at how grateful she is.”
“Tell you what. I’ll let you keep her if you give me a kiss,” said Ben.
“You’ll let me keep her, Ben Whipple, kiss or no!” Madge stood up abruptly, still clutching the puppy. She smoothed her skirts with one hand while holding the dog against her chest.
“Why won’t you kiss me, Madge? You did once, down by the creek. Let me again,” said Ben.
“I’ll never kiss the likes of you again, Ben Whipple. I am cousin to the queen and must act according to my new station. In a few short weeks, Queen Anne will be crowned, and then you won’t dare speak so in my company,” said Madge.
“Pshaw. Nan Bullen’s no better than a whore and everybody knows it. Catherine’s the rightful queen and Old Harry can’t change that. Nan Bullen’s as common as these pups,” said Ben.
Madge pushed Ben out of her way, still holding the black pup. She stomped across the barnyard. Halfway, she stopped, turned toward Ben, her cheeks flushed and her red hair flying every which way in the early morning breeze.
“You’ll live to regret those words. My family’s no longer simple wool merchants. You’ll see—the Shelton name is something these days and you, Ben Whipple, better watch your tongue!” Madge turned again on one heel and headed for the main house where her nurse would have hot tea ready and maybe a tasty bit of raisin cake.
Margaret Louise Shelton, Madge as she was known to the servants and farmers on her uncle’s manor in Edenbridge, Kent, was fifteen years old and already a handful for her nurse, Cate. Tall and thin with a smallish bosom, a delicate waist, and flaring hips, Madge was quickly becoming a beauty and she knew it. Her green eyes were wide and expressive, showing every nuance of feeling a young woman could experience. When angry, her eyes narrowed and actually darkened. When happy, her eyes seemed lit from a secret sunshine within. When sad, her eyes turned watery and red-rimmed, much to her chagrin.
Though she gave her nurse, Cate, a good deal of trouble, Madge was happy to have Cate with her, for she was unused to living with the Boleyn family, especially now that Sir Thomas’s daughter, Anne, was married to the king. Unlike her own family, where she was the youngest of five children and likely to find a partner in any devilment she could think up, at Hever Castle, Madge was younger than the Boleyn children by fifteen years or more. No one laughed at her jokes or her funny faces. No one wanted to act out the story of Punchinella, and Madge couldn’t find one person who would sing duets with her in the early evenings after supper.
Cate was all Madge had to remind her of Great Snoring, her home far away. Madge longed for the fields of the family lands in Norfolk, where she spent summers cavorting with the new lambs. Cate’s presence wasn’t enough to make up for the familiar life Madge longed for. Besides, Cate insisted Madge practice her best behavior all the time. She could never relax at the Boleyn residence. There was too much at stake for that.
“What have you dragged in this time?” Cate said when she saw Madge carrying the pup into the elegant rooms they shared.
“Ben was going to drown her,” said Madge. She sat on the low stool near the fireplace and warmed her hands, allowing the pup to make a nest in her skirts.
“That’s your good wool, girl. You don’t want to be smelling of dog when you meet the king, do you?” Cate grabbed the pup and held it up for examination. “Nothing but a runt. Not even interesting in its markings.”
“Give her back. I don’t care what I smell like when I meet the king. Give me my dog,” said Madge.
“And what makes you think Sir Thomas will allow you to keep this mutt? He’s known for killing off what’s weak and small,” said Cate, handing the dog to Madge.
“I’ll keep her whatever way I can. I’ll hide her in our rooms and Sir Thomas won’t find her,” said Madge. She gathered some rushes from the floor into a small bunch and set the pup in the center of the reeds, near the fire.
“I’m warning you, my Maddie, you mustn’t anger Sir Thomas. He’s grown powerful these last ten years and your family’s fortunes ride on him. And now, they’re riding on you, too,” said Cate.
“I know, good Cate, I know. I will try to please Sir Thomas as best I can. But I can’t live for his good pleasure—I have a life of my own.” Madge slipped her feet from the stiff leather boots and stretched her toes toward the warmth of the fire.
“A woman’s life is never her own, Maddie girl. We must make our way as we can. Your father sent you here to serve Sir Thomas in whatever way he so desires. Thus far, Sir Thomas has allowed you much freedom but that may pass. You must have it in your mind to obey Sir Thomas and serve the queen.” Cate stood behind Madge and took the pins from her thick hair. Red curls snaked through Cate’s fingers. The red was flecked with gold and smelled of lemongrass. Cate combed through the locks and scratched gently at Madge’s scalp. The girl’s shoulders dropped a bit.
“I’ll make Mother proud, don’t worry. So far, Sir Thomas hasn’t said two words to me. If I’m lucky, things will stay as they are and I can go back home by All Saints’ Day,” Madge said as she nudged the sleeping puppy with her big toe. “Now, what shall we call this black runt of a dog?”
“Better call it Nothing. That way, if Sir Thomas drowns her, you’ll have Nothing to miss and Nothing to cry about,” said Cate.
“A cruel Cate you are! No, I’ll call her Shadow. She’s black and she’ll have to hide away in shadows if she’s to survive. And she follows me as if she were my very own shadow,” said Madge.
“Shadow it is, then.” Cate twirled the rope of Madge’s hair into a bun and secured it with pins. She covered the bun with a plain white cap and sat on the stone floor next to Madge, leaning her head against Madge’s knee.
Both nurse and girl were almost asleep when a loud knocking jerked each awake. Madge looked at her nurse, then at the pup. She scooped Shadow from the floor, then hurried to place the dog inside the chest that held her modest jewels—a small brooch her mother had given her covered with seed pearls, a painted comb for her hair, a long chain of gold to wear on her wedding day, and a miniature of her father.
“Why so long to answer, Nurse?” said Sir Thomas, a tall, slender man with a reddish-gray beard and thinning hair of the same color. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he looked as pleasant as Madge had ever seen him. His features, sharp and hawklike, were usually pinched together as if he were in deep thought or as if he had enemies to smite. Seeing him storm along the walkways in the beautiful gardens of Hever Castle made Madge hide for cover. She avoided him when at all possible, curtsying to him when they processed to church and at formal dinners. She kept her head down and never dared look him in the eye. She behaved exactly as her mother had taught her and so far, she’d escaped his notice. Or so she’d thought.
“Let’s have a look at you, niece. Ah yes, you’ll do nicely. A pretty one, eh George?” Sir Thomas strolled into ...