“As I do, my lady,” agreed Henry, stroking Governatore’s neck, sleek with sweat. “They are God’s glorious creatures, are they not? Your mare is quite lovely and held her own in a field of bigger geldings. Would you be interested in trying one of my new Barbary hunters on our next outing?”
I gave him my warmest smile, clearly showing him my pleasure at the invitation both to ride one of his prized horses and the implication that there would, indeed, be other outings.
“Oh, I would enjoy that greatly, Your Majesty.”
We continued our ride back to the palace, chatting and laughing amiably all the way.
Greenwich
June 1526
During the remainder of spring and the beginning of summer, I rode with the King’s hunt quite often. Predominantly we stayed at Greenwich and hunted the woods and open fields which surrounded the palace. As we rode alone together one afternoon, returning from the chase, the King leaned in towards me and said quietly, “Mistress Anne, I would be greatly honoured if you would consider joining me this evening for supper in my privy chamber.”
My mind raced, but I did not hesitate before saying “Your Grace, the honour would indeed be mine. I will look forward to it.”
“I shall see you this evening, then.” He smiled with obvious pleasure, then, nodding a courteous farewell, rode off to converse with my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.
I found myself to be unsettled while preparing for the evening ahead. I was eager because I very much wanted to spend time with the King by myself - yet I could not shake a vexing feeling of guilt as I dressed. I would not be in service of the Queen this evening, of course, but still, I was one of her maids of honour. And I planned to have a private supper with her husband. I concentrated instead on my toilette and did my best to put the contradictory nature of the coming evening from my thoughts. I wondered what kind of gossip might result from my dining with the King, and if Queen Katherine would hear of it.
Nevertheless, I took particular care with my appearance, and selected a gown of deep violet silk, with sleeves trimmed in grey velvet. My pearl necklace, with its golden B, looked beautiful against the unusual colour of my gown. Charity had loosely woven a violet satin riband through my hair, which was topped by a grey velvet and pearl hood. I added a ring of silver set with an aquamarine to the first finger of my right hand.
The Lord Chamberlain led me through the presence chamber filled with courtiers eating supper. Each and every eye followed me closely as we proceeded to the King’s privy chamber, where my arrival was announced before entering.
As I stepped over the threshold, I looked about in awe. His chamber was fantastic in its elegance, with tapestries and arras of a perfect quality covering the walls. The room was bathed in the amber glow of torch and candlelight. The table had been set with a pristine white damask cloth, and upon it was silver plate, shining in the warm light. But most radiant of all was Henry’s expression as he watched me enter. I dropped into a deep curtsey, and he rose from his chair and came to my side to guide me to the seat next to him at the table. Quietly, he said to the Lord Chamberlain, “Thank you, Your Grace. You are dismissed for the evening. I will summon you if needed.”
The only ones remaining in the chamber in addition to Henry and I were two discreet Esquires of the Body, who stood guard by the door and pointedly did not look our way.
“I am so very pleased that you agreed to join me this evening, Mistress Anne,” Henry said as he poured me a goblet of wine. “I have wanted to share a private conversation with you for some time.”
“I feel likewise, Your Majesty.”
I sipped my wine, and closely studied him in a more deliberate manner than I had yet the opportunity to do. He was gorgeously clothed in a doublet of deep tawny velvet with gold brocade sleeves and wore several rings of gold set with diamonds and emeralds. Yet it was his countenance which was truly arresting. Although his masculinity was undeniable, his face had an ethereal beauty about it. His eyes were golden brown; clear, intelligent, and were capable of a keen gaze. He possessed a straight, strong nose with a defined jaw and strong chin. His skin was ruddy from so much time spent outdoors and his hair, cropped short under a black velvet cap, was the colour of russet leaves in autumn. It was his mouth, however, which demanded my attention. It was so expressive, the lips so sensual, that I could not drag my eyes from them.
Perhaps it was as well, given my blatant fascination, that I was startled by a knock at the door. Into the chamber came ushers bearing platters piled with roasted capon; serving vessels filled with poached mullet, and brimming with chestnut purée. After we had been served Henry asked, between bites, “So, Mademoiselle, tell me something about the time you spent in Paris at François’ court. Did you find it a pleasant experience?”
“I did indeed, Your Majesty,” I replied. “By the time I arrived in Paris from the Habsburg Court, I had long overcome my homesickness and found interest in everything which took place around me. I was accorded excellent tutors, and as a result, my French became quite fluent: so much so that I was honoured to have been asked to be a translator for your sister, the Princess Mary while she was being prepared to wed King Louis XII and become Queen of France. Subsequently, when King Louis died, and she was widowed, I remained in her service. Then, of course, Her Royal Highness decided to marry Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. I was no longer required as her maid, and when she and her new husband departed to return to England, I was requested to remain in France in the service of the new Queen, Claude, wife of King François I.”
Too late I realized that I had stupidly stumbled upon an old, but sensitive subject. Hesitantly I added, “My apologies, Your Grace. I know your sister’s decision to marry Brandon was without your consent, and I heard you were most grievously offended. I was foolish to mention it. I do hope you will forgive my rude error.”
Although I’d seen his face briefly cloud over at my mention of Mary and Brandon’s elopement, he graciously replied, “All is well, Mistress. They have been forgiven, and it is in the past.”
It came, then, as a blessed relief that his pursuit of our conversation never faltered. In fact, at his encouragement I continued my narrative, doing far more talking than eating while the King listened intently.
“After your sister and her new husband sailed for Dover, Your Grace, I commenced my duties in the newly formed court of Queen Claude. She was so kind - such a dear soul - I cared for her greatly. I came to love the countryside surrounding the Château Royal of Blois in the Loire Valley, where Claude was most often in residence. It was at Blois that I learned to dance, and to play the lute passably well. I was often called upon to be an interpreter when English envoys were presented to the Queen. And I was selected as one of the filles d’honneurs who would be introduced, along with Claude’s ladies-in-waiting, at the Field of Cloth of Gold. I clearly recall that what thrilled me most about attending that extraordinary event was being one of the desmoiselles selected to greet you …”
I looked at him purposely, then added with a flippant grin, “… though you probably do not remember me, Your Grace. Am I not correct in my assumption?”
By his slightly embarrassed look I could see he harboured no recall of a simple nineteen-year-old English girl amidst such magnificence, and in the company of stunningly beautiful Frenchwomen, but he did not respond directly to my most forward challenge.
“And what did you then do, Mademoiselle, following the Field of Gold?” he queried.
“When we returned to Paris, my acquaintance with Marguerite d’Alençon - François’s sister - grew, and she befriended me which honoured me immensely. Madame Marguerite seemed, to me, as thoughtful and intelligent as François was impulsive and capricious. I learned so much from her, too.”
At my description of François, Henry chuckled with amusement. “And what was that, primarily?” he asked as he selected strawberries from a silver bowl.
“It was she who shared with me writings of the great humanists. She was a scholar, and discussed with me readings from the Greek philosophers and religious evangelicals like Jacques Lefévre d’Ètaples.”
Henry’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he leaned back in his chair in thoughtful surprise. There had obviously been a point to his courteous inquisition. “So then, Mademoiselle, apparently you are as well read as you are skilled at sport. My esteem for you grows every time we encounter one another. Pray, tell me: would you consider yourself a Christian humanist?”
“I would, Your Grace. Though I have much to read and learn, I am intrigued by the humanist approach to some of the theological views debated at the French court. I dare say it is a radical way of thinking, but the tenets expressed by Lefévre and the court poet Clement Marot have made an indelible mark on the way I view religion. I have also read some of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, and find it quite interesting, albeit, in parts, perplexing.”
Just then one of the esquires discreetly approached the King to tell him that Cardinal Wolsey wished to see him. Henry seemed annoyed, and waved him away, indicating that Wolsey should return in the morning. A moment or two later, the esquire was back, saying the Cardinal insisted that it was an urgent matter which could not possibly wait. Henry paused, and I saw the muscles along the side of his jaw tighten in irritation. He looked at me and said, “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. May I take your leave for a few moments while I attend to some - apparently - pressing business?”
“Why, of course, Your Grace,” I said, feeling quite foolish that the King thought he needed to ask my permission to handle a matter of state, but appreciating his sarcastic edge nonetheless.
Into the chamber trundled Cardinal Wolsey, still projecting a pronounced air of self-importance despite Henry’s initial rebuff. His gaze idly cast across the table before finally alighting on me. Clearly it took him a moment to become aware of who I was. He blinked. His astonishment at finding me supping with the King was plain to see, but he attempted to conceal his surprise, at least from the King. Not without some difficulty caused by his exceedingly large girth, he bent to speak close to the King’s ear while handing him a document. As Henry perused the letter, the Cardinal seized the opportunity to regard me openly: peering bird-like down his long, beaked nose, nostrils flaring delicately as if having detected an unpleasant smell and thus clearly indicating a distaste for what he had observed. With a few more whispered words to the King, he retrieved the document, bowed to the extent he was able and retreated with a smug look of satisfaction.
My opinion of the great Cardinal Wolsey had never been a good one. At that moment, I decided him to be insufferable.
As soon as Wolsey left the room, the King leaned across the table toward me. “Mademoiselle Anne, I depart in a week’s time on Summer Progress for the next two months. A few of my trusted courtiers and I, along with the Queen, will travel northward through small towns and villages, visiting local townsfolk and staying at the manor homes of nobles for the remainder of the summer. I am looking forward to enjoying the beautiful hunting grounds in those counties; at least the sport they afford helps relieve the tiring routine of giving audience to every merchant, landowner, and burgher in each town north and wide of London. Exhausting as it may be, though, it is necessary. Those subjects would never see their King were we not to go to them.”
He looked keenly at me then, narrowing his eyes in contemplation, and in the shifting candlelight, I once again was flooded with the strange sensation of knowing him in a way that was altogether impossible considering the brief amount of time we had spent together. I wondered if he was experiencing that same uncanny feeling.
“I will miss seeing you during my time away,” he said simply.
“And I you, Your Grace.”
“If…?” He hesitated, then continued. “If I were to send you a message while away, would you feel inclined to reply?”
“How could I ignore a missive from Your Majesty, my King?” I asked with frankness.
“But, Mademoiselle - that would not be the intent with which I would write,” he insisted, and I perceived in him the young, hopeful and surprisingly vulnerable boy. “You know that, do you not?” he asked, so quietly I had to strain to hear the words. “What I wish to know is whether you would reply, of your own accord, because you wanted to?”
We regarded each other for what seemed like an aeon.
Finally came my answer. “Indeed, I believe I would, Your Grace.”
Slowly a smile spread across his features, and I saw in that smile both delight and relief. Then it seemed as if he had unexpectedly remembered something. Affecting an air of royal command, he said, “Oh! - And Mademoiselle - was I mistaken earlier today, or did I see a silver pomander worn openly about the waist of Sir Thomas Wyatt? A pomander which, I suspected, had at one time belonged to you? It seemed as if it must have been yours, for it had ‘AB’ engraved plainly upon it.”
I flushed and replied awkwardly, “Yes, Your Grace, it was in fact mine. Sir Thomas compelled me to give it to him, avowing that he was unable to write unless he could have it and breathe in the scent of lavender. Truly, it had no other meaning.”
“Is that so?” He looked at me sharply. “Well then, that being the case, I feel it only fair you should offer me a token of equal sincerity. Would you not agree?”
Caught off guard yet again, I could only nod acquiescence, and cover my confusion with a bow of the head.
“Your ring will do nicely,” he pressed. “When I weary of progress: of trailing from town to town, visiting my subjects and listening to their many complaints and requests, it will inspire and refresh me by reminding me of this special evening which we have shared.”
What else could I have done? I slipped the silver and aquamarine ring from my finger and handed it to him. He promptly placed it on his left little finger, where it flashed as the light caught its facets. He stood and took both my hands as I rose from my chair.
“Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.” His mouth curved into a sweet smile which could only be interpreted as intimate. “Et dormez-bien.” I curtseyed, eyes downcast, then left his chamber.
Hever
Summer 1526
I accompanied my father on his return to Hever in July. He would customarily spend at least a month or two at home in the summer, ensuring all was well with the estate, taking care of matters of business pertaining to the property and staff, and overseeing the harvest. Only George remained with the King, as part of the small retinue who would accompany the King and Queen on progress.
I truly loved being in the country in the summertime. Being at home allowed me to live more slowly and deliberately than the frenetic pace kept at court. I was glad, also, of the chance to remove myself from the gossip I knew had resulted as word of my private supper with the King found its way from mouth to ear.
One oppressively hot afternoon, while walking with my father in the gardens, we sat on a stone bench in the shade to cool off. He turned to face me. “Anne, tell me, please - what is the nature of your relationship with the King?”
His expression was tightly controlled: he might equally have been a merchant negotiating the price of wool as a father asking his daughter about a possible suitor. I was not surprised he questioned me, having probably heard rumour of the evening I spent with the King, even though I had never even hinted at it. And of course, he would be acutely interested. This I knew, especially after observing Father’s reaction to the success he enjoyed as a result of the affair between the King and my sister Mary. It was, after all, in no small part due to Mary that my father was now Viscount Rochford.
But I felt obstinate and waved away his inquiry. “Why does it concern you, Father? There is nothing to tell. Nothing at all, other than a few meaningless flirtations the King and I have shared.”
“Really, Anne? And do not gesture at me so insolently, Daughter. I hear quite to the c
ontrary. I have my sources, as you are more than well aware, and am informed, most reliably, that the King entertained you to a private supper before he left on progress. His Majesty would not consider such a dalliance were he not thoroughly captivated by his guest: I know him well, and of this I am certain. Plus, Anne, I have seen the way he looks at you.You cannot pretend with me – I do not make my living as a courtier by being oblivious to what goes on around me.”
I hesitated a moment then replied with some reticence, “Then you will also see that it is clearly a courtly romance and nothing more.”
He raised a derisive eyebrow. “And why do you assume it to be nothing more?”
“Because that is all I intend it to be, Father!” I retorted, setting my jaw and defiantly returning his steady gaze.
“You are an intelligent girl, my Anne, but that does not necessarily make you a wise one,” he countered, equally sharply. “I will remind you that it is your responsibility to the Boleyn family to refrain from jeopardizing our prosperity and standing in the peerage. And since I have raised you, nurtured you, and educated you, you will accord me the respect I deserve and fulfil that responsibility. Is the point understood?”
“That it is, Father. But, as we are both well aware, there is simply nothing else to be done but to graciously respond to his gallantries. The King already has a wife and Queen. And as for matters of the heart – mine will be decided by me.”
I rose from the bench and purposefully walked the gravel path back into the manor house.
The remainder of the summer passed languidly. We were most fortunate not to have experienced any sign of the plague or the sweat within miles of Hever. As the late summer waned, I looked forward to early autumn, which was my favourite season of the year. I loved the warm, golden days, and the nights which brought a pleasing chill. And hunting was superb in the autumn, it being cooler to ride at mid-day.
Struck With the Dart of Love Page 5
