“No, he does not. And I feel it best we keep our betrothal secret between us for now. I have yet to inform Katherine of my views, and what that will mean for her,” he said quietly.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I agree fully, Your Grace. It is sure to be an extremely difficult message for the Queen to hear and accept. When do you intend to tell her?” I asked uneasily, thinking how zealously the court gossips would latch onto the rumour of a secret trial and spread the news far and wide.
“I will tell her within a few weeks, at latest,” he said, and by his tone I could tell it was a task he dreaded and would put off as long as he could.
I took his arm as we walked his private hallway to exit the palace and enjoy the spring evening in his Privy Garden. “It will be a difficult conversation; that is certain. But,” I gave him a reassuring squeeze, “the rationale you state is solid and underlined by Scripture. I know you will be eloquent and compassionate, and I hope and believe that she will understand and agree.”
I confess to saying this while knowing, in my heart of hearts, that under no circumstance would she offer her agreement and consent.
Oh, how I wanted to tell my mother that I was betrothed! Yet I had promised Henry I would not, and felt honour-bound to keep my promise. I hoped once Katherine was informed, he would grant me permission to at least tell Mother. The ladies who waited on the Queen were clearly aware that the King had a particular affection for me, but beyond that no one, I believe, suspected any deeper relationship. Nevertheless, it was proving ever more difficult to maintain an air of normalcy as I went about my duties attending to Katherine, all the while wondering what she knew. I suspected she believed I might be another occasional mistress of Henry’s, granting him favours when he asked. The days passed, and I waited to hear from Henry about what had transpired when he told Katherine. Or I thought that perhaps I might detect some change in her attitude once the blow had been delivered: the bitterly unwelcome news of their marriage’s nullity.
Finally, in the first week of June, Henry sent for me. We rode out together in the soft azure afternoon, at first accompanied by others but soon after that, when Sir Nicholas Carew led the rest of the party ahead, Henry and I lagged behind and rode in tandem, close enough to talk easily, clasping each other’s hand.
“How beautiful you are in the sunshine, sweetheart,” he said with a look of longing. “See, your hair is almost the colour of copper when the sun hits it just a certain way.” And he leaned across to brush a strand from my face. He regarded me without saying anything for a moment or two - and then the news I had been so anxiously awaiting came. He told me he had visited Katherine and had informed her he was seeking a divorce.
My stomach churned. I swallowed hard, then calmly asked, “And how did she respond, Your Majesty?”
Henry looked away. “Not well, I fear. She was utterly shocked and began to cry. In her disbelief, she accused me of never having loved her … but worse, Anne, she claimed that the passage in the Scriptures was invalid as far as she and I were concerned because she had never fully known Arthur. Katherine’s contention that the marriage was never consummated provides her with all the ammunition she believes she needs to disprove me.”
I looked at him incredulously. “And she expects all and sundry to believe they never knew each other as husband and wife?” I asked.
“Apparently, yes,” his voice revealed his dismay. “Furthermore, the trial I had requested has been suspended.”
“On what grounds?” I asked sharply; forgetting my place and apprehensive of what I might next hear.
“Because the Cardinal feels the case is so complex, and the verity of consummation so difficult to prove, that he has referred it to a panel of theologians and lawyers for their review,” Henry replied somewhat forlornly.
His disappointment was evident. As for me, I seethed with resentment. God’s eyes, I would have known better than to trust Wolsey with this matter! Yet it was not my decision to make, so with great difficulty, I summoned her image in my mind’s eye, and heard the wise Marguerite’s voice utter a subtle tsk tsk, which I knew meant to bite my tongue. I forcefully clamped down on the inside of my cheek and kept silent.
“Anne, I leave on progress as soon as we are packed and ready. Katherine will accompany me, as she always has done. I would rather not provoke her animosity right now, so I believe it is wise for you to go to Hever, and trust in me to advance our issue with all required attention and speed. By August, I intend to stay at the Palace of Beaulieu, in Essex. I shall send Katherine back to Greenwich then, and would like you to join me after that. Will you do that?”
I reached out and touched his cheek with a soft sigh.
“Of course, I will, Henry,” I said.
The thought of the two of them, together on summer progress, rankled. Katherine would have a perfect opportunity to ingratiate herself with her husband, while I had no recourse but to remain in Kent, alone. I could only pray that time and distance would not affect his feelings for me.
Hever
June 1527
I arrived home on 8 June. The manor’s gardens were unfurling in all their resplendence. The roses, oversized blossoms nodding in colours ranging from white and the softest blush pink to the deepest velvety crimson, were fantastic that year, and when walking in the arbour, the heavy fragrance suffused one’s very soul. The peonies bordering the walkways were still in bloom and bestowed upon the ancient brick walls of the garden a drooping, ruffled pink beauty. But my favourite flower called me to ramble in the woods adjoining the estate. Masses of bluebells carpeted the ground in the dappled shade, filling the air with their scent, and creating a deep blue cloister which stretched on and ever onwards.
The weeks passed, and the summer turned hot and dry. I was restless, and instead of enjoying the long days as I usually did, I spent too much time indoors, reading and writing, but mostly missing Henry.
July had commenced and still I had not received any specific instruction about joining him at Beaulieu, and I wondered if he’d even remembered. I certainly could not just show up there, even though I knew it well. The palace once called New Hall had belonged to my paternal grandmother, Lady Margaret Butler, and its ownership then passed to my father. Father sold the big estate to the King eleven years ago, while I was away in France. Henry had carried out a complete refurbishment of the old but beautiful buildings, and I wondered what it now looked like.
Much to my cheer, on a suffocating July afternoon, a royal courier arrived in the manor courtyard with a parchment, a package and - joy of joys! - a message for me. I was requested by His Majesty, the King of England, to arrive at Beaulieu Palace on the 24th day of this month, and was informed we would remain there or in the local environs until we returned to court in September. I whispered a prayer of thanks heavenward that a message had finally arrived and returned to my room to open the package. Fumbling in my anxious haste, I slid the thin parchment from its covering. The now familiar writing, with the lines crowding each other, pressing toward the top of the page, greeted me.
Ma Mestres et Amye, it began … My Mistress and Friend,
My heart and I surrender ourselves into your hands, beseeching you to hold us commended to your favour, and that by absence your affection to us may not be lessened: for it were a great pity to increase our pain, of which absence produces enough and more than I could ever have thought could be felt, reminding us of a point in astronomy which is this: the longer the days are, the more distant is the sun, and nevertheless the hotter; so it is avec nos amours - with our love, for by absence we are kept a distance from one another, and yet it retains it fervor, at least on my side; I hope the like on yours, assuring you that on my part the pain of absence is already too great for me; and when I think of the increase of that which I am forced to suffer, it would be almost intolerable, but for the firm hope I have of your unchangeable affection for me: and to remind you of this someti
mes, and seeing that I cannot be personally present with you, I now send you the nearest thing I can to that, namely, my picture set in a bracelet, with the whole of the device, which you already know, wishing myself in their place, if it should please you. This is from the hand of your loyal servant and friend,
H.R.
The tender, transparent message brought me near to tears. How I missed him! I tugged at the white lambskin in which the package was wrapped. A red satin box, long and slender, held a delicate bracelet of finely wrought gold links, and attached to the bracelet by a gold clasp was a locket. The locket smoothly clicked open to reveal a striking portrait of Henry against a royal blue background. The likeness was remarkable. It captured his essence, with a temporarily stern expression which was about to break into that special grin, his cheeks rosy and his handsome visage set off by a black velvet cap. The portrait must have been painted by Master Lucas Horenbolte, the miniaturist new to the King’s court. No one else known to the court could create such masterful likenesses in tiny paintings. I gazed at the face for a while, pining for its owner, then turned the gold locket over in my hands. Artfully engraved there were the entwined initials H and A. Henry and Anne. I sat bolt upright in astonishment, being only accustomed to seeing the official cipher: I inspected the monogram more closely. There was no question, looked infinitely better!
The remaining weeks at home were spent preparing for my trip. I ordered colourful new fabrics, silks, lawns, and sarcenets, while putting numerous dressmakers and seamstresses to work, creating a wardrobe of new summer gowns and riding clothes. My mother and I made plans to meet at court upon our return from Essex, once I knew where the King and his courtiers would be spending the autumn. I was thrilled that she would be nigh, for I suspected I would need a confidante more than ever.
Beaulieu
August 1527
Charity’s mouth formed a perfect “O”, with eyes equally wide as we approached the massive brick gatehouse to the reconstructed New Hall, or Beaulieu Palace. Certainly she had never seen anything comparable, and I don’t believe I had, either. It was gigantic; imposing in every aspect, and formed an appropriate setting for what was to come once its threshold had been crossed.
I rode, along with Charity and a bevy of the King’s guards and stewards, through the archway of the gatehouse. As we entered the estate beneath its shadow, I perceived quite clearly that my life would never again be the same.
In the elegantly appointed main courtyard, water splashed from marble fountains and flowers and vines tumbled from huge urns. We were relieved of our horses by stablehands, and the house steward led me to my apartments. No longer did I have merely the use of a bedchamber and nearby garderobe. I was to be accommodated in an apartment suite comprising a lovely sitting room, a large privy chamber with a beautiful tester bed, and my own bayne, or bath. Master Steward informed me that, once I had taken the opportunity to refresh myself after the hot and dusty journey, I was requested to join the King and others in the King’s presence chamber for supper.
Can I possibly express how delightful it was to have a private room in which I could bathe and take care of my toilette? It was a luxury I would become accustomed to quickly. I relaxed in my bath while Charity unpacked my clothes, and laid out a gown of pale yellow silk. My pleasurable bath complete, I made some haste, not wanting to keep the King waiting. I now smelt refreshed, and my mood matched the sun-coloured, lightweight gown.
With a carefully controlled eagerness, I entered the presence chamber, whereupon the King rose from his chair, hurried to my side and kissed me warmly before leading me across the room to greet the other guests. My uncle, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was the first to approach and kiss my hand. Behind him, I was somewhat surprised to see his wife, Elizabeth Stafford. My mother told me they were exceedingly unhappy together, and I was not surprised. I had never found Lady Elizabeth to my liking. It seemed to me that her only talent was ingratiating herself to the Queen. Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, Henry’s first cousin, and his wife, Gertrude, greeted me courteously. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, bowed in acknowledgement, and I recognized the Earl as having been one of the esquires who had stood guard in Henry’s chamber the first night we supped alone together. I was introduced to Henry Bourchier, the Earl of Essex, and Thomas Manners, the Earl of Rutland. A polite acknowledgement was offered by Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, and, standing behind the others, I saw my father beaming proudly. There was a palpable air of deference directed toward me which I found quite curious. I wondered what the King had told them before my arrival.
We were seated, and Suffolk was adjacent to me. He turned and said, “Mistress Anne, it truly is our pleasure to welcome you to the gathering here at Beaulieu. I hope you are looking forward to some lively hunting and other sport during your stay.”
“I most certainly am, my Lord. I know that the hunting grounds surrounding the estate are excellent. And I have heard that the King has just completed construction of a tennis play on the site. I look forward to seeing some skilful displays! So, do you think there will be a chance that you will be able to prevail over His Grace? I know the two of you are mighty rivals at tennis …” I looked at him steadily, but did little to hide a sly smile, “as well as at other endeavours?”
He chuckled with good-natured amusement and replied, “I can tell you this much - I will give the matches my all, Mistress. Though it is never an easy business, nor often a wise one, to outplay the mighty Henry!”
As we supped and conversed, the King stood. He raised his silver cup and announced, “I would like to propose a toast to our delightful and very accomplished guest, Mistress Boleyn. I welcome her with great affection and respect for her skills on the hunt field, the card table, the dance floor, and the many other goodly pastimes we will engage in while staying at this magnificent estate. All raise your cups!”
I nodded a slightly abashed thanks to the King. And all present toasted me.
“As most of you know,” the King continued, “there is a further reason you have all been invited to this gathering. You are among my closest friends and most trusted companions. As such, you have been made privy to my urgent need to obtain the dissolution of my marriage to Katherine. While some efforts are underway, they have so far proved inconsequential and ineffective. I wish to ask all of you to work with me in determining the best way forward with this, my confidential matter, to achieve the result I require in the shortest time possible.”
He met each individual’s gaze one by one and was answered with expressions in accord with his – determined and assured.
With a start, I realized who was notably absent from the company. Cardinal Wolsey was at that very moment on assignment in France, and not privy to this gathering. As I studied the faces both up and down the supperboard, my understanding grew. It was evident that most, if not all of those present harboured a distinct dislike for Wolsey and how his power and wealth had corrupted the office of Lord Chancellor. This promised to be quite an interesting visit, indeed!
The remainder of the meal was punctuated with laughter and companionship as the guests anticipated a working holiday among close friends. Before any others had excused themselves, and feeling quite tired from my journey, I made my apologies and stood to retire, to a disappointed look from the King.
The next morning a fresh, pearly mist filled the stable yard as we gathered for the hunt. Henry had a beautiful sorrel mare saddled and ready for me. She was an Arab–Barbary cross recently imported from Italy, and she proved a dream in the hunting field, impeccably behaved and agile. By late morning, the mist had burned off, and the sun lit the rolling green hills. We had quite a civilized ride, and even though we did not overtake our quarry, enjoyed a wonderful afternoon. Late in the day, as we returned home, Henry asked if I would join him privately for supper. I agreed to, most gladly.
Charity helped me select my apparel for the evening: a bright green satin gow
n, the dramatic green sleeves set off by gold embroidery, with a thin double chain of gold to drape around my neck
I could not wait to spend time alone with Henry, and as soon as I was ready, I hurried to his chambers. It was a relief to have a respite from the formality of court, and following a discreet knock at his door by the house steward, I was inside, we were alone and I was finally in his arms. Our kisses were divine, and clearly conveyed our yearning for one another. The feeling of being enfolded in such a strong, protective embrace was something I had not experienced before, and it felt as if that was where I was meant to be. When we eventually drew apart, Henry had me sit on a bench near the window. He went to an ornately carved chest and withdrew a small box of crimson velvet. He came back, sat beside me, and handed me the box. My fingers quivered as I held it, and he said gently, “Open it, Anne.”
Ever so slowly I lifted the lid, and as I did so, Henry slid to his knee on the floor before me. Now we were face to face, and I saw that his eyes were earnest and full of love. Quietly he said words which touched my soul and filled me with joy – words I had thought never to hear from a man I loved - and most surely never from the King of England.
“Anne Boleyn,” he whispered. “I humbly ask if you will be my wife. I will love you and cherish you with all that I am, and all that I have, forever, if you will but give your consent.”
Through a blur of tears, I saw, resting in its box, a magnificent emerald ring of a size and brilliance I had never imagined existed.
He placed the ring on the third finger of my right hand, and, trembling, I looked directly into his eyes and replied, “Henry Tudor, I will be your wife. I promise to be your loving, loyal and trustworthy wife - as long as God allows me life and breath.”
And I threw my arms about him again and kissed him with every ounce of the passion I felt.
Struck With the Dart of Love Page 10
