Chapter 30
When I was a boy, my mother told me the tale of the Boleyn curse.
It was one autumn evening, and the wind lashed at the windows, the thunder rolled and the lightning turned the sky an uncanny white.
The fire crackled and I remember I was eating an apple from the orchard, which had been picked earlier in the day.
My front tooth was loose, and my intention was to dislodge it entirely with the sharp, hard fruit in order to claim the financial bounty when it was left under my pillow overnight.
As the wind rattled the windows, we heard an eerie cry, which my mother claimed was a curlew.
‘We must be careful,’ she said, her eyes full of mischief. ‘When the curlews cry, the Boleyn curse will taint us all.’
I laughed and asked her what she meant; with great relish, she told me this tale:
‘When Elizabeth Boleyn heard the seven curlews sing on the day her daughter Anne was executed, she knew the blood curse of her line was to blame…’
‘She was a Howard,’ I remember interrupting, showing off with my schoolboy history, but Mother shook her head.
‘By the time the curse took shape, she was a Boleyn through and through. She had borne the name of Boleyn longer than she was a Howard and it was their line who perpetuated it. From Elizabeth, through Mary, to her daughter, Kathryn Carey, to her daughter Maud and all the way through the centuries to us.’
The apple in my mouth was sweet, the flesh pearlescent white against its blood-red skin, the fire cosy. All was safe and well, yet despite this, I shivered.
‘Curses are for fairy stories.’
‘True,’ my mother agreed. ‘We are lucky then, to have our own story. Your father told me: “When the whistle blows, the curse is activated for fifty-eight years, the length of Elizabeth Boleyn’s life”.’
My contemptuous laugh was lined with fear. ‘Why Elizabeth Boleyn?’
‘This was her house,’ my mother said. ‘She passed it to Mary, her daughter. Your father believes we have Elizabeth’s diary.’
‘It would be hundreds of years old,’ I said in awe, then asked in an off-hand manner, ‘What does the curse do?’
My mother glanced around, as though checking we were alone, before leaning forward and whispering in melodramatic tones, ‘It haunts those you love until, one day, when you least expect it, they are taken from you, swallowed by the cries of the curlews and lost forever in the darkness of time.’
I tried to laugh it off, but my soul was chilled.
‘To which whistle do you refer, Mama?’ I asked as haughtily as possible, trying to hide my fear.
‘The hawking whistle engraved with the words “Two for sorrow”. It is said to be the cursed call from Henry to Elizabeth, used to bring first Mary, then Anne, then George to the king’s side, each suffering his wrath because of their mother’s pride.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Elizabeth refused him – have you never heard the legend of how when the king wished to marry Anne Boleyn, he was questioned about his relationship with her sister, Mary. He did not deny their affair, but when he was asked about Elizabeth Boleyn, the king stated, “Never the mother”. Family legend has it that her refusal was the beginning of the curse.’
There was a huge clap of thunder as my mother said these words. We both jumped, then laughed at our foolishness.
‘Does Father own a hawking whistle engraved with those words?’ I asked, already dismissing the story as nonsense.
‘As a matter of fact, darling, he does,’ replied my mother as she returned to her book. ‘It’s in the top drawer of his desk, but I doubt it’s as old as Elizabeth Boleyn. The curse was probably a yarn spun by his father.’
Unnerved, I took a large bite of my apple and yelled in pain as my tooth was wrenched out. A smear of blood on the white flesh.
The curse.
Who believes in curses in our modern era?
I should have listened, understood the danger, not played with the fates. Helena has gone. Dead. Lost to me forever and our daughter has been taken in by her sister. I shall never see either of them again.
The curse is real.
It takes those we love.
My life is dark. Cursed.
To remind myself of my stupidity, I have hung the ancient painting of the curlews, which is said to date from Tudor times, in the corridor leading to the chapel.
It will serve forever as a reminder of my foolishness, my loss.
The whistle is being placed behind glass, worn by a magpie, never to be blown again.