When she was asked to review books written by any of her friends, a mid-century British socialite remarked with commendable honesty that, of course, friendship with the author predisposed a reviewer to write more favourably than they might for a complete stranger - and that only by acknowledging that could one hope to turn in a fair review. In the spirit of that towardness, I should note that I have met novelist Adrienne Dillard on several occasions and I like her very much. We also share the same publishers for some of our works and, when a mutual friend let me know that she was completing a novel about Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, I was able to send her an advanced copy of my biography of Jane’s final employer, Queen Catherine Howard.
With that acknowledgement out of the way, I should note that I sometimes approach a friend or colleague’s book with anticipation and trepidation. To dislike a stranger’s book is one thing, but to recoil from, or labour through, the work of a friend, loved one, or colleague is a deeply unpleasant prospect. Fortunately, “The Raven’s Widow”, which dramatises its subject’s life through the disjointed memories of her final weeks alive, was far from a chore.
Very early on in “The Raven’s Widow”, its eponymous character exhibits a moment of clueless naïveté. As she is being escorted by barge to the Tower of London, Jane gazes across the river to the houses passing by on the bank. Drifting by in the winter’s gathering nocturnal gloom, these houses prompt an exercise of imagination for Jane: -
“The inhabitants of one of these homes invaded my thoughts, and I envied the present comfort they enjoyed. A mother, father, and their three children sat down to a small wooden table in the cottage of my mind. Curlicues of steam from a meat pie hovered around heads bowed in prayer. I noted a lack of fine tapestries and plates of gold as I took in the room around them; yet, a fire crackled invitingly in the hearth, and an air of joy permeated the dwelling.”
It’s a fantasy, of course, and a particularly absurd one. The idea that the poor are inherently happy and that their reduced circumstances produce a domestic idyll is the same kind of benign, well-meaning idiocy that prompted unfortunate Marie-Antoinette’s private village or juxtaposed scenes in James Cameron’s “Titanic" of dancing, laughing, hospitable immigrants, all of them full of the joys of life, against the stultifying, charmless boredom of first-class’s smoke-filled lounges. Concerns about the cholera pandemic that had swept the European migrant community in 1912 are excised; they’re poor, therefore they are happy. Similarly, Dillard’s Jane knows apparently nothing about the inflation that had swept England in the late 1530s and early 1540s, meaning that most of the families she sailed by were likely to be producing far fewer meat pies than they might have liked. It doesn’t matter, of course, because in the same way as so many today, born and raised in the prosperous West, eulogise as “pure”, “superior”, “warmer” etc. those cultures that have escaped the Kardashians, super-malls, credit cards, and social media without realising that they may also endure fewer civil rights, healthcare facilities, or running water, Dillard gifts Jane with that unique myopia of the privileged: there are no “fine tapestries or plates of gold”, thus there must be “an air of joy” throughout the home.
This is a personality trait that stays with Jane Boleyn as “The Raven’s Widow” moves through the major events of her life, from girlhood to widowhood. It is initially an unremarkable path for those born in to the top one per cent of Tudor society. Jane is a nobleman’s daughter, raised in the countryside; she becomes a debutante at court, where her good looks and strident personality catch several eyes, before she marries a man of similar age and background. What made Jane Boleyn’s life extraordinary was the rapid upward trajectory of her sister-in-law’s career as Anne Boleyn, the most sophisticated of the mid-1520s court belles, became the object of Henry VIII’s unrequited obsession and marriage proposals. The circumstances of Anne Boleyn’s rise and fall are notoriously controversial and several historians, including several writing within a generation of Anne's death, suggested that the heroine of “The Raven’s Widow”, Jane Boleyn, had actively helped destroy Queen Anne by committing perjury which helped unjustly condemn the Queen, and Jane’s husband, to death on a charges of incest.
In the last decade or so, the historiography on Jane’s role in the horrible events of 1536 has been questioned to the point of being pulled apart. Dillard’s author’s note at the end of “The Raven’s Widow” proves that she is well abreast of the most recent scholarship on Jane Boleyn’s politics, personality, and her family background. She praises highly Julia Fox’s non-fiction biography “Jane Boleyn: The Infamous Lady Rochford” and both books see far more that was positive in Jane than negative. Whether or not you agree with them is largely irrelevant. It’s hard to believe that Jane was the monster portrayed in most other fictional accounts of her life or that her marriage to George Boleyn was the unending cavalcade of misery that we have been treated to in other accounts of their life together. By depicting Jane’s faults as manifest yet trivial everyday vices and restoring George Boleyn’s fiery evangelical faith to him, Dillard gives her readers a portrait of a couple and a marriage that is radically different to anything in Tudor-inspired fiction. She is a good enough author that even if, like me, you err more on the High Church side of things and thus find George’s Bible-thumping, tradition-eviscerating mini-sermons to be eye-rollingly sanctimonious, you still cheer him on, thanks in no small part to the passion Adrienne Dillard allows him.
One thing cannot be left unsaid in praise of “The Raven’s Widow” – its depiction of mental health. Recently, in the United Kingdom, a director remarked that it is no longer acceptable to simply portray Hamlet as stereotypically “mad”, because modern audiences have mercifully become so much more attune to the nuances of psychological ill-health. We know from surviving sources that the historical Jane Boleyn did suffer what appears to have been a nervous breakdown towards the end of her life. Dillard uses this to depict Jane as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and, truly, the way the author achieves this is masterful. The challenge of giving someone the symptoms of a disease centuries before it was understood, let alone named, is something Dillard rises to with aplomb. It dawns on you, very slowly, piece by piece, as Jane herself remarks that she “hovered somewhere near the border between madness and sanity.” Those are the only words she has for what’s happening to her mind, so Dillard does not allow self-analysis to go further for her character. For a modern audience, however, the breadcrumb trail of Jane’s mental anguish is harrowingly and perfectly delivered.
Jane’s PTSD forms the cornerstone of some of the novel’s strongest and most upsetting scenes – the framing device of her interrogations during the downfall of Catherine Howard in 1541 and 1542. Dillard excels in the minutiae of life and she narrows the focus of her narrative to Jane’s world as she might have seen it, particularly her private world - be it the misery of her interrogation or the details of her married life. There are times when Dillard’s shrinking of the scale leads to opportunities lost, mostly with larger, more politicised moments. These are especially noticeable when she has just pulled off a particularly strong or moving account of a scene which then seems to end prematurely. Once, after an achingly lovely description of a court ball at Greenwich – “lilies wrought of golden thread blossomed down the crimson silk carpeting the floor beneath our feet, and a painting of the world as seen through the eyes of the king’s artist, Hans Holbein, stretched across the ceiling above us” – the scene concludes abruptly as “the spell we had fallen under broken when a page burst in with the devastating news that the Emperor had sacked Rome and taken the Pope as hostage.”
This may admittedly be tactical good-sense from Dillard. Historically, Hapsburg military triumphs in Europe stalled Henry VIII’s quest to divorce his first wife and several other Tudor-era novels have already made English reactions to them a central plot point – Charles V’s triumph at the Battle of Pavia, for instance, is a memorable moment in Philippa Gregory’s “The Other Boleyn Girl”, while the Sack of Rome’s dramatic disruption of court festivities, as mentioned above, is a gorgeously-shot scene in the Oscar-winning biopic “Anne of the Thousand Days”. Dillard may shrewdly have decided to scale the focus to the personal, since the high politics or diplomacy have been covered elsewhere. That being said, occasionally this jars when set next to her adept handling of domestic moments. Early on while I was reading this novel, I was enjoying those scenes so much that I almost wished Dillard had written solely about Jane’s final months alive. However, as the novel progressed Jane’s earlier love affairs and friendships are so uplifting to read that it truly would have been a shame for Dillard to deprive her readers of them.
There are, quite simply, insufficient words to praise her characterisation of Anne Boleyn highly enough. I mentioned earlier that I know the author; a joke that was born from a conference we both attended was good-natured teasing about “Harry Potter” houses. If you’ll bear with me, for those who have read them: the best way to link the joke with an explanation of how “The Raven’s Widow” portrays Anne Boleyn is through the Hogwarts houses, of jokes and one thousand Internet memes. Anne Boleyn has not had a particularly kind press, with so many of her modern-day portraitists insisting that she was the worst kind of Slytherin, a remorselessly ambitious harpy with precious few, or no, redeeming characteristics. In retaliation, Anne’s modern defenders have often resorted to stripping her of any discernible “edge” to give us the epitome of a Hufflepuff, a loyal, dependable, unambitious, worthy-to-the-point-of-dull do-gooder. Dillard, however, has given us as an Anne who is a Ravenclaw to her very fingertips. In one superb scene in which Anne gazes on with incredulous boredom at Jane’s refusal to accept bleeding finger-tips as an acceptable price to pay for lute-playing excellence, Anne exhibits the frustration, even to the point of annoying, that comes when a naturally intelligent over-achiever encounters someone who quite simply does not care as much as they do or want to try quite so hard. Anne applies this to her toilette, wardrobe, her diet, her library, and her intellect. “The Raven’s Widow” Anne Boleyn is bossy, opinionated, extravagant, chic, possessed of a razor-sharp intellect, a flammable temper, and a great capacity for kindness. She is, by far and away, one of the most psychologically and historically believable Anne Boleyns I have read in Tudor fiction.
Peopled with well-drawn minor characters – Anne’s maid Margery Horsman, Jane’s siblings, a kind yet often thoughtless Mary Boleyn, and Thomas Wriothesley, with his eerily beautiful blue eyes – “The Raven’s Widow” centres on a troubled heroine. As with her sister-in-law Anne, Jane here is not a saint, but that doesn’t mean she was a horror. Confrontational and prone to jumping to conclusions, there are subtle hints throughout the book that she may be able to wilfully ignore what she does not want to see – I certainly thought there was one point where Jane decided to ignore the suggestion that the affectionate George may have had an affair or a one-night stand he subsequently regretted. Likewise, Jane lowers her eyes and misjudges the situation badly with Catherine Howard. However, like her musings at the start of the novel, they are not born from any sense of wickedness, nor do they result in any. Yes, Jane may have absolutely no idea about how the majority of the population actually lived under Henry VIII, but she is at least good-natured enough to occasionally help out in the gardens so she can appreciate what is an acceptable workload to request from her staff.
As with its heroine, any flaws in “The Raven’s Widow” are minor and tend to be thrown in to sharper relief only when set alongside its many strengths. Adrienne Dillard already has one historical novel under her belt, based on the life of Elizabeth I’s cousin Catherine Carey, and with “The Raven’s Widow” – by turns uplifting, dark, heart-warming, romantic, and chilling – she has established herself as a novelist of whom great things can be expected.