This is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events por-

trayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously.

at the mercy of the queen. Copyright © 2011 by Anne Clinard Barnhill.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information,
address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Design by Anna Gorovoy

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Barnhill, Anne Clinard.

At the mercy of the queen : a novel of Anne Boleyn / Anne Clinard
Barnhill.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250- 00519- 9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978- 0-312- 66213- 4 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-4299-2554-9 (e-book)
1. Anne Boleyn, Queen, consort of Henry VIII, King of England,
1507–1536—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—Court and courtiers—
Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509–1547—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.A77713A94 2012
813'.6—dc23
2011036004

First Edition: January 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 One

A
lready the grassy fields surrounding Hever Castle
were greening, though Easter was several weeks
away. The nearby forests had put out tender buds and
the barley fields sprouted fresh green shoots. Though the gray
sky still shrouded the land, one could feel a hint of warmth, the
first indication that spring would come, after all. This, along
with the birth of her favorite bitch’s puppies, made Madge Shel-
ton frisky that morning, able to shake, finally, the feeling of
dread she had carried since her arrival in the south of England.
Although she could not know it yet, this was the last morning
of her old life, the first morning of the life she’d hoped would
never come.
“The fat one, the one with a bit of red on his chest,” said
Madge, leaning over the roughly made pen that housed ten set-
ters, her uncle’s newest stock of hunting dogs.
4 Anne Clinard Barnhill

“He’s already been spoken for. Master Boleyn left word that
the biggest and best pup was to be trained for the hunt,” said
Ben Whipple, the son of the yeoman who managed the Boleyn
farm.
“We’ll see about that. My birthday’s coming soon and I
shall ask my uncle about the hound. I’m likely to get him, you
can be sure of that. My uncle gives me whatever I fancy these
days,” Madge said. She held the pup to her bosom and stroked
behind his ears.
“You’ll be mine, pretty boy. And we’ll roam the fields to-
gether. I’ll teach you to point. We’ll show my uncle how a good
dog and a brave girl can hunt with the best of them,” Madge said.
“Master Boleyn’s a-wanting to groom the biggest pup for
the queen. He knows how she fancies a smart cur. You won’t get
your way this time, mistress,” said Ben. He picked up the runt of
the litter, a pitiful-looking setter with only a spot of white at the
tip of its tail.
“Shall I drown this one? It’s only a bitch,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” said Madge.
“Master Boleyn told me to get rid of the runt and spare only
the smartest, healthiest ones. He can’t afford to keep the whole
passel,” said Ben.
“Give me that little one, then. I’ll keep her safe,” Madge said.
She put the fat pup back into the pen and wrapped her hands
around the small black one. The pup nuzzled against Madge
and licked her hands. “She knows I’m saving her from a watery
grave. Look at how grateful she is.”
“Tell you what. I’ll let you keep her if you give me a kiss,”
said Ben.
“You’ll let me keep her, Ben Whipple, kiss or no!” Madge
stood up abruptly, still clutching the puppy. She smoothed her
skirts with one hand while holding the dog against her chest.
 At the Mercy of the Queen 5

“Why won’t you kiss me, Madge? You did once, down by the
creek. Let me again,” said Ben.
“I’ll never kiss the likes of you again, Ben Whipple. I am
cousin to the queen and must act according to my new station. In
a few short weeks, Queen Anne will be crowned, and then you
won’t dare speak so in my company,” said Madge.
“Pshaw. Nan Bullen’s no better than a whore and everybody
knows it. Catherine’s the rightful queen and Old Harry can’t
change that. Nan Bullen’s as common as these pups,” said Ben.
Madge pushed Ben out of her way, still holding the black
pup. She stomped across the barnyard. Halfway, she stopped,
turned toward Ben, her cheeks flushed and her red hair flying
every which way in the early morning breeze.
“You’ll live to regret those words. My family’s no longer
simple wool merchants. You’ll see—the Shelton name is some-
thing these days and you, Ben Whipple, better watch your
tongue!” Madge turned again on one heel and headed for the
main house where her nurse would have hot tea ready and maybe
a tasty bit of raisin cake.
Margaret Louise Shelton, Madge as she was known to the
servants and farmers on her uncle’s manor in Edenbridge, Kent,
was fifteen years old and already a handful for her nurse, Cate.
Tall and thin with a smallish bosom, a delicate waist, and flar-
ing hips, Madge was quickly becoming a beauty and she knew
it. Her green eyes were wide and expressive, showing every nu-
ance of feeling a young woman could experience. When angry,
her eyes narrowed and actually darkened. When happy, her eyes
seemed lit from a secret sunshine within. When sad, her eyes
turned watery and red-rimmed, much to her chagrin.
Though she gave her nurse, Cate, a good deal of trouble,
Madge was happy to have Cate with her, for she was unused to
living with the Boleyn family, especially now that Sir Thomas’s
6 Anne Clinard Barnhill

daughter, Anne, was married to the king. Unlike her own fam-
ily, where she was the youngest of five children and likely to find
a partner in any devilment she could think up, at Hever Castle,
Madge was younger than the Boleyn children by fifteen years
or more. No one laughed at her jokes or her funny faces. No one
wanted to act out the story of Punchinella, and Madge couldn’t
find one person who would sing duets with her in the early eve-
nings after supper.
Cate was all Madge had to remind her of Great Snoring,
her home far away. Madge longed for the fields of the family
lands in Norfolk, where she spent summers cavorting with the
new lambs. Cate’s presence wasn’t enough to make up for the
familiar life Madge longed for. Besides, Cate insisted Madge
practice her best behavior all the time. She could never relax at
the Boleyn residence. There was too much at stake for that.
“What have you dragged in this time?” Cate said when she
saw Madge carrying the pup into the elegant rooms they shared.
“Ben was going to drown her,” said Madge. She sat on the
low stool near the fireplace and warmed her hands, allowing the
pup to make a nest in her skirts.
“That’s your good wool, girl. You don’t want to be smelling
of dog when you meet the king, do you?” Cate grabbed the pup
and held it up for examination. “Nothing but a runt. Not even
interesting in its markings.”
“Give her back. I don’t care what I smell like when I meet
the king. Give me my dog,” said Madge.
“And what makes you think Sir Thomas will allow you to
keep this mutt? He’s known for killing off what’s weak and
small,” said Cate, handing the dog to Madge.
“I’ll keep her whatever way I can. I’ll hide her in our rooms
and Sir Thomas won’t find her,” said Madge. She gathered some
 At the Mercy of the Queen 7

rushes from the floor into a small bunch and set the pup in the
center of the reeds, near the fire.
“I’m warning you, my Maddie, you mustn’t anger Sir Thomas.
He’s grown powerful these last ten years and your family’s for-
tunes ride on him. And now, they’re riding on you, too,” said
Cate.
“I know, good Cate, I know. I will try to please Sir Thomas
as best I can. But I can’t live for his good pleasure—I have a life
of my own.” Madge slipped her feet from the stiff leather boots
and stretched her toes toward the warmth of the fire.
“A woman’s life is never her own, Maddie girl. We must
make our way as we can. Your father sent you here to serve Sir
Thomas in whatever way he so desires. Thus far, Sir Thomas
has allowed you much freedom but that may pass. You must
have it in your mind to obey Sir Thomas and serve the queen.”
Cate stood behind Madge and took the pins from her thick hair.
Red curls snaked through Cate’s fingers. The red was flecked
with gold and smelled of lemongrass. Cate combed through the
locks and scratched gently at Madge’s scalp. The girl’s shoul-
ders dropped a bit.
“I’ll make Mother proud, don’t worry. So far, Sir Thomas
hasn’t said two words to me. If I’m lucky, things will stay as they
are and I can go back home by All Saints’ Day,” Madge said as
she nudged the sleeping puppy with her big toe. “Now, what shall
we call this black runt of a dog?”
“Better call it Nothing. That way, if Sir Thomas drowns
her, you’ll have Nothing to miss and Nothing to cry about,”
said Cate.
“A cruel Cate you are! No, I’ll call her Shadow. She’s black
and she’ll have to hide away in shadows if she’s to survive. And
she follows me as if she were my very own shadow,” said Madge.
8 Anne Clinard Barnhill

“Shadow it is, then.” Cate twirled the rope of Madge’s hair

into a bun and secured it with pins. She covered the bun with a
plain white cap and sat on the stone floor next to Madge, lean-
ing her head against Madge’s knee.
Both nurse and girl were almost asleep when a loud knock-
ing jerked each awake. Madge looked at her nurse, then at the
pup. She scooped Shadow from the floor, then hurried to place
the dog inside the chest that held her modest jewels—a small
brooch her mother had given her covered with seed pearls, a
painted comb for her hair, a long chain of gold to wear on her
wedding day, and a miniature of her father.
“Why so long to answer, Nurse?” said Sir Thomas, a tall,
slender man with a reddish-gray beard and thinning hair of the
same color. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he looked as pleas-
ant as Madge had ever seen him. His features, sharp and hawk-
like, were usually pinched together as if he were in deep thought
or as if he had enemies to smite. Seeing him storm along the
walkways in the beautiful gardens of Hever Castle made Madge
hide for cover. She avoided him when at all possible, curtsying
to him when they processed to church and at formal dinners.
She kept her head down and never dared look him in the eye.
She behaved exactly as her mother had taught her and so far,
she’d escaped his notice. Or so she’d thought.
“Let’s have a look at you, niece. Ah yes, you’ll do nicely. A
pretty one, eh George?” Sir Thomas strolled into the apart-
ments, his son, George, trailing behind him. George was hand-
some with golden hair and softer features than his father’s. Both
men were dressed in rich-looking silks and Sir Thomas had a
red velvet cloak lined with ermine. His undershirt was cloth-of-
gold and Madge had never seen anyone look quite so fine. George,
fifteen years Madge’s senior, was taller than his father and his
eyes seemed more kind.
 At the Mercy of the Queen 9

“Father, don’t speak of Madge as if she couldn’t hear you.

Hello, coz. How do you find life at Hever? Hmmm, no answer,
eh? I’ll talk enough for the both of us! Has anyone taken time
to teach you the new games so popular at court? Chess? Cards?
No? Well, coz, I shall show you. After all, once the king and
queen arrive, you must help us entertain them,” said George,
his voice full of fun.
Madge felt her cheeks burn as her cousin chucked her under
her chin. She did not know what to make of him; he seemed too
full of life to have come from the same stock as Sir Thomas.
She kept her curtsy, wondering if Sir Thomas would ever allow
her to rise. Her legs trembled.
“Enough, George. Margaret, I asked your father and mother
to allow you to come to Hever Castle for a reason. As you
know, your cousin, Anne, is now queen of England. This posi-
tion has been a hard-fought one and will be hard enough for
her to hold, even though she sits prettily now. But there are
those who would upset her from the throne if they could—the
Seymours; the Dudleys; not to mention the Spanish ambassa-
dor, Chapuys; and the Catholics. Anne is sitting on the head
of a pin and could easily be toppled. It is up to us to keep her
in her position until she bears an heir. Once a son is born,
Anne, and all of us, will be safe.” Sir Thomas stared down at
Madge, never once allowing her to raise herself from the deep
curtsy she’d taken in his honor. Finally, he raised her head so
that she was forced to look at him. “Do you understand, my
girl?”
“Yes, my lord.” Madge did not understand, but she dared
not say so. She knew better than to ask any questions. Slowly,
he raised her to a more comfortable position, led her to a bench,
and indicated for her to be seated.
“You will be going to court, Margaret. The king and queen
10 Anne Clinard Barnhill

will arrive at Hever later this week. I don’t know how many
days they shall stay—”
“God’s blood, I hope their stay will be short,” said George
winking at Madge.
“However long Their Majesties stay is not your concern,
young George. What is your concern is to help your sister in
whatever way you can. You must remember, our future fortune
depends on Anne.” Sir Thomas’s voice was cold and Madge
worried that he might strike George. She shivered as Sir Thomas
turned back to her, his small, blue eyes full of anger.
“After Their Majesties return to court, Margaret, you shall
follow them forthwith.” Sir Thomas bowed and headed toward
the doors.
“To court? I . . . I cannot possibly go to court. I have no
proper clothes. I cannot dance. I lack the graces for court, Sir
Thomas. I’m a mere girl, I—”
“Enough! His majesty has assigned you to be one of the
queen’s ladies-in-waiting and to court you will go!” Sir Thomas
thundered. Then he turned to Cate. “Nurse, see that this girl
has the best dresses available. Tell my wife, the Lady Eliza-
beth, to give you bolts of silk to supply you. Margaret will need
at least five gowns. You and my wife will see to the construc-
tion of each,” Sir Thomas said. “As for your want of grace, I
would suggest, for your own sake, that you begin to cultivate
those skills you lack. George, after we sup, you will begin to
teach the girl.” Sir Thomas turned quickly and left them. He
stopped in the doorway and stared at his son.
“And George, no spoiling this one, eh?” said Sir Thomas.
“Of course not, Father. Of course not,” said George.
Sir Thomas gave his son a hard, curious look and then
stomped down the hall, his steps on the stone floor command-
ing and steady as a clock.
 At the Mercy of the Queen 11

Madge, George, and Cate sat still as relics. Suddenly, a cry-

ing sound came from the chest next to the bed. Madge began
to hum, trying to cover the noise.
“What’s that?” said George as he searched the room trying
to discover the source of the sound.
“What? All I hear is my lovely Madge’s voice. Tell me,
deary, where’d you learn that ditty?” said Cate.
“What’s that you are hiding, Nurse? Aha! A pup and one
from father’s newest litter, I’ll warrant. What’s it doing here?”
George grabbed the puppy before Madge could get her hands
on the little dog.
“She’s mine! Give her to me!” Madge tried to take the puppy
from George.
“So, Mousy Madge has a tongue after all! Good! Good for
you, coz. Tell me, what’d you name her?” George gave the pup
over to Madge, who carefully petted the dog and held her close.
“Shadow. She’s my Shadow and where I go, she’ll go, too.”
Madge stared straight into George’s eyes, daring him to cross
her.
“Then Shadow will be going to court soon. Best keep her
safe, Madge Mouse. And yourself, too,” said George. “Court isn’t
for the faint of heart. You’re going, so you better learn to mas-
ter yourself and your betters.”

“No, no, no! You must hold the string down more firmly, Madge
Mouse. See, like this,” said George, placing his finger across the
neck of the lute and pressing the catgut until the tip of his fin-
ger turned white.
“I’m trying! I do not seem to have the strength for it. Perhaps
we should explore another instrument—the virginals?” said
Madge. Two hours earlier, when the lesson began, she would
12 Anne Clinard Barnhill

never have spoken so boldly to the great George Boleyn. But her
fingers hurt, her head ached, and she wished to return to her
rooms.
“The lute is the easiest to play—any dolt can learn it. All
you must needs do is strum a little so you can sing. The king
loves music and is quite accomplished, as is my sister. I play and
carry a tune rather well myself—even our sister Mary can do
such. Surely you have some of the family ability,” said George.
“Evidently I do not!” said Madge.
“Dear Margaret, forgive my impatience. I am to prepare
you for court in a fortnight, teach you those things my sisters
learned over years at the French court. It is a quick study and I
fear I forget how many hours I spent teaching my own fingers
to press the proper string. Let us put the lute away for tonight
and try again on the morrow,” said George.
“Thank you, cousin. I am quite ready to retire. But if you
would like, I shall sing you a lullaby, one my mother used to
sing to us as we drifted off to sleep. I do have a small gift with
a song,” said Madge.
“That is encouraging. Yes, let me hear you, Madge Mouse,”
said George. He picked up the lute and waited for Madge to
begin.
“Rock-a-bye, don’t you cry, for we will go to see Nanny/Up
the hill, by the mill, to see the wee little lambie,” Madge sang
softly, her voice breathy and tender.
George motioned for her to repeat the song and he strummed
along with the lute. The sound of the strings gave Madge more
confidence and, with George’s encouragement, she sang out
more forcefully.