Brief Gaudy Hour

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  So Simonette had been right.

  Reading her first royal love letter, Anne felt a warm sense of power rising in her. “The King of England wants me for his mistress,” she told herself softly, taking the flowers into her confidence and flouncing a little to the gaudy butterflies. And then, drawing her well-marked brows together, she crumpled the parchment in her hand. “How I hate him!” she said out loud.

  She said it, perhaps, to reassure herself. Because the fierceness of her antagonism to Henry and his Cardinal had become a symbol of her loyalty to Percy. But even then she must have been aware of a difference in the quality of her resentment towards the two of them. For the Cardinal, who was older and looked at her coldly, hatred was unrelieved, implacable, whereas with Henry Tudor, the man of hot desires, all sorts of possibilities crept in. Shared tastes, mutual sources of enjoyment, a certain amount of liking—and fear that she would not always be able to hate him wholly.

  She must walk warily.

  In the meantime, there was the letter to be answered. But as she turned to re-enter the house, she saw Thomas Wyatt coming through the garden towards her. He must have ridden over from Allington. He looked freshly shaven, modish, eager. Of course, Jocunda had been right. Now that neither James Butler nor Harry Percy claimed her, there would be other men.

  “I had thought to find you surrounded by half the swains of Kent,” he said, holding both her hands and looking at her with warm brown eyes. He stood close beside her in the sunlight and told her that she was more bewitching than ever, and that sickness had but etherealized her beauty. And, whether he paid her compliments or not, it was altogether good to have him.

  Instinctively, she transferred the King’s letter to her left hand and hid it in the fullness of her sleeve. “Come and tell me all the latest gossip from Court,” she coaxed, drawing him beyond range of an excited household’s prying to their favourite seat among the yew alleys. For although she had fiercely forsworn the old false life, she found herself, after so much seclusion, avid to hear the doings of the fashionable world.

  Wyatt rejoiced at her eagerness, recognizing it as a sign of returning health. “The thing that everyone talks of is still this ‘secret matter’ of the King’s remarrying for the sake of the succession,” he told her. “But it seems the Pope has no heart to offend Spain.”

  “Why must his Grace make such a mystery of it? The Queen herself has known for months,” said Anne.

  “Before you left Court?”

  “Yes. He came to her room one morning as soon as we had finished dressing her, and they were closeted there talking for an hour or more. They say he was trying to persuade her that his conscience had been afflicted for years, and that their having no living sons was a judgment on him for taking his deceased brother’s wife. I know that he came out looking distressed and sheepish, and that he left her in floods of tears. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. But she is far too obstinate to give him his freedom by admitting that her marriage with Prince Arthur was really consummated.”

  “To know her is to trust her word. There never was a woman more honest,” said Wyatt thoughtfully. “But life would probably be much pleasanter for her if she would. And for all of us. We all know that his Grace would see her honourably provided for.”

  “But it would mean giving up being Queen of England.”

  “She is probably standing out more for her daughter’s legitimacy. There is such tender love between them.”

  “And even though the King is trying to get his freedom, she seems to love him, too,” mused Anne, guiltily aware of Henry’s letter hot in her hand.

  “Is that so marvellous?” said Wyatt. “After all, they have lived together in amity for eighteen years.”

  Anne dismissed the matter with a shrug. She did not like the Queen. Katherine of Aragon always tried to be fair to her, but could scarcely be expected to show a Boleyn favour. And a young French queen would probably be much more amusing to work for. “How is my brother?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Plunging more recklessly than ever into every sport and mummery about the Palace,” smiled Wyatt, reminiscently. “To make up for his home life, no doubt.”

  Anne suddenly wanted to be there, too, to laugh with George and relieve the hurt at her heart in a spate of bitter brilliance. To stand with him in mutual defence against the world, warmed by the balm of his ready understanding. “I suppose his Jane has nurtured all manner of rumours about me?” she enquired.

  “At least time gives the lie to some of them! I believe that George abjures her bed because he caught her telling one of the Grey girls you were with child by Harry Percy. She has a poisonous tongue.”

  “And a lively imagination,” added Anne lightly. Not to a soul would she ever speak of that ecstatic night now, since her lover had been driven to deny her.

  “She must be the only one of us who has enjoyed your absence,” said Wyatt, secretly reassured. “She was always jealous of you, Nan. And particularly of her husband’s unshakable affection for you.”

  He drew her closer and because Anne was not yet wholly strong, she allowed herself the cousinly comfort of leaning against his shoulder. “And what about you, Thomas? What have you been doing all these months?”

  “I have been to France on a mission for the King. I have written some more doggerel. And now I have come to Allington to set my affairs in order. And to see you,” he told her. “George tells me that your father is no longer pressing the Ormonde suit, and now that you are free again—”

  “Never again free in heart, Thomas.”

  He took possession of the hand lying idly in her lap. “I know how you have suffered. But it will pass with the years, dear Nan,” he said gently. “And who should know better than I how to comfort you?”

  “A man needs more than that.”

  “A semblance of marriage with you would mean more to me than the undesired reality with any other woman. I have waited so long, Nan.”

  “And you still wear my trinket!” she sighed, espying about his neck a link or two of the chain he had pilfered from her to annoy Percy. “You are very dear and faithful, Thomas.”

  “I would give my life for you, Nan.”

  She drew back a little, her mind already back with Percy. “I have heard men say that before,” she murmured forlornly.

  The hot, aromatic scent of sun-drenched yew and the drowsy hum of bees were like a warm mantle about them. Wyatt got up and moved a pace or two away lest her nearness should conquer common sense. “It is true that I shall love you till I die, Nan; but I am a man and no lap dog, and Allington must pass to my sons,” he managed to tell her.

  Anne made an involuntary little gesture of dissent. Somehow she had never even imagined him married to anyone but herself.

  But he stood there picking at the stiff, shiny sprigs of shrub. “We are no longer irresponsible children, sweet,” he said gravely. “The golden days when we sucked life for our own pleasure are passed and such obligations must be planned for. But I beg you to consider well before, of necessity, I ask some other woman to be mistress of Allington. For both our sakes, Nan. For, although you are not in love with me, you might do so much worse than take me.”

  “Oh, mon cher ami, so much, much worse!” she cried, touched to the heart by the wryness of his smile. “But now I dare not.”

  “Dare not?” he repeated. “But your father has never shown himself averse to me.”

  “It is not that,” Anne hastened to assure him, drawing the King’s letter from her sleeve and deliberately letting it roll across her lap.

  “So it is true,” he muttered, whitening to the lips at sight of the imposing seal.

  “Did Jane omit to say that of me?” she asked bitterly.

  “A year ago I grieved because it was on all men’s tongues,” he admitted with a stricken look. “But then the King was angry about Pe
rcy, and you were dismissed from Court. And so the rumour died.”

  “Well, now it has come to life again,” said Anne, staring straight before her.

  Suddenly she found herself swept into Thomas Wyatt’s desperate arms. He was crushing her protectively, while the King’s letter rolled to their feet. “Oh, Nan, my beautiful, my incomparable, don’t give in to him! Do always as your own heart dictates!” he was imploring. “Whether you take me or another. Were you my sister, I would say the same thing. I have been so close to him at Court.”

  “But I thought you were devoted to him?” argued Anne, staring into the beauty of his anxious eyes.

  “Yes, yes. There are things about him—his music and ability and a good comradeship which charms men’s affections. But he has changed so much of late, since this accursed divorce business.”

  Anne knew that Wyatt was thinking only of her. Because he was so precious in the losing she released herself very gently. “He can order me to come to Court,” she pointed out, stooping to retrieve her letter.

  “If he does you must remember what happened—”

  “To my sister? Yes, I will remember. But you must see, Thomas, that it would mean death to marry me now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jocunda considered that Thomas had behaved beautifully. And Anne, ostensibly reading poetry in the long gallery, was thinking how much she would hate to see some stranger mistress of Allington. “All my life,” she thought, turning a scarce-read page, “I seem to have been on the point of marrying Thomas.” And even now, for his sweet constancy, she might have married him, had it not been for Henry Tudor.

  But life had never withheld anything from Henry Tudor. And no one else’s desires had ever mattered in comparison with his own. And consequently Anne’s silence only whetted his appetite. Far from being displeased, he was intrigued by her having the courage to commit such an enormity. It showed that she was not easy game, and needed to be wooed. Well, he liked his women that way. Spirited, like his horses. It provided better sport, breaking them in.

  Being no backward lover, he came in person. It made him feel adventurous and young. There were a dozen good reasons why he might choose to ride to Hever any fine morning to see his household Comptroller, without setting people talking. Sir Thomas Boleyn had always been accommodating, and this time Henry caught Anne unawares.

  She did not hear him pull aside the door arras. She looked up from her book and saw him standing there, and knew by the lustful look in his eyes that he must have been watching her for some minutes. Like a stoat before it strikes, she thought.

  Her heart missed a beat as she rose. She laid aside the leather-bound poems to curtsy. She had not meant to be caught like this, with not so much as a servant about; but she would be no silly, fascinated rabbit for his kill.

  She was so graceful in every movement, and he so susceptible and self-assured.

  “What are you reading this sunny forenoon, Mistress Anne?” he asked, in that mellow voice of his.

  His air of gallantry made her nervous. Because she was not too sure of controlling her own voice, she held out the book to him respectfully. He came and took it from her, turning over the fine, illuminated pages with appreciative fingers. Seeing the title, his sandy brows shot up in surprised amusement. “‘Troilus and Criseyde’? Strong meat for a virgin, isn’t it?”

  “I like it,” said Anne.

  “So do I,” he chuckled. “Do you know those words at the end of this lovely verse?

  ‘—my royal estate here I resign

  Into her hand, and with full humble cheer

  Become her man, as to my lady dear’?”

  With the closed book in his hands and his quizzing, libidinous eyes on her face, he quoted them softly. Too softly.

  Furious with herself for providing the trap, Anne felt herself flushing like any simpering chamber wench. But she would not let him discompose her. “Sir Thomas More considers them fine poetry,” she said, holding her dark head proudly.

  “He is right. And I should like to set them to music and hear you sing them.” Responding at once to the dignity of her breeding, he ceased to ogle her. He laid aside the book and sat down on a curved music stool beside her. “It is high time we had you back at Court, adding your beauty and accomplishments to your brother’s beguiling levity,” he invited.

  Anne’s lips set themselves into a rigid line. “With so many matters of real import to think upon, your Grace could scarcely be aware that I have been grievously sick,” she said frigidly.

  “Could I not?” he chaffed. “Have I not those about me who are nearest to you in blood? And do you suppose that I have never enquired for your health?”

  His reproachful sincerity made her feel a clumsy ingrate. “Your Majesty is magnanimous,” she murmured.

  “Not magnanimous, and you know it,” he contradicted brusquely. “I have missed you, Nan.”

  She looked up in genuine surprise. “Yet you dismissed me.” She would have added “without good reason” had she dared.

  “Was it not best for a time?”

  His words seemed to imply some interrupted understanding between them, which Anne resented. But she knew that it had been best. Even had she not been ill, she could not have lived at Court away from the kindness of Jocunda, through the desolation of these past months.

  “And now you will come back,” Henry was saying pleasantly. He rose and wandered to an open window, admiring an enchanting vista of trees and lawns. His words were less a question than a command.

  Anne rose meekly, since she could not sit while he stood. “I am still not strong,” she prevaricated stubbornly.

  He swung round with a flurry of jewelled velvet. Masterfully, standing close before her, he put out a hand and lifted her small, pointed chin the better to examine her face. “Still resentful, you mean, my jade!” he corrected her, with a short, brutal laugh. “What did you expect me to do? Stand aside and let any hot-blooded young redhead fondle you first, once I had marked you for my own?”

  Agonizingly, his words brought it all back. The silks and scents, the sunny lawn, young Mary Tudor’s voice, the warm strength of her lover’s arms. Anne felt like a half-broken filly, kicking furiously against a master who knows every trick of the animal he handles. Nothing, nothing would make her obey him. “Since for no fault the Queen gave me my congé—” she began.

  But he only grinned. “You need bear no resentment against my wife. I make no doubt she was glad to see the back of you, but it was I who told her to send you packing.”

  Anne’s dark eyes glared back hatingly into his amused light ones. She knew that he was enjoying himself immensely. “Well, what do you say now, my beauty?” he asked more gently, bending to taste her parted lips with an experimental kiss.

  “That her Grace may not want me back,” argued Anne, still forcing herself to defiance although her limbs were as water.

  “She may not want you, but she shall send for you. And soon.”

  Anne’s breath was coming short and fast. It was not fair, being held so close to him. Between anger and desperation, she felt a sob catch painfully in her throat. “I still need my stepmother,” she protested faintly.

  Seeing her genuinely distressed, Henry let her go. He stood for awhile by her music table, fingering the fine lute and rebec she had brought from France. And Anne, struggling in a welter of conflicting emotions, stood staring at his broad shoulders and the back of his ruddy, close-cropped head. She waited with her left hand hidden in her sleeve and her right hand pressed to her slender neck, as she so often did in moments of stress. But for once, it seemed he was not really concerned with the rare instruments he handled, and by the time he turned back to her all trace of mockery and mastery was gone. “Listen, Nan,” he said, his voice husky with earnestness. “I care not how or with whom you come, so be it you come. You have my leave to bring Lady Boleyn an’
you will. I am a lonely man these days, and have need of you.”

  They stood measuring each other like two protagonists about to enter the ring, and presently the fine, high moulding of Anne’s cheeks softened to a smile. She knew that after all she had won the first round and could afford to be generous. Tactfully, she tried to hide her triumph. “Would you then have me come back as before—as the Queen’s maid-of-honour?” she asked.

  “I would sooner it were as the King’s,” grinned Henry ruefully.

  But Anne shook her head. “That would be dishonour,” she said primly.

  He stood looking at her, as if determining something within himself. “You speak truth. You are as yet too thin and pale,” he conceded. “I will tell Lady Boleyn to cherish you here awhile and bring you when you are ready to come.”

  “You are generous, sir,” she admitted, curtsying to the floor. “I realize that your Grace could command me.”

  He tweaked her cheek kindly as she rose. “And what should I gain by it, my pretty Nan? A frown from those black eyes of yours, a sulky answer from lips made for passion?” He made no further attempt to touch her. “Believe me, I would rather take away from this pleasant room the recollection of one spontaneous laugh, your glance enjoined with mine. Of one verse read, so you have in some measure enjoyed my company. And so I will stalk you patiently,” he promised, moving towards the door, “in order to catch you the more securely.”

  But there was that spark of coquetry in Anne which would not suffer her to leave well alone. “Are you so sure that you will catch me?” she asked, challenging him with that devastating sideways glance from beneath her lowered lashes.

  He stood, enslaved, with the arras already lifted in his hand. He made a gorgeous figure in the morning sunlight. He was King of England and, of all the lovely women who preened themselves at his approach, he had sought her out.

  But it was neither his gorgeousness nor the signal honour shown her which moved Anne. It was something about the man himself. A warmth and vitality that made her wonder why so short a time ago, as an inexperienced girl, she had thought him middle-aged. Something which, in spite of her angry resentment, made her think how exciting it might be to be loved by him, a momentary thought for which she held herself in swift contempt.