Behind the Scenes of a Tudor Life - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Queen's Sister"

BOOK EXCERPT

Accompanied by Madeleine, wearing large cloaks and carrying baskets so we look like a merchant’s wife and her servant, we hasten to the Cathedral to pray for Queen Anne’s soul and for the souls of the men who were accused with her and died. Their heads brutally struck from their bodies, those handsome proud courtiers once gorgeously clothed in colourful velvets and silks are no more.

Often people gather in the Cathedral to discuss news as well as pray. The columned nave is busy today. As we make our way through throngs in the main aisle, faces carved on pillars stare down on us with menacing grins. Stone monkeys appear as if they want to leap upon us, sculptured dogs snarl with glaring open mouths ready to snap. We weave our way through to seek solitude in a peaceful side chapel dedicated to the Virgin. When we rise from our knees and exit the chapel, I overhear lewd talk.

A tall, severe faced woman, her hair concealed under a dark French hood, stands amongst a group gathered around her. She’s saying in a low voice, ‘That Bullen whore would hide her musician in a cupboard and call out for marmalade when it was safe for him to come out of his hiding place and attend her. My husband heard it in London last week.’

Another woman retorts, as we slip past, ‘Never, by the cross, has there been such a scandal in England,’ I wrinkle my nose not just at her vicious gossiping manner but because she smells of vinegar as sour as her face. ‘Did your Nick hear anything else?’ she adds nastily.

‘The King is well rid of her. It’s said down in London she bewitched the King and poisoned good Queen Katherine who died in January. Anne Bullen was a witch as well as being a whore.’

Despite the heat of the day, I draw my cloak closer and whisper to Madeleine, ‘Do not listen to them. It’s an evil pack of lies.’

‘Indeed. Wicked gossiping but ‘tis best we get back to the peace and quiet of Kexby away from these nests of ill-wishers.’

I say firmly. ‘This very afternoon. William does not need me here for cloth deals. These, he can handle himself.’

But it is not over. My sister and King Henry are wed. Throughout the land bells ring again, this time joyously and light, sounding for the King’s new marriage. On the second day of June, a long letter from Edward arrives. With a heavy heart, I climb the staircase to my bedchamber and sink into my armed chair by the window wondering at my sister’s wisdom in marrying a King who set one wife aside and killed another.