mother-in-law was napping, I gave Prince Piddle Pants a henna bath so that she awakened to find what she thought was a little red devil capering at the foot of her bed and pissed herself in terror even as she crossed herself and reached for her rosary. Then, just as suddenly, I grew bored with it all, ceased all my pranks and capricious cravings, and settled down to calmly await the birth of my baby.
Nearly bursting at the seams with his increasing importance, and the growing reliance and trust that the Crown, and the Tudor men who wore or would one day wear it, bestowed upon him, Thomas came home long enough to have our portrait painted. When he was abroad representing English interests at the court of the Archduchess Margaret of Austria, he had admired a portrait of a wealthy Bruges merchant and his green-gowned, swollen-stomached wife with her devoted little dog at her feet standing amidst the opulent trappings of luxury and status. With the rapidity of lightning, he decided that we should be painted in like manner.
In somber-hued velvets and sable, Thomas stood rigidly at my side, stiff-backed with his own self-importance. I wore the same sapphire velvet gown banded in black with gold lovers’ knots and black velvet hood I had worn the day I witnessed Princess Catherine’s triumphant progress through London; it was still nearly new after all, and though the bodice fit a trifle too snugly, the skirt flowed smoothly as a placid blue waterfall over the round ball of my belly.
Before we assumed our pose for the portrait painter, Thomas, like a man putting the collar on his newly acquired pedigreed bitch, fastened round my throat the heavy, wide golden collar with the Bullens’ ornate, raging ruby-eyed bull. I hated its constricting weight and the way it bit into my flesh, but the gracious, docile smile upon my face gave nothing away.
As the artist posed me, with one hand clasping the flowing folds of my skirt demurely over the small round mound of my stomach, to show the petticoat of pomegranate satin I wore beneath, which was richly embroidered with roses of gold and silver, I caught a glimpse of myself in my silver mirror—a highborn sixteen-year-old bride, an emblem of success, a trophy of sorts my husband preened and prided himself over winning, a bitch wearing her master’s collar replete with his golden insignia, her belly and breasts swelling with certain proof of her fertility, the first of many pups he planned she would whelp, so that his name would be sure to endure another generation.
Behind us, my sapphire and silver bed shimmered and the grotesquely carven figures of the Seven Deadly Sins grimaced and leered over my shoulder, and light poured in through the diamond-latticed panes of the window to illuminate a pair of gleaming golden bowls piled high with oranges, rising like pyramids, studded with cloves, snowy blossoms, and glossy green leaves.
My husband adored oranges as a symbol of wealth and opulence. He liked people to know he could afford them and to share his bounty with those he deemed important enough to deserve a seat at his well-appointed table. Never mind that eating them made his chest ache with a deplorable burn that kept him awake all night guzzling tonics his old witch-bitch lunatic of a mother brewed in a cauldron, incomprehensible gobbledygook spewing from her mouth like some foul incantation as she threw in handfuls of pulverized elm bark, licorice, chamomile, dandelions, peppermint, rosemary, juniper, whole cups of red wine and honey, and a baby lizard for good measure, while Prince Piddle Pants gibbered and danced on her shoulder like one of Satan’s imps. But to Thomas Bullen—or Boleyn as he was by then styling himself—image was everything; discomfort be damned.
Ferdinand, a handsome and most sensual gardener with bronze skin, sleek black hair, a devilish mustache, and dark dagger of a beard, was specially imported from Seville to do nothing but nurture my husband’s
Nearly bursting at the seams with his increasing importance, and the growing reliance and trust that the Crown, and the Tudor men who wore or would one day wear it, bestowed upon him, Thomas came home long enough to have our portrait painted. When he was abroad representing English interests at the court of the Archduchess Margaret of Austria, he had admired a portrait of a wealthy Bruges merchant and his green-gowned, swollen-stomached wife with her devoted little dog at her feet standing amidst the opulent trappings of luxury and status. With the rapidity of lightning, he decided that we should be painted in like manner.
In somber-hued velvets and sable, Thomas stood rigidly at my side, stiff-backed with his own self-importance. I wore the same sapphire velvet gown banded in black with gold lovers’ knots and black velvet hood I had worn the day I witnessed Princess Catherine’s triumphant progress through London; it was still nearly new after all, and though the bodice fit a trifle too snugly, the skirt flowed smoothly as a placid blue waterfall over the round ball of my belly.
Before we assumed our pose for the portrait painter, Thomas, like a man putting the collar on his newly acquired pedigreed bitch, fastened round my throat the heavy, wide golden collar with the Bullens’ ornate, raging ruby-eyed bull. I hated its constricting weight and the way it bit into my flesh, but the gracious, docile smile upon my face gave nothing away.
As the artist posed me, with one hand clasping the flowing folds of my skirt demurely over the small round mound of my stomach, to show the petticoat of pomegranate satin I wore beneath, which was richly embroidered with roses of gold and silver, I caught a glimpse of myself in my silver mirror—a highborn sixteen-year-old bride, an emblem of success, a trophy of sorts my husband preened and prided himself over winning, a bitch wearing her master’s collar replete with his golden insignia, her belly and breasts swelling with certain proof of her fertility, the first of many pups he planned she would whelp, so that his name would be sure to endure another generation.
Behind us, my sapphire and silver bed shimmered and the grotesquely carven figures of the Seven Deadly Sins grimaced and leered over my shoulder, and light poured in through the diamond-latticed panes of the window to illuminate a pair of gleaming golden bowls piled high with oranges, rising like pyramids, studded with cloves, snowy blossoms, and glossy green leaves.
My husband adored oranges as a symbol of wealth and opulence. He liked people to know he could afford them and to share his bounty with those he deemed important enough to deserve a seat at his well-appointed table. Never mind that eating them made his chest ache with a deplorable burn that kept him awake all night guzzling tonics his old witch-bitch lunatic of a mother brewed in a cauldron, incomprehensible gobbledygook spewing from her mouth like some foul incantation as she threw in handfuls of pulverized elm bark, licorice, chamomile, dandelions, peppermint, rosemary, juniper, whole cups of red wine and honey, and a baby lizard for good measure, while Prince Piddle Pants gibbered and danced on her shoulder like one of Satan’s imps. But to Thomas Bullen—or Boleyn as he was by then styling himself—image was everything; discomfort be damned.
Ferdinand, a handsome and most sensual gardener with bronze skin, sleek black hair, a devilish mustache, and dark dagger of a beard, was specially imported from Seville to do nothing but nurture my husband’s
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