Such seeming reticence was to prove a most useful artifice. It never failed to surprise me what interesting and pertinent information could be gleaned by merely watching and listening.
While dutifully completing a chain stitch in crimson on a background of white satin, I followed one particular discussion with interest which revealed that there would be no court celebrations for Christmas this year. It was said that the King planned to leave for Eltham Palace within the next few days, taking the Queen and the Princess Mary. Plague had persisted throughout autumn, and there had come reports of cases being on the rise in London. It was well known that His Majesty would move from location to location constantly to diminish the risk of the great scourge entering his household. As a consequence, he intended to spend a quiet Christmas season at Eltham with just a few courtiers. While I was disappointed there would be no court festivities, the King’s decision would at least allow me to spend Christmas at Hever manor with my family, and that prospect brightened my mood considerably.
While her ladies stitched, attempting to muffle their amused whispers, Queen Katherine was in her chapel at prayer: a situation which I must confess to liking because it was at such times, while she was absent, that the most titillating discussions took place. Elizabeth Stafford, Lady Fitzwalter, was speculating on how well the Queen would cope with the appearance at court of young Henry Fitzroy, the newly ennobled Duke of Richmond. It was said that King Henry had brought Fitzroy to London from his childhood home in Yorkshire to have him at court throughout a good part of the year. It was obvious to all that the King adored his son, whose mother was Elizabeth Blount. Fitzroy was a handsome child, robust and fair of face, and Henry proudly intended to show him off at court, no matter his illegitimacy. This beauteous son of Henry’s, misbegot according to the Queen’s very vocal judgement, was naught but a slap in her face. For years, she had yearned to give her husband the King a lusty, healthy son. But her pregnancies had aborted, her children had died at birth, and she was mother only to her daughter Mary. Oh, she had most demonstrably expressed her displeasure at the King’s having bestowed upon his blond, six-year-old son the titles of Earl of Nottingham and Duke of Richmond and Somerset in an elaborate and beautiful ceremony this June past. But the Queen’s objections to the young Duke mattered not to His Majesty, who wouldn’t be deterred – and this only added a giggling frisson to our stealthy conversation.
It was inevitable, then, that the discussion would move to an even more engrossing topic - the obvious ageing of the Queen set against the enduring virility of the King - and how that contradiction would affect their relationship as time passed. All of the ladies stopped sewing and leaned forward to listen while Joan Vaux, Lady Guildford, archly reported catching His Majesty casting a most appreciative eye over Mistress Joan Champernowne the previous evening.
On this subject, though, we were not all in accord. Katherine’s most beloved lady in waiting, Maria de Salinas, disliked it intensely when anything was discussed which implied her lifelong friend and mistress was in danger of losing her hold over King Henry. She rose, gathered her sewing and rustled off in a huff, saying in her still-thick Spanish accent that she would look in on our mistress the Queen; the tattle continued nevertheless, conjecturing on who would be the next object of His Royal Highness’s attention since it was well known that his affair with my sister, Mary Boleyn, had ended some time ago.
As the gossip became evermore lively, peppered with names of the most beautiful ladies in and around court as conceivable mistresses to the King, it became my turn to shift about in my seat uneasily. Since that unusual day several weeks ago on the hunt field, I found that the mere mention of King Henry’s name caught my most rapt attention. How curious this was! I had heard the King’s name uttered thousands of times, and never had it struck me in just this way. I found myself breathlessly wanting to hear any scrap of information about him and clinging to it with a delicious satisfaction.
This preoccupation concerned me. Always had I been surrounded by men of power - handsome men, those possessed of great charm and gallantry towards ladies - yet I was not the kind of young woman who swooned and fawned over a man merely because of his wealth, position, or even his flirtatious attentions, as did so many of the simpering, vacuous beauties who populated the high places of England and France.
I had, in fact, spent some hours - all too many, were I to be completely honest - thinking about the unexpected interaction the King and I shared. At times I felt rather ridiculous, catching myself reliving the moment over and over. Nevertheless, my daydreams dwelt on that afternoon, whether I willed them or not. I wanted so desperately to know what he had felt. Had his breath caught in his throat for a moment, as mine had done? I could not determine it, no matter how many times I replayed the scene in my mind.
As the December days passed, I caught only infrequent glimpses of him as he swept through the palace chambers followed closely by his eager retinue, but there had been no proximity: no signal between us. Clearly the matter was closed, and my immature silliness exposed for what it was.
So why, then, did I continue to brood as I stitched absently? I chided myself sharply, admitting the futility of even another moment spent fantasizing about a romantic connection which, I was certain, was of my own imagining.
Hever
Christmastide 1525
I received permission from Queen Katherine to travel to Hever for the holiday season, and anticipated my visit most keenly as my chambermaid, Charity Dodd, and I packed my things. The trip home was well-timed. It would be good to escape awhile, for of late it seemed every time I turned around, Henry Percy’s mournful gaze was fixed on me.
As we packed, I thought over the previous months. My Lord Percy was the son and heir of the Earl of Northumberland, in attendance upon the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. When the Cardinal was occupied with matters of business, Lord Percy would visit the Queen’s chambers to partake in the pastimes there. One could see he enjoyed his dalliances amongst Her Majesty’s maidens. I knew he watched me closely, but furtively, during his visits, until at last he approached me hesitantly, and started a conversation. It was acknowledged that several other maids of honour were enthralled by his youthful and attractive looks and his ability to entertain: not least by making us laugh. I, for my part, enjoyed talking - no, flirting, quite frankly - with him. Some of my saucy precociousness was motivated by the other maids’ jealous glances, and soon Percy paid attention only to me. The looks of longing and lust he cast in my direction were evidence that the elegant young lord nurtured rather more serious intentions than mere whispers and hands held when no one was about.
The opportunity he sought presented itself one morning while his master was in conference with the King. There were few people in the Queen’s Presence Chamber, and all engaged in private discussion, reading, or other distractions. As we talked, Percy glanced about, then quickly pulled me around the corner into a small closet. There he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me with an earnest vehemence.
“Anne, sweet Anne, I must marry you! Will you have me?”
He scanned my face with such a desperate candour that I felt a sharp stab of emotion. What if Percy was to be my destiny? The proposed marriage with James Butler, my father’s preoccupation, had never been perfected - or brought to an approved fruition - by Cardinal Wolsey. And no mention of any other marriage prospect had been made to me since. Northumberland was a powerful and wealthy earldom, which would, no doubt, please Father. Perhaps a union with Percy would be acceptable, after all. I allowed Percy to kiss me again, and told him his proposal would be in my thoughts, and I would give him my answer soon.
During the days, then weeks which followed, I carefully considered my response to Lord Percy. All the while, even though I did not provide him with a clear affirmative answer, I did little to discourage his ardour. This was to prove a great mistake. At length, by virtue of the fact that I had not turned him away, Perc
y concluded I was in agreement to our betrothal. Still, I had little will to deflect his advances, yet I could not bring myself to commit to him by word or by deed. Shortly thereafter, the young and inexperienced Lord, in his overabundant enthusiasm, blurted to the Cardinal that he held me in great affection, and intended we be married. In fact, he completely overstepped his bounds by telling Wolsey we were betrothed, already having promised each to the other. This, I swear, was not true! Nevertheless, Wolsey, taking his responsibility of being an informant to the King very seriously, promptly reported the news to His Majesty, who was sore offended.
The upshot followed swiftly. After departing for his palace in Westminster, Wolsey angrily summoned Percy to the gallery at York Place where, in the vicinity of servants and nobles alike, the Cardinal chastised the boy most harshly. I was told he came nose to nose with Percy, spluttering - spittle flying, shouting that he marvelled not a little at Percy’s peevish folly, entangling himself with a foolish girl, a mere maid in the Queen’s court. He had continued to rant at Percy, reminding him he was heir to one of the richest earldoms in the realm. Raising his voice to screech, he demanded, “Would it not have been courteous to seek the opinion and consent of your esteemed father?” And yet more shrill: “Would it not have been meet to make such a request known to the King’s Grace, seeking his advice and approval, thereby allowing His Grace to provide an appropriate match in accordance with your estate and future title?”
Percy’s father, the Earl of Northumberland, was next called to London by Wolsey for the sole purpose of correcting his son’s impertinent behavior and berating him publicly. This the young Lord’s father did with zeal, to his eldest son’s great abashment. Upon hearing of this, I seethed with anger. What an exceptionally cruel man he must be! I could not imagine any parent wishing to see his child disgraced and humiliated, much less to be the perpetrator of such pain. I felt terrible for Percy, who later cried bitterly in my arms and told me that our precontract was broken.
As for me, I was infuriated with Wolsey! How dare he imply that I - or worse, my family’s lineage - was anything less than noble and that I was an unsuitable bride for the son of an earl? This coming from him of all people: the overbearing son of a common butcher and nothing more.
I was indignant when Wolsey told all and sundry I was not worthy to marry into the Percy clan as the next countess. However angry I was at Wolsey’s insult, though, the loss of Percy as a marriage prospect did not leave me broken-hearted. I was not keen on the prospect of banishment to the freezing, wind-swept wilds of Northumberland, nor of being affiliated in any way with a man as mean and uncaring as Percy’s father. And, most importantly, I was not in love with Percy although I knew he worshipped me. Oh, I was attracted to him, yes. His boyish face was expressive, his eyes so blue with a disarming appeal, and while it was undeniable that he had the lovely, lithe physique of youth, I felt no passion for him. He was just that - a boy. One who had never been away from England, and who had little knowledge of art, of music, of philosophy. He also possessed little insight into women and how to woo them. At first, I had felt sorry for him - for myself, too, in some ways - but after two months of his seemingly relentless infatuation I had grown weary at the sight of his moping, lovelorn face.
When I finally arrived home after a long, tedious journey, I tore off my heavy cloak as I raced through the front hallway and up the narrow staircase to see my mother. She was in her dressing chamber, and I rushed to hug her as tightly as I could.
“Mother, I am so delighted to see you! How wonderful it is to be home for Christmas with our family! It will be a Christmas just like those when I was a little girl at Hever.”
The Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, was not only my beloved mother, she was my best friend in the world. It had been terribly difficult being away from her for so long while at the French Court, and I was happy to be near her again.
I pulled at my traveling bonnet while chattering excitedly. “Has George arrived home yet? Is he bringing his wife? And what about Mary - will she and William be joining us for Christmas …?” Finally, I stopped, caught my breath, and Mother and I both burst into laughter at my prattle.
“Your brother arrived this morning, along with Jane. And Mary, William and baby Catherine will be here on Christmas Eve to stay with us for a week.” Mother’s lovely face brightened with an amused smile. “I am as excited as you are, Nan. We will be sure to have a lively time together!”
Oh, how I loved it when my mother called me by the affectionate name of Nan. Hearing it instantly made me feel loved and protected, as I did when a child.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were merry in our house that year, and indeed, they were filled with the warmth I remembered from Christmases of my girlhood. Catherine, my two-year-old niece, was a joy. She was beginning to talk, and her babble entertained us all. Mary was with child again, and she and her husband, William Carey, appeared content.
I thoroughly enjoyed my time with both my brother and sister. I cannot say the same for Jane, George’s wife, however. I found the former Jane Parker, now Lady Boleyn, to be - at its most charitable - prickly. Whenever a story was being told, it seemed to me she always had to interject a tale that would best it. Nor did I like the way I would catch her inspecting me when she thought I was unaware. Most annoying, the way she carried herself – her gestures and her clothing – all seemed to mimic mine. She seemed quite a jealous girl in my view. I was not at all sure how George was getting on with his marriage to Jane, but hesitated to bring up the subject, considering it rude.
If anyone deserved domestic contentment, though, it was surely my sister Mary. She was a lovely woman, honey blonde like my mother and more delicate looking than I. Nor was her constitution as strong as mine. Mary had always been somewhat naïve, and in my opinion, far too easily persuaded to enter into situations which were not advantageous for her. Her relationship with the King had been disturbing to observe. She had performed like his puppet, obediently dancing whenever he operated the strings. Knowing her as well as I did, I saw that there was no spark of life about her when she was in his company, yet she always managed to keep a smile on her face. I had heard the rumours, the continuous speculation that Catherine was the King’s child, and I did not hesitate to ask Mary directly when she was first pregnant if it were true. She confided in me that she knew the child was not Henry’s, but instead her husband William’s. Furthermore, she said the King knew and accepted this as well. She also made it quite clear to me that even though she had been favoured, given gifts, and treated well and kindly by His Majesty the King, she had never loved him.
Of this, I was certain.
Throughout the days following Christmas, my mother and I spent much time together. In the evenings after supper, we gathered in the cosy parlour chamber in front of a crackling and popping hearthfire. Often George would join us, whereupon the conversation and gossip became evermore lively and infused with laughter. On occasion, my father sat with us, and I took the opportunity to teach them several new card games I had learned at court. During the day, when the weather permitted, Mother and I walked in the gardens to gather the few herbs not yet withered by frost. It was so good to engage with the person who knew me better than anyone else. She offered sympathy for the thwarted marriage plans with Lord Percy, but I confided in her that I didn’t mind: instead I sought a match made for love - for passion - and he had not been the one.
Mother cast me a look of both admiration and pity. “Oh, how I would wish that for you as well, my girl. But I am your mother, and I am obliged to discourage you from the notion. You are twenty-four years old, Anne, and the truth is many men are seeking brides who are much younger. We both well know that nobly-born women from households of means have little say in selecting husbands. It is strictly a matter of creating lineal and financial arrangements. Anyway, I’m confident that your father will yet find you a desirable match.”
I sighed
and thought of my father. Unquestionably, he was highly intelligent. Widely recognized as a consummate negotiator, tactician, and a courtier’s courtier; a warm and caring man he certainly was not. Based upon my mother’s comments, I was sure the match would be beneficial for him and the family Bullen, first and foremost.
“I know that, of course, Mother, but what if the arrangement just chanced to be one of love and advantage both?”
“Well then, Anne, you would be a most happy woman, would you not?” she said and put her arm around my shoulders as we crossed the bridge spanning the moat and walked through the courtyard back to the house.
One late afternoon just before the New Year, my mother called me to her chamber. The twilight reflected a deep indigo on the glass panes of the windows: the candles and warmth radiating from the large fireplace making me feel safe and content as I perched on the edge of her bed.
“Nan, I have something for you,” Mother said, handing me a big and most beautifully presented parcel wrapped in gorgeous crimson and gold Florentine paper. “These items were ordered some time ago for you, my darling. I had intended to save them to give you upon your betrothal, but I have changed my mind. I want you to have them now.”
My eyes suddenly brimmed with tears so profuse that I had to blink fiercely to see as I unwrapped the gift. There was a large package which contained fabric … oh, such beautiful fabric! The softest velvet, it was the unusual colour of new moss in the springtime - green with a golden sheen to it. Beneath that, a bolt of satin of a deep wine colour, like the richest claret. What an enticing gown this would make! The smaller package I opened with bated breath to discover a red leather box covered in Italian goldleaf scrollwork. Slowly I lifted the lid and froze. Nestled on a bed of black satin was a magnificent collar of large, radiant pearls. From this circlet hung a rosy gold ‘B’, beautifully crafted. And dangling from the lower loop of the ‘B’ were three pear-shaped pearls, striking for their size and great lustre. As if that were not enough, attached to the circlet was a longer strand of equally captivating pearls, meant to be draped over my shoulders and tucked into a bodice. I could not believe what I held.
Struck With the Dart of Love Page 2
