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The Twelth of May, in the Year of Our Lord, Fifteen Twenty - Morning
Dear friend, I do so miss the company of my Dear Lord Paget. His gift with words doth send me swooning. He hath recently kept himself quite busy tending to matters which His Majesty doth demand, such as the Royal Treasury. However, this most cherished friend of the Boleyns didst find the time to write to Nan and me whilst we are here at Hever Castle for the spring and summer awaiting and preparing for this autumn's progress to New Market Village. I felt it apropos to share his artistry with thee. "Life can go along and feel perfect, and one is content, and one feels that life can become no better due to the perfection, but then the dream can be shattered with less than a conscious thought. Today I didst hear the birds sing in the air above. A cool breeze blew through the trees, rustling a soft hush from the branches and lifting the perfume of flowers from the ground and over my skin in one sweeping embrace, but then I didst feel that something were not quite right... that the song of the birds lacked something vital, something that wouldst make their song "true" perfection. And the hushing, perfumed breeze, though lovely and wonderful, were a fleeting moment that didst pass in seconds, and like the birds' song, seemed to bear less than it should; and that sense of something not quite right played itself in my mind, that sense of something missing. Suddenly I were overwhelmed with this grief for the unknown, and I tumbled to the ground in tears, pounding my fist on the hard, unforgiving earth, crying out, "God, why? What is amiss?" From a flower just a few feet from me, a butterfly lifted itself from the petal ever so delicately, and he seemed to lock his gaze with mine, commanding me to stillness from my violent, unknown misery. He flew calmly to mine ear, and as he passed, the answer to what I were missing were whispered in the flutter of his wings: Bolyens, it said. And all at once I knew that this was the answer, that I missed the Boleyn sisters, but, nay, not so much the sisters as the beauties who embody them, who make them come to life, who define the very essence of womanhood, friendship, love, desire, and beauty, all summed up in one word: perfection. As the butterfly lifted gently into the sky, I saw the sunlight glow through his wings, and the emblem of his markings hit home the inevitable truth whispered just moments before in his wings; the markings were quite simply... (0)(0) A tearful joy fell from mine eye. I plucked the flower upon which the butterfly had sat, lifted it to my lips, gave it a gentle kiss, and set it in the lapel of my chemise, thanking God, the butterfly, and the Boleyn sisters." Sigh........ his gift of prose doth send me into states of distraction. I do miss him so and pray that he may be able to join us in New Market this fall. I wouldst feel that a part of me were missing shouldst he nay be able to join us. I shall compose a reply correspondence to him post haste! Until our precious time again together, I remain faithfully thine dear diary, Mary B. |
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