Free Mayflowers for November: The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn by Malyn Bromfield

signed for by the clerk and a copy taken to my lord, the Comptroller of the King’s household.
    ‘Maybe the pudding wife will give you a few pence to spend at the fair,’ Mother said after I had strained the boiled trotters thrice and complained that my clothes stank of pig just as much as if I were in the great kitchen.
    *
    In the evening, when we went to bed we found that Father had already set out our pallets and on each was a roll of the King’s soft white manchet bread wrapped in a cloth.
    ‘A present from His Grace the King to celebrate his little confectioner’s first day’s work,’ Father said.
    ‘Gracious me, Peter. How did you get them?’ Mother said. ‘When did you find time to visit the King’s privy bakery? Did no one see you take it?’
    Father rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
    ‘What do you take me for wife? We won’t see the King or Queen again at Greenwich ‘til Bart’s Fair comes to town. There’s loaves to spare. The King won’t want ‘em when they’ve gone stale. Now then, a little of something sweet to taste wouldn’t go amiss.’
    Mother reached for a pot of plum preserve from the storage shelves around the room. ‘This needs tasting to make sure it hasn’t putrefied over the winter.’
    ‘It looks fine to me,’ I said, ‘I can’t see any mould.’
    ‘Best all have a little taste to make sure,’ Mother said, giving Father a wink.

 
    Chapter 10
    23rd August 1533
     
    ‘Keep close, Avis, for if we’re parted amongst these crowds we’ll never find each other again.’
    Mother and I were in a muddy horse-trampled meadow in Smithfield where, for the second time that summer, I gazed upon Sir Stephen Peacock, lord mayor of the City of London, in all his stately splendour. Mounted on horseback and wearing his crimson gown and golden chain with a golden fleece about his neck, he made his procession towards the great gate of St Bartholomew’s church to proclaim the fair open. Before him went his sword-bearer in a marvellous, tall fur hat and, behind him, a dozen mounted aldermen attired in scarlet with chains of gold.
    Would Queen Anne visit the fair? Would the mayor and aldermen escort her as they had done on the Thames for her coronation? I supposed it was too close to the birth of her child for the Queen to go abroad amongst the people.
    ‘Maybe the whore will come to haggle for a sow,’ Mother said. ‘Tis well known that pregnant women crave pig meat from Bartle’s Fair and I don’t doubt she’d be in good company amongst such bawdy baskets and clapper-dudgeons as you see here.’
    ‘Clapper-dudgeons, Mother?’
    ‘Aye, vagrants who come a begging to get more than they deserve, like that beggar man yonder in the patched cloak with all those fake sores upon his face.’
    ‘If they were real sores perhaps the King could cure him by the laying on of hands. Perhaps Queen Anne will cure the sick now that she has been anointed by the archbishop.’
    ‘That whore!’ Mother spat on to the sludgy grass. ‘She doesn’t have the royal blood so she shouldn’t behave as if she does. King Henry should never have let her give out the blessed cramp rings. I’d suffer the Devil’s cramps every night before I’d take a ring from her.’
    ‘Mistress Pudding told me that the Queen has a great list for apples.’
    ‘It pleases me greatly daughter, that she sets such store by you and takes you into her confidence after such a little time,’ mother said.
    Mistress Pudding had given me three groats to spend at the fair. I had expected more from someone who lived in a fine house in London, shillings not pence. I had tried to look grateful, bobbed a curtsey and thanked her profusely. I was only a wench in training, mother said, not a worker, and I should be thankful to be able to watch and learn and should not expect gifts. I could buy a Bartholomew babe for the three of us with my groats. Didn’t I always look forward to a gingerbread doll at Bartles Fair?
    ‘Yes, when I was