Chapter 13

Archery, Tricks, and an Arrest

It was Autumn in the year 1530, and I, fifteen summers old and now a happily married wife, had come back to Court with my husband Henry Brandon, having spent the last few weeks on a honeymoon of sorts in the Country. Even at Court, things changed. As I was a married woman, I no longer bedded in a small chamber off my sister's apartments with Anne or Mary; I had my own chambers now, ones I shared with Henry, and as I was the Countess of Lincoln and the future Duchess of Suffolk, I enjoyed even greater status at Court than I had previously, when I had been widely recognised as the youngest and favourite sister of Lady Anne Boleyn, the King's sweetheart. I revelled in it.

I had jewels, gowns, more than one maid in waiting of my very own, and I was constantly at my sister's side, at the centre of every masque, every pageant, every banquet, glittering and giggling as my husband or my brother spun me round the dance floor.

Henry sometimes complained that he never saw me, I was at Anne's side so much, but I knew how to deal with him when he was like that. I would slip away from Anne's ladies early in the evening; much earlier than I normally did, and take him up to our chambers, shutting and bolting the doors behind us. I would fall to my knees before him, and slowly pull myself up against him, trailing kisses all over his body as I did so. It never failed to work. However upset, however disdainful, however irate he tried to remain, by the time I had reached his shoulders, and was rubbing them gently with my mouth, massaging him with my lips, Henry would be quivering with desire. He would practically rip my gown off my bare back if I so much as turned away for a split-second, and then he would sweep me into his arms as best he could ( we were nearly the same height, after all), carry me to the bed, and throw me backwards on to it, leaping on top of me and beginning to make love to me before I had a chance to protest - hot, desperate, passionate love that no girl stood even half a chance of resisting, let alone his willing wife.

And so the blissful, carefree cycle of life at Court went on, until the evening of the Archery Contest.

****

I could hear nothing but the twang of bowstrings, and the cheers of the crowd if someone shot well. I half-turned my head, adjusting the strap of my quiver so that it settled more comfortably in the small of my back. As I did so, I felt someone's eyes on me. I glanced up, and met the gleaming onyx eyes of my sister, Lady Anne Rochford. I flashed her a smile, and nodded crisply. It wouldn't do to be too affectionate, not at that precise moment. We were both competing in an archery contest organised by His Majesty, after all. Sisters we might have been, but we were both good archers, and a contest was a contest. We both fiercely wanted to win.

The third and last lady left in the competition was Lady Elizabeth Ferrers, whose turn it was to shoot. I turned to watch, holding my breath, as she prepared herself as best she could.

I needn't have worried.

She drew back her bowstring, and aimed, but just as she released the arrow, the nerves got to her. Her hand trembled slightly, and the shot went wide. Scarcely hiding a beam of triumph, I stepped up to take her place. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mary, Father and Uncle talking nearby, but whatever they were saying, it was irrelevant to me. I glanced at Anne, who stood a mere half a dozen paces away from me, awaiting her own turn. Her lively eyes were fixed on me, but as I glanced over at her, she dipped her head, just slightly. I knew what she meant. It didn't matter now, not to her. It was Boleyn against Boleyn. Whatever happened, a Boleyn would win. That was what mattered to her.

But to me, the sweet taste of success was even more important. Blocking her out, I spun to face the target. In one fluid motion, the bow was off my shoulder, the arrow had been notched, and I was pulling the string taut. One moment of tension, one brief, familiar tickle of feathery barbs against my cheek, and then the arrow was free, speeding towards its target swift and straight as the crow flies.

The crowd applauded my shot, rising to its feet as one, but I surveyed it critically. It hadn't been my best shot. Anne could beat it if she wanted to.

And she did. A second later, another arrow, this one hers, flew past my head, directly into the centre of the target. She had won.

Swallowing my pique and envy, I turned to her, and embraced her briefly, nodding my congratulations wordlessly, before the King, who had dashed down from the Royal box, appeared at our side.

He handed me a small emerald on a golden chain, saying "Well done, Lady Eleanor, or indeed, I should say, Mistress Brandon. You too are a fine archer."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." I replied, trying to curtsey, and fasten the pendant around my neck at the same time. He laughed as I fumbled the clasp, and Anne had to come to my rescue, doing it up so that it could not slip as I rose to watch her take off her hood, and accept a tiara set with diamonds and star sapphires from the King. He kissed her, and set the tiara upon her tumbled black locks, to the crowd's raucous approval. He swung her around to face the courtiers and proclaimed "To the North and to the South, to the East and to the West, I give you the English Queen of Archery – the Lady Anne Boleyn!" He then knelt before her himself. The rest of us followed his example, but I caught sight of a few scandalised looks as we did so. King Henry was celebrating Anne's archery triumph with all the pageantry of a mock coronation. In a jesting manner, he was proclaiming her to be the next Queen. It was only a matter of time before she was formally crowned now, and we all knew it.

****

That evening, Mary and I were in Anne's rooms when a messenger arrived, bearing a note with the King's seal on it. Anne cracked it open and read.

"What is it?" I came up behind her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"He wants me to go to him." she replied dully, not even turning round.

"Will you go?"

"I have to. I have to pleasure him. He insists upon it, Eleanor, and if I try to avoid it, he threatens to leave me for another girl, one who's younger than me, prettier than me, one who will pleasure him if he wants it."

"Just out of curiosity, what do you do with him? How do you pleasure him, I mean? He hasn't had you yet, has he?"

"No! I'm not a whore!" she snapped, her vicious temper flaring briefly before she turned to me and softened.

"No." she repeated, more quietly. Then she twisted away and stalked to the window, scowling. "He'll touch me though. He'll stroke my breasts; he'll put his hand up my skirt. There's no help for it. And then he'll thrust it into my hand, and force himself to – Oh God, I can't even talk of it, it's so awful! It's awful, and it's mad! Mad because it'll never give me a child, and I need one so badly!" Anne was shaking with disgust. Mary looked up.

"Those are whore's tricks, Anne. Those are the tricks of a whore, of a concubine. Surely he thinks badly of you for using them on him?"

"What else can I do, Marianne? What else can I do to keep him the way he is?" Anne sighed bitterly.

"You can learn some more." Mary replied frankly, laying aside her book. "You can learn to undress very slowly, and touch yourself in front of him. It drives him mad – makes him blink back tears of lust. You can learn to kneel before him, take it into your mouth and suck on it, very gently, very slowly, very tenderly. He used to love that. I'll wager he still does."

At this point, I collapsed on to the bed, almost weeping with laughter. The look of complete revulsion on Anne's face was too amusing for words. Anne whirled on me.

"And what would you suggest, little sister? I shouldn't think you've consummated your marriage yet either." she spat. Stung, I leapt to my feet once more.

"I have, as a matter of fact! You can always sit down on the bed in front of him, and let him put his hand between your legs. Encourage him to move the skin in a circular direction. I swear, Anne, it'll drive you both mad with desire." I promised her, reaching up and setting her hood straight, before nudging her towards the door. She went reluctantly, and Mary and I promptly glanced at each other, and subsided into peals of helpless laughter.

What Anne was about to do would please the King but would annoy her – we both knew that. What would trigger her temper this time?

****

A matter of some shirts. Queen Katherine still sewed the King's shirts, and to say Anne wasn't happy when she realised would be the understatement of the century. She railed at King Henry, accusing him of never having loved her, of stringing her along with false promises, of never intending to marry her. She screamed that she would leave Court this very day, sail to France, and contract some advantageous marriage for herself there. He soothed her again given time, giving her strings of rubies, and even, in his desperation to please her, ordering the immediate arrest of Cardinal Wolsey, her arch-enemy.

He even allowed her to choose the noble who would convey the news of his arrest to Wolsey, and she chose Henry Percy, the very Earl who she had once hoped to marry, indeed had betrothed herself to, until Wolsey broke it off, declaring that an upstart Boleyn was no suitable match for the future Earl of Northumberland, and earning himself Anne's lifelong loathing into the bargain. Henry Percy rode for Wolsey's home in Suffolk, and Anne began planning an elaborate masque, which was ominously titled "The Going to Hell of Cardinal Wolsey."

In the midst of all the excitement, I sought out my eldest sister Mary. I needed her advice on a womanly matter.

She was sorting swatches of fabric to make into costumes for the masque Anne was planning when I sank down into the window-seat beside her, and touched her arm. She smiled kindly at me, and I decided to take the plunge, and just ask her outright.

"Mary?"

"Yes, sister?"

"How do you tell if – well, if you're carrying a baby?" I finally muttered, blushing beetroot red.

"Well, you won't have your courses for a start – you won't bleed once a month and you might feel a bit sick in the mornings. Why do you ask?" she answered almost carelessly. I opened my mouth to reply, but suddenly, Mary twisted in her seat to face me, her face lighting up in excited hope.

"Hang on. What are you trying to tell me, Eleanor? You don't think? Surely?"

I nodded.

"I haven't had a course for at least six weeks, and I couldn't stand the smell of the warm milk at breakfast this morning. Mary, I think I might be with child – Henry Brandon's child."

AN: Sorry it's taken so long – school's been a nightmare. Nor will you get an update in a hurry, I'm afraid – I'm going away on my summer holidays for five weeks tomorrow, and even when I get back, I have another story to finish as a present, so that's going to take up my time instead of this.

Hopefully after that, though, I should be able to update a little more frequently, though I'll be in the fourth year, and doing History and Geography in my second language, German, and learning Chemistry, Biology and Physics, so I wouldn't hold your breath!

Thanks for being so patient, though – I truly am sorry, and I hope this sort of makes up for the wait.