The first thing that struck me about The Queen of Subtleties was the distinctly modern tone. Not a glaring issue, it nonetheless just didn’t feel quite right. Of course all historical fiction novels are ‘translations’ into modern language – no one expects a Tudor novel to be written in Shakespeare’s English, or a Roman novel to be written in Latin – but there are certain unspoken rules, such as avoiding using idioms or slang that is characteristic of later eras. It’s not a big issue here, let me stress that; Dunn doesn’t have Henry VIII talking about electricity or Wolsey saying ‘innit’. But she does have Anne Boleyn telling Henry “you should stop giving me presents” and “it’s not you, it’s me”, and that just felt too modern. I agreed with the sentiments – historically this does seem to be how Anne felt about Henry initially – and I’m not saying I expect her to say things like; ‘forsooth, verily leave me be’, but turns of phrase like “it’s not you, it’s me” are too well known in modern relationship lingo to feel like they belong in a Tudor novel. This gets worse as the novel progresses: Anne Boleyn outright swears at Henry VIII; both Anne and Henry were religious and Henry in particular found lewd talk extremely distasteful, an opinion he was very vocal about; there is just no way that Anne would have spoken to Henry the way she does in this novel, and as a result this book is just not as believable as it could have been; all because of the language used being so anachronistically modern.
The same thing occurs with character names. In the author’s note Dunn plainly states that “diminutives of names have been used to avoid confusion (between, for example, the many Henrys and Francises, Marys and Elizabeths) or to avoid a dated version (Meg Shelton was in fact known as Madge, and Betsy Blount as Bessie).” However, I disagree with this particular authorial decision. “Meg”, with the current popularity in recent years of the name Megan, unfortunately comes off as modern-sounding, and “Betsy” is reminiscent of the 1940s so it feels a little strange that the author should have substituted it in when “Bessie” is so timeless. Half the time Madge Shelton was “Meg Shelston” and half the time she was “Meg Shelton” too. Furthermore, Thomas Wyatt becomes “Tommy”, William Brereton becomes “Billy”, Edward Fox is “Eddie”, Charles Brandon is “Charlie”, and Francis Weston becomes “Franky”, all of which sat very jarringly for me, and Henry VIII’s son, Henry Fitzroy, becomes “Fitz” without explanation. I understand that Dunn is trying to make matters less confusing, but there’s no scene where Henry Fitzroy is introduced by his full name and thereafter referred to as “Fitz”, he’s just “Fitz” from the get go, which I think is more confusing. It actually took more time to think who on earth she was talking about when she used these diminutives than had she used their real names, because I’m so used to these people’s real names. Anne Boleyn even refers to her parents as “Mum” and “Dad”. I get that Dunn wants to portray that the Boleyns have a close relationship, and I’m fairly confident that historically the real Boleyns were a close-knit family, but I’m equally sure that at this period children, especially noble children, did not call their parents “Mum” and “Dad” – it would have been “Mother” and “Father”, or perhaps “Mama” or “Ma” and “Papa” or “Pa” as diminutives. Again, I understand Dunn’s reasons for wanting to use diminutives, but one has to be careful when giving characters of the same name nicknames in historical fiction to distinguish them – the nicknames themselves cannot sound too anachronistic, and should be as much as possible in keeping with the era, even if that means not using diminutives but some sort of epithet gained on a past adventure or a descriptive of their appearance.
There’s a fair bit of historical inaccuracy aside from the anachronistic language. Dunn covers a few points in her author’s note; she reveals that she changed one of Henry’s jousting mottoes from “Declare je nos” to “No Comment”, that she has Elizabeth Howard in the Tower with Anne instead of her aunt Elizabeth Boleyn, that she has Henry Norris break the news of the king’s fall to Anne instead of her uncle the Duke of Norfolk, and she changes the name of Anne’s dog from Purkoy to “Pixie”. Again, props to Dunn for openly revealing this in her author’s note, but what isn’t made clear is why. No reason is given for why Dunn found it necessary to change Purkoy’s name to Pixie, and indeed it’s such an irrelevant point that it seems totally unnecessary to me to change it at all, to change any of those points; the “No Comment” one is the worst change though, because it sounds far too modern again, a phrase arising out of the media-laden 20th century. However, unfortunately there are other inaccuracies lurking in the book that Dunn doesn’t tell us about. The ship The Mary Boleyn and Anne's date of birth are under debate, but the big one was Lucy and Richard’s conversation about going to Nonsuch Palace in a chapter dated 1535. Nonsuch Palace didn’t even begin construction until 1538, and it was still incomplete in 1556. I know dates about buildings are difficult to remember, but this is an easy one because Henry VIII commissioned it in the aftermath of his third wife, Jane Seymour’s death, naming it thus since it was such a remarkable design there would be “none such” like it anywhere. In any case, we once again – for my third book in a row now, worse luck – have a case of two clicks on Wikipedia rectifying this little mistake. Tomatoes in ancient Egypt? Tea in the Trojan War? Nonsuch Palace miraculously appearing in 1535?
These things are annoying, admittedly, but not enough to totally drag this book down. I’ll grant Dunn hit upon a novel idea by interweaving Anne Boleyn’s story with that of Mrs Cornwallis, the king’s confectioner. Although Dunn obviously had to invent almost everything she writes about Lucy, I rather enjoyed the indulgence of lavishing my imagination all over those descriptions of marvellous fairytale sugar subtleties, and I did wonder how Lucy’s story would tie in. Lucy’s naivety was a little irritating and unbelievable, but I could deal with it as I wondered what would come of the intertwining of these two stories. What would come of Lucy and Anne’s tales; surely there would be some coming together or perhaps a clever thematic intertwining towards the end? Um… no. Lucy gets a crush on Mark Smeaton, something which is telegraphed from the very first chapter in Lucy’s perspective, and well, we all know how that turns out. But, surely, Lucy will learn something from all this, there’ll be some sort of growth of character or renewal, won’t there? Nope. We leave things with Lucy when her apprentice, Richard, tells her he’s getting out of all this nasty business at court and seeking a fresh start in London. Is Lucy going to leave behind her life as the king’s confectioner too, saddened over the loss of Mark and determined to “go out and live her own life” and settle down like she has been talking about with Mark for almost the entire book? No. She stays, and that’s it. It’s not a bad ending, but I expected more. It’s like an unfinished sentence, it just sort of hangs there.
The book is quite well-written, nothing to wow me but competent and readable enough, but the modern dialogue and use of diminutives mars it. Throw in a couple of accuracy bloopers, and historical alterations that are stated openly but seem unnecessary and don’t really make any sense, plus to finish it off a fictional story that doesn’t really go anywhere at the end… and it all feels a little odd. Not bad, but not quite right either. I was perhaps most disappointed in Dunn’s portrayal of Anne Boleyn. At first I was quite hopeful; Dunn gets much closer to the true Anne in the beginning of the book when she shows her initially refusing the king’s advances, not wanting to get involved, but slowly coming round as they find intellectual and conversational matches in each other. I was relieved not to be reading about another Anne such as Philippa Gregory and Hilary Mantel portray – from a slimy, ambitious family willing to pimp out their daughters for favours, pretty much from the start out to win the crown, relentless cruel and spiteful. Unfortunately this Anne descends into the Mean Girl Anne stereotype later on in the novel, characterised by her anachronistic foul mouth and absolutely shocking vitriolic behaviour – I actually understood why Henry is this book wanted to rid himself of her, though of course he does so in a despicably selfish, cold manner. The real Anne, it is known, did on rare occasion let her temper get the better of her, but it wasn’t a frequent event and she certainly wasn’t swearing like the trooper she is here. That doesn’t justify the frequent portrayals of her in recent years as a harpy from hell – for goodness’ sakes, in my family we’ve had blazing rows over who drank the last of the milk, we can hardly infer that Anne Boleyn was so poisonously nasty from a mere handful of reported arguments over the course of several years of her life. She doesn’t deserve the spiteful harridan stereotype she’s been given in many historical novels.
All in all, an odd book with some promising ideas and reasonably well-written, but brought down by strange authorial decisions, anachronistic language, and the second fictional plot that ultimately doesn’t lead anywhere.
4 out of 10