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I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born
And range with humble livers in content
Than to be perked up in a glist’ring grief
And wear a golden sorrow.
-Anne Bullen, from Shakespeare’s Henry VIII, Act 2, Scene iii
1534
When she was little, Mary had begun to prepare to be Queen of England in secret. Her father would shout about his dynasty, rave to his advisors that he needed a son - but her mother had taken her hands once as a child, squeezed them and said “Mi Corazón, you were born to be a Queen. It is God’s will that you be Queen of England, and not even a King can change the will of God.”
Mary had not understood what her mother had meant then. She had been young, and there was a lot she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand her parents' turbulent marriage, she didn’t understand why her only brother was a bastard she had never met, she didn’t understand why only a man could rule. She didn’t understand why her father’s temper became fierce and frightening, even to his daughter. She didn’t understand why he tried to cast her mother aside.
She didn’t understand why her father died in 1529, her once healthy and vivacious father weakened by the Sweat. She didn’t understand - but it was God’s will that she be Queen of England.
But now it had been five years, and Mary was still the Queen in name only, her beloved mother her regent.
It was night now, and as she prepared for sleep Mary thought back to the conversation she had had with her mother earlier in the day. They had been walking together in the privy garden, voices low in case there might be listening ears.
“ Some of the Privy Council think you ought not to take the throne until you marry, ” her mother told her. “ I think they are scared about leaving your choice of husband up to you. ”
“ Do they think I am not able to choose wisely? ” Mary had asked.
“ I think they fear not being able to influence your choice. Once you are Queen in your own right, the choice will be yours alone. ” Her mother had stopped, seemingly admiring the flowers of an apple tree, but Mary had seen the distant look in her eyes. “ I never got any choice in who I married. I want you to be able to choose, both as a woman and as a Queen. I will make sure you take the throne before you take a husband, Mary, even if I must die to do it. ”
It frightened Mary to hear her mother speak like that. She had indeed seemed ill recently, tired and older than her years. Would Mary have to become an orphan to take the throne? It made her shudder to think of, and she knew she must not think on such horrid things if she wanted to get any sleep.
“Anne,” asked Mary softly, her voice now a far cry from the voice she affected around others, no longer full of Queenly grace and noble detachment. “Will you help me brush my hair?”
Mary had already sent away the rest of her Ladies for the night, leaving just her and Anne, who was sleeping on the pallet beside her bed for the night. It was a duty that the women of the young Queen’s Privy Chamber shared, but Mary had found herself recently most looking forward to when her Mistress of the Body, Anne Boleyn had the job. It was strange, thought Mary, because just a few years ago Mary despised the woman.
How much her father’s death in 1529 had changed things, for all of them.
Anne, already in her sleeping gown, black hair loose around her shoulders, smiled at Mary as she climbed onto the monarch’s bed, picking up the boar-bristle brush beside her. She was a small, pretty woman, with smart dark eyes and an even smarter mouth, and Mary knew now why her Father had loved her so. She was the kind of beautiful that could drive one to sin.
“You seem stressed, your Majesty,” said Anne softly as she began to brush Mary’s hair, her cool, long fingers running through her copper locks. “Do you wish to discuss anything?”
Mary huffed fondly. Ever observant, her Anne Boleyn. It was one of many reasons Anne had become so valuable to her in these years leading up to her majority. “I am always stressed, Anne. I feel as if my worries are constant.” She paused, luxuriating in the feeling of Anne’s hands in her hair just a moment longer, before she gave voice to it. “There is question, again, about when I am to be in my majority.”
Anne hummed thoughtfully, not pausing in her careful brushing of the young Queen’s hair. “If you were a man, you would be in your majority already.”
“Indeed,” sighed Mary. “But there is concern about me taking the throne before I am married.”
Anne snorted. “What, as if a young lady has no brain until she is wed to a man? I do know the talk you speak of though - I am ashamed to say my uncle Norfolk has said as much, though I’m sure he was much cruder about it.”
Mary shivered as Anne’s fingers grazed her scalp as she worked out a tangle, and she leaned back into the woman’s touch. “No one can decide on who would be best for me to marry. I am sure I have heard every person’s different view. A foreign prince might want to be a foreign King and usurp my power- and a local man might cause unrest in the court if he be too swiftly elevated.”
Mary did not miss the way Anne paused and the mention of a courtier being elevated by marriage, and remembered that Anne had once been that courtier, causing unrest in her father’s court. But before she could think to say anything on it, Anne was speaking.
“It is a very powerful thing, to be able to choose who will be one’s husband. It is not a luxury many women in this world have. You should cherish it, your Majesty. It is not a decision to take lightly.”
Mary turned back then, meeting Anne’s gaze, finding the woman’s bewitching black eyes. Such beautiful eyes Mistress Boleyn had, though sometimes when she looked into those eyes, she feared she saw her father’s reflection in them instead of her own.
“Are you suggesting I try to marry for love?” asked Mary, looking into Anne’s eyes. “Tis a hard thing for a monarch, to marry for love.”
“Your father tried to,” whispered Anne Boleyn, so soft Mary could barely hear it. It was startling, because Mary didn’t think she’d ever heard Anne speak of her father so directly before - or the mad way her father had acted before his death in 1529, trying to cast aside Queen Catherine and marry a common knight's daughter! Indeed, it was why Mary had once fiercely hated Anne Boleyn, the anger of a child scorned, so it was little wonder that since returning to court the lady had never mentioned it.
“Did you love my father?” asked Mary, because she had always wondered. Anne’s mouth twitched before going back to a tight smile.
“I loved him as a subject must love their King, and I believe-“ she stopped, looking away from Mary’s gaze now, casting her eyes down sadly. “You must understand, your Majesty, that King Henry spoke very seriously about marriage, and obeyed all laws one might when seeking to wed. So I thought, if he was determined to legally wed me, so determined to pull me from obscurity, I could learn to love him once we were wed.”
It was not the first time Anne had claimed chastity with her father, Mary realized. When she had sent a letter asking to come to court in the spring of 1530 she had claimed as much. Mary remembered dismissing it as a lie then, but her mother had convinced her to invite the woman anyway. The Boleyns had been an important ally, because Mary had a rival, the bastard Henry Fitzroy. No one had started a rebellion in the sickly boy’s name yet, but Mary feared it was only because her mother, the regent of the land, was so well loved.
Anne Boleyn herself had swiftly become a valuable ally for Mary herself, prompting her promotion to Mistress of the Body. She was smart, internationally educated and with a mind for politics - and the type of beautiful that fascinated Mary. And now Mary rather jealously hoped Anne had been truthful when she said she and her father had remained chaste.
So she asked: “Have you ever been in love?”
Anne seemed surprised by that, looking back to Mary, her dark eyes amused. “Yes, once, I fell in love with someone. But that was a long time ago.”
For some reason, Mary felt both jealous and thrilled imagining Anne Boleyn in love. Who was the lucky man, who could earn such a woman’s love when even her father couldn’t. Or, she had not said it was a man- but no, Mary mustn’t continue down that path.
So instead she asked, “Will you ever marry, if not for love?”
Anne’s smile twitched again. “No, I don’t believe so. No man seems to want to court me after the King did so- no unmarried man at least.” She leaned in a little, whispered “Thomas Wyatt has proposed to me many times, and I remind him every time he is already married, and that he is no King.”
Mary couldn’t help laughing, imagining the poet being struck down by Anne’s words, and Anne laughed too, leaning back again. “But no, I am too old now, I think no man shall want me.”
“But you are still so beautiful!” Declared Mary, taking one of Anne’s hands in hers.
“Thank you, your Majesty - but I’m nearly 29 now, and men want a lady younger to bear their children. It seems that is not to be my destiny to have a family, just as it wasn’t my destiny to wed your father.” Anne had a far away, sad look in her eyes, but she still smiled as she squeezed Mary’s hand, the warmth of which made Mary’s heart race. “If my destiny is to stay unmarried and dedicate my life to you, my Queen, I will accept it gratefully. When you rule in your majority you will be a well loved Queen, and see your people into great prosperity, Mary. I know you can do it, the first Queen of England.”
Mary’s heart pounded hard in her chest, feeling like it may rattle her ribs as her face flushed. How beautiful Anne was in the torchlight, and Mary found herself fighting the urge to embrace Anne. She had never felt this way about another person. She was close with her mother, been close with other ladies, but Anne was a different sort of friendship. Perhaps this was the sort of connection that caused monarchs to have favourites - but did that explain the passion Mary felt when Anne touched her? She didn’t know.
“Oh Anne ,” she sighed, the name doing a poor job of conveying what the woman was to Mary. “I don’t know what I would do without you. Can you ever forgive me for wishing you ill as a child? I thought such horrible things, I pray that God will ever forgive me for such wicked hatred.”
Anne laughed blithely, like Mary’s confession of past hatred did not surprise her at all. “You needn’t apologize to me, your Majesty. At the time you were a girl, and very rightly missing your father’s affection. I could never hold such a thing against you.”
“ Anne ,” repeated Mary, blinking back tears, the swell of confusing emotions trying to spill out of the young Queen. She wanted, feared, awed at Anne, she loved her, a confusing aching love that was different from anything Mary had ever felt before. “Oh Anne, will you embrace me?”
She only needed to ask once, and then the older woman’s arms were wrapping around Mary, bringing her to her chest. Oh, how lovely to be in Anne’s arms, only their night clothes separating their bodies. It made Mary warm to think of, made her think of how little it would take for there to be nothing between them. Was it sinful to want such a thing? Mary did not know, but the possibility frightened her into silence, even as she ached for more.
“You shall be a great Queen,” whispered Anne as she held the younger woman, voice full of what sounded like love, affection, and Mary hoped it was thus, hoped Anne loved her too, to some extent. “Great like your parents, like your grandparents - maybe even greater. And I will serve you with whatever you may need to achieve your greatness.”
Whatever she may need? What if all she needed was Anne by her side?
“May I- Anne, may I ask something of you?” Mary pulled back, biting her lip. “As a friend, not as your Queen, may I ask? You may deny me, of course, but may I-“
“Mary,” interrupted Anne gently, and her soft white hand was cupping Mary’s face, stunning the Queen into silence. “You may ask anything of me. Ask me, Mary, what is it you desire?”
There was a beat where Mary caught her breath, where she felt the soft skin of Anne’s hand on her cheek, felt the woman so close that her breath was intermingling with Mary’s own.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded, the request punched out of her in a single breath. Then, following it quickly: “You may say no- and I don’t mean anything- anything naughty , it is just that I have never- never been kissed, not with love.”
Anne did not recoil, just smiled, her black eyes glittering like she knew something Mary didn’t. “And I have been kissed with love. By your father, and by others. Do you wish for a demonstration, is that it?”
Was that it? Mary did not want to think of her father kissing Anne, did not want to think of herself like her father, recoiled at the thought, at the thought of her father kissing Anne the way Mary wished to.
“I do not care about what you did with my father,” declared Mary firmly. “I am not my father. The love you have for me is different, isn’t it? It is different from how you felt for him?”
Heart hammering, Mary grabbed Anne’s hand with her own, pressing it closer to her own face. She needed it to be true, she needed to be different from her father. “Please tell me, even if it’s just the love of your Queen, please tell me it is different.”
Anne hummed softly, looking at Mary with her glittering black eyes. How Mary wished she knew what lay behind those eyes, wished she could understand what this was behind them.
“Yes,” said Anne softly after a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is different.”
And then Anne was kissing her, just a soft press of lips, but oh! Mary had never felt so warm and lovely - and she knew as she pressed closer, pressed herself against the other woman and kissed her back, that she loved Anne Boleyn. She loved Anne, loved her so much, with her entire body and soul. Surely this was no sin, how could it be? Not when the love Mary felt was so strong, so true.
But then Anne was pulling away, putting space, devastating space between them, and Mary’s skin burned where Anne’s had pressed against hers. She wanted to grab the woman, pull her closer, kiss her until they both couldn’t breath - but Anne brought her hand up between them, running her thumb across the delicate skin of Mary’s lower lip, her black eyes unreadable in the torchlight.
“I think that is enough for tonight, your Majesty” murmured Anne, still stroking the curve of Mary’s parted lips. “You must get to sleep, after all.”
But that could not be all! Mary couldn’t accept that, and pushed forward, past Anne’s hands so their lips could meet again, kissing harder than before. It was suddenly intolerable to Mary that she must cease kissing Anne, that she must part from her at all, so she entwined her arms around her. To her delight she felt Anne laugh into the kiss before wrapping her own arms around Mary, moaning soft and low in the back of her throat. The noise inflamed Mary, and she thought she might go mad, might lose her mind just from kissing - and then Anne parted their lips once more.
“You get ahead of yourself, your Majesty,” she teased breathlessly, and her hands were back in Mary’s hair, hands teasing her scalp.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Mary, suddenly embarrassed by her own passion, but equally unwilling to pull away. “It was not proper of me to-“
“No need to apologize, my Queen.” Anne laughed, a noise like ringing bells. “Though I am a goodly bred lady of high morals, I do not want you to think me so easily wooed.”
Was that what she was doing? Was Mary wooing Anne Boleyn? The idea defied understanding - but Mary had long ago accepted that she needn’t understand God’s plans.
“Will you lay with me tonight in bed?” asked Mary earnestly, desperate to keep close to Anne. “To keep me warm, will you, Anne?”
What did those black eyes hide, when Anne smiled at Mary. Was it love, like Mary felt for Anne? Friendship? Duty to her Queen? Unbidden, Mary imagined those black eyes looking at her father, imagined them with the same enigmatic glimmer, and fought back a shudder. She was not her father, she reminded herself. Mary was not her father.
“I don’t think that would be right, for tonight,” said Anne, gently untangling their limbs. “Not tonight, your Majesty.”
The response left the possibility open for another night, and it was enough for Mary to let the woman pull away, even though she wanted nothing more than to never pull away from Anne. “Another night?” She asked as Anne stood from the Queen’s bed, reading herself to sleep on her pallet.
Anne chuckled, and flashed her eyes at Mary teasingly. “Sleep well, my Queen.”
But Mary didn’t sleep a wink that entire night.