JANE.

JANE BOLEYN, COUNTESS OF WILTSHIRE  ⸻  49,  JODIE TURNER SMITH.

JANE BOLEYN, countess of wiltshire.

draped in gold with stars pinned amongst the dark curls usually concealed by her hood, the countess of wiltshire found the same find delight in such pageantry and extravagance as she did such events in her youth. the château vert had been one of the earliest delights of jane's time at court, where she had attended as a personification of constancy, and it was with that same joy that she joined the court of goddesses. in the stars of night there was renewal to be found, peace and hope looming upon all who sought to look upon them, and in them could be found a great deal of strength. jane walked the halls of court reborn and yet unchanged by each obstacle that had presented itself in the countess' path, reinventing herself whenever necessary to survive much like her goddess counterpart. she was as constant and resilient as the stars themselves, offering a glimpse of hope to all who would look to her; this night and all nights to come.

the bond between a mother and her son changed form many times over the course of their lives and yet remained consistent in strength in spite of time and distance. jane could still recall the days of solitude spent during her confinement, brushing delicate fingertips upon the stretched skin of her bump as she filled the air with silent wishes for her babe's future. in the days after richard came bellowing into the world she cradled him with such care and adoration, feeling as though she had known him a lifetime as she held her entire world in her arms and enjoyed their time alone before he would begin to walk, to talk and to one day belong to the court as they all did. now richard was a grown man, one who was every inch the man she had wished he would become those many years ago, and he was the pride and joy of her life.

Though Jane Boleyn was not a blood relation, she was the mother of her dearest cousins and sister-in-law to her most beloved mother. And so by proxy, and that of the love Jane had for her own, she invited her aunt by marriage into her counsel, allowing Jane to then be witnesses to this first touch of ornate power. Of course, she was only a Regent, but this was to be the first step toward the fictitious whispers of anarchy — however, if Elizabeth was to gain some support in her climb to the throne with legality and steadfast alliances, then one must start at home. Extending her love and support to her mother’s family, Elizabeth knew that the first matter was to embolden the Boleyn household, to arrange some promise to her greatest friend, her cousin and Jane’s son, Richard. 

As Jane entered, Elizabeth rose to her feet in an act of intimacy, wishing away the act of etiquette with one swift of her hand before she extended her arms towards Jane. “I cannot thank you enough for your support, Lady Boleyn. God himself knows how I treasure my mother’s kin, and how I always shall,” she confessed, offering a seat by the window that overlooked the gardens, sitting with her aunt as the court re-arranged to once more sit lower than the Lady Regent. “I am well, I am as well as I can be. All that glitters is gold and I admit that this chance of ascension seems to fit my nature, do you not think that I have done well?” She asked, before taking her hands into her lap, the tremor of her broken heart yearning to expel itself, before the Princess forced it back. “I do miss my mother, however, though she will be glad to learn that I have had you by my side in her stead. You must miss Richard, as I do…”

        jane did not miss a beat in welcoming her niece into a warm embrace, silently noting the difference from how it felt to hold the young girl elizabeth had once been. she still remembered how joyous she would feel when the queen and her ladies would visit the princess elizabeth or when the young princess would visit the court, how the fiery haired girl would brighten any room she entered just as could as a woman that day. such a blessing it was to see how she had grown from such a dainty thing into the woman she was today, holding her own at court as regent whilst jane stood as the only one of the boleyn faction to bare witness. it was truly a blessing.

        in the absence of the king and his boleyn entourage hampton court palace felt to have transformed into something of a lion’s den, leaving jane and the princess elizabeth to stand firm in defiance of it all. to represent the boleyn line which occupied the crown. in the absence of her king, the queen she had served for more years than she had not as well as her husband and children it was most natural that jane should seek out her remaining kin in her beloved niece. whilst there was little to no doubt that elizabeth - being ever her mother’s daughter - could hold the court on her own, jane believed fiercely in the power of allies and, perhaps most importantly, of family and it was that belief which carried her step by step to the princess’ private chambers.

the  countess  of  wiltshire’s  swift  kindness  took  sibella  by  surprise.  the  latter’s  family’s  recusancy  and  scheming  placed  them  precisely  opposite  the  boleyns.  though  one  needn’t  climb  far  upon  wiltshire’s  family  tree  to  find  a  howard  among  the  branches.  traces  of  dissident  blood  flowed  through  the  veins  of  not  only  the  queen  mother  but  also  the  boleyn  king.  eager  as  they  were  to  rise  to  the  heights  they  once  knew,  the  percys  daren’t  wave  that  flag  for  their  cause.  yet  the  woman  that  found  her  in  the  staircase  is  not  a  boleyn  my  blood,  but  rather  by  marriage.  it  is  all  the  same  in  her  percy  blue  eyes.

the  dowager’s  arrest  and  the  execution  of  her  servants  (with  her  own  execution  looming  in  horizon)  would  be  another  notch  on  the  warring  belt  between  the  noble  families.  and  sibella  might’ve  waged  that  sword  if  she  had  the  heart  or  the  stomach  for  it.  she  saw  no  point  in  deploying  daggers  when  the  countess  only  offered  her  sweetness  and  sympathy.  "please  do,  my  lady,“  sibella  replied,  a  little  softened  now.  she  offered  her  hand  to  guide  the  lady  back  to  the  staircase.  would  the  sight  of  them,  seated  together,  be  a  scandalous  to  a  random  passerby?  or  had  the  blood  spilled  earlier  that  day  suspended  the  terms  of  the  court’s  social  contract?  "i  wish  for  no  more  days  like  these  as  well,  though  i  fear  they  are  as  customary  at court as  a roast boar’s head at yuletide.”

         once  upon  a  time  it  had  been  jane  who  was  painfully  pacing  those  halls.  her  nails  had  been  bitten  down  to  a  painful  state,  fingers  torn  from  nervous  nipping,  whilst  the  corridors  echoed  the  constant  sound  of  her  footsteps  and  heavy  breaths.  she  knew  what  it  was  to  fear  the  axe  hanging  upon  the  neck  of  loved  ones,  awaiting  the  hour  they  would  climb  the  scaffold  and  you  might  witness  their  end.  fortunately  for  her  the  swing  of  the  axe  never  came  but,  nonetheless,  she  remembered  what  it  was  to  be  a  fearful  young  woman.  she  saw  herself  in  sibella.  in  the  moment  loyalties  and  rivalries  took  a  side  step  and  jane’s  mothering  instinct  took  hold,  as  she  hoped  another’s  would  if  it  were  her  own  daughter  in  such  distress.

John himself felt a certain numbness overtake him, the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach one that he had to try his best not to expose. His mind roiled, and he, much like the Countess, stood equally shocked as the pools of blood that still stained the block upon the scaffold. There was no denying that it was a haunting visage of both past and an omen for the future, which the Earl was finally forced to tear his eyes away from.

They found Jane Boleyn, and though the thoughts of someone so close to the throne were something he had no desire to hear, he moved into an instinctive attempt to offer the lady some comfort that was for him as much as it was her. “The Lord still heard them, surely,” he offered, his voice quiet. “He must. Is it not his lot to hear everything, and grant forgiveness to those who sincerely ask for it?”

        with  each  swing  of  the  axe  came  the  same  weight  upon  one’s  heart  for  to  witness  death  cut  away  the  light  of  many  days  was  never  an  easy  thing  regardless of  who  might  have  been  the  poor  lost  soul.  jane  believed  the  safety  of  her  nephew  to  be  paramount,  without  a  single  doubt,  and  yet  a  piece  of  her  felt  for  the  humanity  of  those  men.  for  their  damned  souls.  beneath  every  choice  -  good  or  bad,  right  or  wrong  -  there  was  a  person  who  was,  in  one  way  or  another,  loved.  too  often  had  it  almost  been  one  of  her  own  loves  upon  that  block  and  she  felt  this  day  to  be  a  reminder  of  how  easily  that  could  be  again.

“I will never cease to commend your wit, my dearest Jane - I could not find better language, to surmise today’s events. Does it cause you to pause, as it does me, that my head nearly graced that fateful block?” Jane had long bestowed upon Anne, the originality of her character to faithfully admire; she adored the steadfast nature of her virtues, the truth of her feelings, the unabashed power of her passions - she, the vein of reason within the Boleyn cœur. Through her year of imprisonment, Anne’s heart had lived with Jane’s heart; her standard higher, her brow so noble, she protected, honoured and elevated Anne’s delicate organ. For the crimes Anne had been near condemned to, she had been promised thirty years sorrow; whatever bliss had lain with Henry, had been take from her. Few women had suffered as she in losing him in life; few women had enjoyed what she had in his love.  

  She had thought of Jane more than of God that year - if it was blasphemy to love a mortal, her sister in all but blood, for as long and exclusively, small was Anne’s chance of salvation. A solemn power now exercised itself over Anne, an influence wiser than fear - some new power it brought to her, as she marked the mundane nature of blood dried upon snow. It floated in now a breeze, and offered her a bold thought - her mind was strong enough in the evasion of death, to receive it. “So many would still be gladdened by George and I’s presence as the guests of honour, at an event like this - am I morose sister, in my vanity being appeased by my position now, gazing upon a bloodied scaffold in triumph?”

        the  thought  of  two  beloved  necks  meeting  their  ends  upon  a  block  such  as  that  which  stood  before  them  was  near  too  much  for  jane’s  heart  to  bear.  through  marriage,  through  silent  bonds  formed  and  loyalties  proven,  the  new  generation  of  boleyns  had  formed  something  which  transcended  the  need  shared  blood.  george  was  that  which  completed  her,  through  him  they  had  created  their  own  brand  upon  the  grand  boleyn  tree  and  through  him  she  found  a  sister  in  more  than  just  matrimony;  anne  was  her  sister  in  heart.  “  i  dare  not  think  of  such  things,  majesty,  unless  it  were  to  pray  that  mine  own  neck  would  meet  the  same  fate  along  side  yours.  ”  time  and  time  again  jane  had  proven  her  loyalty  to  the  boleyn  faction  -  to  anne  in particular  -  it  was  not  such  a  reach  to  believe  that  she  should  meet  the  same  fate  for  shared  sins.

        sitting  at  its  colossus  height  upon  the  thames,  the  white  tower  looked  down  upon  the  people  of  london  as  though  it  observed  its  own  kingdom  and  today  it  witnessed  the  deaths  of  three  of  its  disloyal  subjects.  the  tower  was  once  a  place  of  safety  and  warmth  for  the  king  and  his  court  and  yet,  as  jane  boleyn  turned  her  dark  gaze  skyward,  it  felt  as  though  the  walls  might  imprison  them  all  one  day.  herself  included,  she  feared.  the  onion  domes  atop  the  turrets of the white  tower  -  a  coronation  gift  from  the  late  king  to  her  own  dear  sister  -  dominated  the  view  and  casted  a  heavy  shadow  upon  all  below  in  the  morning  light,  making  it  clear  for  her  to  see  as  she  stood  with  her  back  towards  the  scaffold  which  had  earlier  staged  thrice  the  theft  of  life.