Boleyn curse, p.23
Boleyn Curse, page 23
Anne leapt from her chair, thankful for the temporary release from modeling duty. She stretched out her arms and flexed her back to loosen the tightened muscles.
“Oh come now. We mustn’t be naïve,” she insisted. “The king is a threat, regardless. Even if he favors the child, he will continue to make Claude’s life a living hell. And for what? What possible reason does he have to hate her?”
Silence hung in the room like a hangman’s noose. Anne had wondered about this since her arrival, but she had always been afraid to ask.
“He hates me because of my mother,” Claude replied simply.
Marguerite and Claude exchanged looks, a lifetime of painful memories passing between them. It was clear these two had lived through great suffering under this man. Marguerite patted Claude on the arm and explained.
“When Louis was fourteen, he was bid by King Charles to marry Claude’s mother. Louis was in line for the throne as a second cousin and his claim was tenuous. Neither of them wanted the royal marriage. But as is often the case for nobles, the two were joined in holy matrimony. From that day forward, their marriage was doomed. There could not have been a more ill-suited match in all of France. It is said the only time they were ever together in a marital sense was the night they consummated their marriage. It was from this union that Claude was born.”
“So he hated her mother, and now he hates Claude?” asked Anne with disbelief. The whole story seemed preposterous. How could a man not love his own child, unhappy marriage or otherwise?
Marguerite continued. “Louis wished to marry another. Although it was not her fault, he blamed Claude’s mother for blocking his happiness. He was unkind to her right from the start. He tormented her at every opportunity because of the crook she had in her back.”
Claude hung her head.
“When Claude was born with the same deformity, King Louis could not love her. In fact, he hated her all the more. He threatened to have Claude sent away, but Claude’s mother refused. Louis was forced to accept Claude as his child. But he always disliked the idea that he was her father.”
Marguerite gazed at Claude. It was easy to see how much of a mother figure she had been to this sad girl.
“When Charles died and Louis became king, he sought an annulment from his marriage. But it was denied. That is when he became cruel. Claude’s mother suffered. She died a young woman. Louis found her dead one morning and had her buried the very same day. It was a most suspicious death.”
Marguerite looked to the door and lowered her voice. “It is said that Louis pushed her down a flight of steps. We don’t know if the rumors are true, but he would let only his personal coroner tend to her body.”
“You mean he killed her?” Anne gasped.
Marguerite shushed the outburst and glanced again toward the door. “No one knows for sure. Such is the power of the king. But we have wondered about it for years.”
The story seeped through the air like a poisonous cloud. How could the king be this hateful? How could he kill his own wife? Anne realized, more now than ever, it spelled disaster for Claude and her unborn child.
Anne spoke in a hushed tone, now deadly serious about her idea. “Could we not use the Craft? Could we not ask the Goddess to end his life?”
The others bristled at the suggestion. Claude sat upright, shifting her body to find a more comfortable position. Marguerite wrung her hands as she paced the room. Leonardo put Salai down on the chaise and folded his sinewy arms across his chest.
The silence only fueled Anne’s conviction. “For Claude’s sake. For the sake of her unborn child. We could use dark magic to kill the king.”
“No.” Leonardo responded. “We shall not speak of such things. The cost would be too great. We would remove one problem but unleash a fury of others. The Goddess’ price is high when murder is what you seek.”
“I agree with Leonardo,” said Marguerite. “A witch who used the Craft to take the king’s life would suffer enduring consequence. The cost of dark magic is high and unpredictable. We shall have to find another solution.”
Claude’s eyes filled with tears and Anne took her hand in support. The whole situation seemed hopeless. They were up against the most powerful man in France. In spite of his infantile tantrums, King Louis was dangerous and they all knew it. He had killed Claude’s mother without consequence. If not with dark magic, how would they protect Claude and her baby from this monster?
Claude rubbed the baby, playing with a bump jutting from just below her naval. “Do you know what is worse than a father who does not love you?”
“That is awful enough, I should think,” replied Anne.
“Aye, it is. My father does not love me. It has always been that way.” Her voice was raw, stripped bare from the hardship of the last few days. “But a husband who does not love me, that breaks my heart. It hurts because he did love me once. And now even that love is gone.”
Anne’s stomach clenched at her friend’s words. Droplets of guilt began to drip down the back of her neck. Surely Claude had been too occupied in the last few days to notice the insignificant romance that had blossomed between Francis and her sister Mary?
Marguerite waved away Claude’s suggestion. “Darling, don’t be silly. Francis has always loved you. That will never change.”
Claude stood for the first time that morning. It was quite an effort to raise her sizeable form from the chaise. As she got to her feet, she her put her hands at the base of her back to balance herself against the baby’s formidable bulge.
“It is true. Francis no longer loves me. But then, look at me. What is there to love? I am ugly and fat. I have a crooked back. My Francis has fallen for another. He has fallen in love with Anne’s beautiful sister, Mary Boleyn.”
Leonardo glanced at Anne with wide eyes. Marguerite glanced at Leonardo. Their three-part exchange was laden with guilt.
Claude continued. “There are whispers all around the castle. My Francis has spent every day and evening with Mary since her arrival.”
Anne wanted to tell Claude she was wrong, but she knew her words were true. Ever since the night of the royal supper, Mary had made a string of pretty excuses to be elsewhere. A game of cards. A day of prayer. A fitting for a new gown. Anne had been so relieved to be free of her sister she had turned a blind eye. She hadn’t questioned. She hadn’t protected. She hadn’t done her duty.
Claude continued. “Rose told me that Mary often walks in the gardens with Francis, laughing and talking the way we used to. He is enamored with her and she with him.”
Anne went to the window, the truth of it sinking in. Each in their own way, by holding their tongues, the whole group had been complicit in the budding romance between Francis and Mary. How had their lives become complicated in such a short time? What had happened to their summer happiness at the Chateau Clos Lucé?
She gazed out the window, wishing she could be far away from this place. Perhaps back at their summer retreat when their endless summer days were filled with magic and mischief.
The weather had finally shifted and the August summer sun shone bright, the blue sky the color of sapphires. The rolling hills in the window beyond provided a bucolic setting, except for the horrific site creeping into Anne’s field of view.
In the gardens below, Francis and Mary strolled arm-in-arm amongst the ornamental parterres. The smiles they wore were unmistakable. Love was in the air.
“Oh no,” Anne gasped.
The others rushed to the window, pushing aside the wet canvas. Leonardo’s paintbrushes clattered to the floor as they huddled together to watch the scene unfolding in the gardens below.
Francis cupped Mary’s hand, trailing his fingers over the back of her glove. He moved his hand slowly around her waist and pulled her to him. They stood in the garden, close and intimate, gazing into each other’s eyes. After a while, Francis drew Mary’s face up close to his. Then ever so deliciously, he planted the softest kiss upon her lips.
“Francis,” cried Claude.
Anne’s heart sank. She knew she had not paid Mary enough attention since her arrival in France. Perhaps she had even resented Mary for spoiling their summer fun. And it had resulted in this. Mary was ruining Claude’s marriage. It was all her fault.
“Mary knows not what she does. She is young. She is lonely…” Anne stammered.
But her words were no use. Claude was watching as her husband embracing another woman, the betrayal unraveling before her very eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks and she raised her hand to the bruise over her eye. Then in one swift movement, she ran from the room, gentle whimpers echoing down the hallway.
The remaining friends continued to watch the affair in the gardens below. After more playful kisses and flirtatious giggles, they had all seen enough.
“I am sorry, Anne,” Marguerite said, her tone firm. “We shall have to send Mary back to England.”
“Aye. Mary will have to go,” she agreed.
Leonardo watched on with fascination. “Marguerite, I am not sure sending Mary away will solve this problem. Francis will long for her. Sending Mary back to England will not make Francis love Claude any more than he does now.”
Marguerite watched the couple as the kisses continued, her own lips twisted in distaste. After a time, she smoothed her skirts, a new wave of determination passing over her features.
“Yes, Leo. What you say is true. But there are some things best left to the women of the Craft. I shall take care of this little matter of the heart. It is a particular specialty of mine.”
PRESENT DAY
QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY, CANADA
I tiptoed down the empty hallway trying hard not to let my Birkenstocks squeak against the polished marble flooring. It was late in the day and most of the students who occupied offices in the history department had long since left the building. I made a point of avoiding my own office here. It was uncomfortably close to Dr. Fishburn’s and I always felt like I was being watched. But this evening, I needed to retrieve my APA Reference Manual from my desk. It was an absolute necessity.
Since my discovery earlier this afternoon, I was starting to feel ready to start writing up my Comp exam paper, and I never attempted any serious writing without my reference manual. It seemed a silly thing but citing historical research incorrectly could earn you an instant fail. Academics were funny about getting credit for their work. It was university protocol and I was determined to get my reference manual and sneak out as quickly as possible.
“Ms. Bowlan,” a froggy voice echoed down the corridor.
I stopped walking.
“Ms. Bowlan, I recognize the squeak of your sandals. Why don’t you come in for a little visit?”
My heart sank. I had been caught. For a second I thought about running away but soon realized that would be foolish. Whether I wanted to or not, I would have to face him. Pushing my shoulders back, I plastered on a fake smile and strode as confidently as I could to Dr. Fishburn’s office.
“Hello,” I said softly.
Dr. Fishburn sat at his desk like a king on his throne. The office was truly impressive, if I had to be honest. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with a vast collection of books of all shapes and sizes. Stacked papers covered the floor in haphazard piles, with ant trails just large enough for a human body to pass. One trail lead to Dr. Fishburn’s big armchair behind his desk. The second led to a small chair in front. This was clearly the place for the visiting student. My shoulders sinking slightly, I stepped along the trail to the student’s seat and sat down.
It was a while before he spoke. Instead, he watched me squirming like a worm on a hook. “You don’t come into the office all that often. Do you Ms. Bowlan?”
I blinked at him stupidly. I hoped he didn’t think my absence meant I wasn’t working hard. “Actually, I do most of my research at the library,” I stammered. “And sometimes at home. I find I can get more work done. It’s less….distracting.”
He nodded slowly. “Hard work is important in academia. I hope you realize that.”
I nodded, not sure of what else to say.
He gazed at me with his amphibious green eyes for another long minute, before he put his arms behind his head. It looked as though he was readying himself to impart a piece of great wisdom.
“Do you know the secret to getting your PhD, Miss Bowlan. Do you know about the three P’s?”
I blinked again.
He looked annoyed by my vacant response. “Persist…. Persist… Persist.” Each time he said the word he squeezed it between his teeth, coming down hard on the ‘ssst’ with a snap. “Do you understand my meaning, Ms. Bowlan?”
“I think so. Hard work is part of research?” I floundered.
He smiled now. “That’s right. Hard work and digging. And make no mistake. Digging can sometimes take an entire career. But if you….persist…persist…persist…you can get there in the end.”
I nodded, hoping that was a cue for my dismissal.
Unfortunately, he continued, but now his eyes became cold. “However, I have learned persistence is not always enough. Do you know what else is required?”
I waited. He was obviously going to tell me regardless of my response.
His lips curled back into a bit of a snarl, a glint of his eye teeth showing. “Innovation!” he said with a raised voice. “Innovation is critical. Research can be more than just difficult. It can be unfair. That’s when you have to take things into your own hands, and think...outside…the…box...” He snapped his tongue again.
“Yes, sir,” I said, standing up now, ready to flee. “Thank you for your insights. I will make sure I use persistence and innovation.”
His face fell back into a friendly frame and I breathed a sigh of relief.
He stood and gave me a slight bow from behind his desk. I put one foot in front of the next, counting the steps along the trail to leave his office. For some reason, I was holding my breath as I reached the doorjamb. Keeping my eyes downcast, I had almost made my escape when Fishburn started up again.
“Your father was a great man,” he said, voice trailing like a lure, pulling me in.
I stopped and turned back. Fishburn had never mentioned my father before. Of course, most people knew my father here at Queen’s. He was something of a point of pride with the university. He had received the most prestigious awards and most weighty research funding. Not to mention his excellence as a teacher. I knew that much simply by being a student at Queen’s. Everyone knew about Dr. Arthur Wright.
Fishburn blinked, his eyelids wrapping around the large orbits of his eyes. “You could say he was one of my greatest inspirations. Do you know that?”
I shook my head stupidly.
“I was pursing my undergrad in biology when I met your father.” He smiled at the memory. “But when I heard him give a lecture on the genealogical record and its influence on our knowledge of the history of mankind, I knew I had to change majors. It was brilliant.” His next words were almost a hysterical whisper. “It was glorious!”
“I didn’t know that,” I managed, now equal parts desperate to know more about my father and desperate to keep my memories of him locked in the attic closet.
“Of course, I didn’t even realize you were his daughter until recently. You don’t have his last name. That’s strange isn’t it, for a man who studied the genealogical record?”
I shrugged. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with this exchange. “Umm… Well, we follow a matriarchal naming convention. It’s been that way for…generations.” Thoughts of my Anne Boleyn discovery flashed through my mind, but I wasn’t ready to share this piece of my research. It still felt personal and I still disliked this man.
“Well, as I said the other day, Ms. Bowlan, I am expecting great things from you. I do hope you don’t disappoint me.”
I backed out of his office. “I’ll try my best.”
He narrowed his toad-like eyes and harrumphed.
“I hope you try harder than that. This could mean the difference between a successful career and your expulsion from the university.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled again, his face transforming with sugary encouragement. “But if you are anything like your father, I’m sure you will excel beyond my wildest dreams.”
PRESENT DAY
QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY, CANADA
Three portage backpacks sat on the kitchen table casting a melancholy gloom over the room. Grapes didn’t look up when I came in, but I gave her a kiss on top of the head anyway. She looked as though she needed it.
“They’re here,” she said with a thick voice, keeping her eyes focused on the luggage. “The delivery guy just brought them.”
I ran my hand over one of the bags, its lumpy contents still contained within. A salty wave of trepidation washed over me. This old luggage represented the last of our family, the last of the ones we lost. This evening Grapes and I would face the deaths of my mother, father and grandmother. We would face their deaths together, like we should have done all those years ago.
I pushed my recent exchange with Fishburn into the recesses of my mind. I wanted to be fully present for this moment. I wanted to think about my father as ‘Dad’ right now, not as an esteemed professor whose shadow still eclipsed me every day.
“Ready?” I asked quietly.
She took a jagged breath. “Ready.”
Grapes fumbled with Grandma Beth’s tan pack, unzipping it with tenderness. Tears filled her blue eyes as she ran her hands over Beth’s things, the clothes folded neatly despite being jumbled inside for almost two decades. Grapes lifted a familiar red sweater to her face and rubbed the cotton fabric across her cheek.
“Bethy,” she whispered.
Grapes sat perfectly still for a moment, breathing in and out. I allowed her time to experience her loss. She needed to pay respect to the old memories as much as I did.
Then for the first time in my life, I watched my great-grandmother cry. Really cry. Tears streamed down her beautiful face as she sobbed. Shoulders lurching and lips trembling, she buried her face into the fabric of the sweater. She breathed in her daughter’s scent, a scent that still lingered despite the passage of time. Lily of the valley, my grandmother’s favorite perfume. It filled the room with her presence, her laughter, her energy. Ghostly memories swirled as Grapes cried unabashedly into the old sweater, admitting her heartbreak after all this time.
