Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  “What else? What else did you tell her?” I asked between clenched teeth.

  “That I am merely waiting for the opinions of the Parisian theologians, and that Dr Stokesly had been sent to obtain them. I advised her that as soon as I have those opinions in hand, I will forward them to the Pope, who will undoubtedly declare the marriage null and void. And if he does not, then I fully intend to denounce him as a heretic, and marry whom I please!”

  And with that, he let out a pitiable groan and looked unutterably disconsolate.

  “Anne, she looked me straight in the eye and said, as defiantly as you could ever imagine, that for my doctors and lawyers she cared not a straw; they are not her judges, and it is only for the Pope to decide. She then added that, as for the other doctors, whether Parisian or from other universities, I should know very well that the principle and best lawyers in England have written in her favour - and furthermore, if she were to procure counsel’s opinion in this matter, for each doctor or lawyer who might decide in my favour and against her, there would be one thousand to declare the marriage good and indissoluble …”

  He shrugged helplessly. “At that, Anne, I stood and left the room without a backward glance at the damned shrew!”

  My heart should have gone out to him, for he looked so unhappy. But the bile in me had risen, and my patience cracked. “Henry! Why did you give her so much information? Would you deem to provide a wartime enemy with your precise strategy for winning a battle? I have told you not to engage with her in an argument like this, for she unfailingly finds a way to contradict all you say. She’s had a great deal of practice in garnering the upper hand from you in a disagreement, and she knows exactly how to make you feel wretched.”

  I arose and walked to stare out of the window in an attempt to control myself before my anger overflowed.

  With my back to him, I watched the muddy river hurry on its course downstream. “If anyone has a legitimate complaint, it is I! I remain loyal to you, love and honour you when I have no guarantee at all that I shall ever become a wife, or a mother –nay, that I shall ever even have a chance to bear a child! It is I who may well end up alone years from now!”

  My eyes burned with tears ready to spill. I spun to face him and with a release of vehemence let the words fly. “What reassurance do I have that you will not give up on this fruitless quest and simply go back to her, taking mistresses as you please?”

  With that, to avoid being seen crying by the servants still setting the buffet, I ran from the room.

  I’d hastened to my bedchamber, having lost all appetite. I needed to be by myself for a time, to deal yet again with the gnawing sense of bitter disappointment deep within. I longed just to curl up on my bed and cry myself to sleep, but I knew that would achieve nothing. Sitting at my toilette table, I put my head in my hands and wept. I had never felt so desperately sorry for myself. I abhorred wallowing in self-pity; it had never been my way. But I could not help but feel I had sunk into a quagmire which offered no escape.

  I was so absorbed in my misery that I did not hear a soft rap on the door. With my head still buried in my hands, I felt a tentative touch on my back. Henry was standing above me, tears in his own eyes, his face a mask of anguish. I slowly stood, folded myself into his arms, and we clung to each other for a long time. No words were exchanged; they were not necessary. We shared the same feelings of despair, longing, desperate hope, and above all, love

  The next day, desperate for some form of distraction, I asked Henry if we might go hawking after dinner, and so we walked out into the fields beyond the mews with our gyrfalcons, Pilgrim and Senator, accompanied, as ever, by Jolie. This was exactly what we needed: breathing in the fresh, biting air of late November, partaking of a sport we both loved, with a chance to clear our minds.

  “I am sorry, Henry, so very sorry I lost my composure and my temper last evening. It was the last thing you needed to cope with after your meeting with Katherine.” I cast a regretful glance his way as we walked, thinking once again how fortunate I was to be in the company of such a superb man. He looked arrestingly handsome today, garbed in deep green velvet and soft brown leather hose. His beard was closely trimmed and set off the angle of his strong jaw, which today, I could see, was set with determination.

  “Henry, I need you to understand how I feel and why I cried such grievous tears last night.” I took his arm and turned him to face me. “Surely I hurt because I hunger for you to be my husband. But even more than that – I chafe over those who treat you as if you were merely another nobleman, one of a group of well-born cronies angling for position. That is how you were dealt with by Wolsey, and it is Katherine’s way, too. You are the King, and your subjects have an unconditional obligation to obey you - not the Pope, not the Holy Roman Emperor - you and only you, Henry! If such obedience is not brought to bear in this matter as well as all others, then what is the meaning of Kingship?”

  Taking my hands in his, he gazed resolutely into my eyes and again I felt the intimate encounter of our thoughts in symmetry. “Anne, you are my soul and my very self. I honour and respect you beyond measure. We will triumph, after all, my darling. You will be by my side as my love, my wife, and queen; my soul mate before God.”

  “Then let us muster patience once again and wait for the scholarly treatise being prepared by Dr Cranmer. I am confident it will pave the way for you, Henry. You are the King of England, and able to create the prospects you desire and the ones you deserve. And once you have made your decisions, your subjects best abide by your command, lest they go the way of traitors before them!”

  At this pronouncement, his slow smile of agreement matched mine. We proceeded to the open field, and there had a grand afternoon hawking.

  York Place

  Winter 1529

  The Great Hall of the Palace of York glowed with candle and torchlight and the warmth of hearth fire on the evening of December 8, 1529. I was not to forget that night because its light shone on my father and mother. The day before, Father had been created Earl of Wiltshire, an old and aristocratic title, as well as the Earl of Ormonde in the Irish peerage, nobility of the highest order. My mother, by association, became a countess. I was inordinately proud of both of them and so happy for their success. True, it was in part due to my relationship with the King, but my father had worked tirelessly over many long years to support His Majesty in all that had been asked of him. He deserved this honour in his own right.

  On that evening, Father, Mother and I sat on the dais with the King, in the foremost places of honour, I sitting next to Henry in the place reserved for a Queen. Below me were to be seated the pre-eminent ladies in England, including the King’s sister Mary, the Dowager Queen of France and Duchess of Suffolk, andmy aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk. Henry intended to make it clear to all, that night, that he would have his way.

  All eyes came to rest on me as I slowly proceeded to the dais on the arm of the King. I was gowned in a dazzling creation of deep crimson silk overlaying a kirtle of the purple velvet Henry had gifted to me. The purple had been intricately embroidered with silver floss complemented by further silver edging to the deep sleeves of crimson and purple. My hood was shaped like a crescent moon, with the back rim raised up from my head. Covered in silver tissue, its billiments had been outlined with rubies and pearls and presented the stunning illusion of a tiara. From the back of the hood draped a length of sheer silver tissue from beneath which my dark hair cascaded to waist-length. I wore the necklet of diamonds Henry had given me, my emerald ring as always, and a diamond ring on the first finger of my right hand.

  The look I intended to display was nothing less than that of a queen soon to be crowned. I was well aware there were those present who did not approve and resented the position I assumed on Henry’s right, and those of my mother and father to his left. I sensed the condemning stare of Mary Tudor, the woman whom I had served as a girl in France. Her dislike for me was ap
parent. Her husband, Brandon, Lord Suffolk, watched impassively, and I wondered how he managed, caught between the opinions of his wife and the greatest wish of his sovereign and childhood friend, the King.

  Of course, the Duchess of Norfolk looked down her nose at me as well. She must have wanted to be anywhere else on that evening. It was now widely known that she was loyal to Katherine, and I could no longer encounter her without wanting to shake her and demand that my precious letters stolen at her behest be returned. True, she had her own problems, having been cast off by her husband in favour of a younger mistress, so I recognized that each time she saw me, it must have created an uncomfortable reminder of her marital humiliation. Regardless of how she felt, she was required to be in attendance that evening: her husband and my mother were brother and sister, and we all shared a Howard bloodline.

  But that night was my parents’ night, and such dark connivances should be set aside. I squeezed Henry’s hand tightly under the draped white cloth, and proudly raised my golden goblet in a toast to the new Earl of Wiltshire. The music commenced, the wine flowed, and as the evening progressed we danced, ate, laughed, drank, and made merry until we were splendidly exhausted.

  I had decided to remain at York Place over Christmastide, while the King would travel to Greenwich to provide the type of celebration, along with the Queen, that his court and guests had come to expect. Certainly, this was not the kind of Christmas I wished to have, but I was reluctantly becoming accustomed to the highs and lows which were a product of waiting for Henry to be freed from his marital captivity.

  Anne, Maggie and I were planning our own Christmas celebrations; the first I would experience at York. We sat at a table in the library, quills and parchment arrayed before us, awaiting our ideas.

  “We must indulge in some gaiety, Anne,” Maggie insisted firmly. ‘We cannot allow the joy of the season to be stolen from us by Katherine while she and her women smugly have a jubilant time, pretending you do not exist. Shall we plan a masque? We can have Sir William Cornish help us – his ideas are always exciting and unique. Or how about an evening of music and singing? We can each prepare a selection and have friends and courtiers perform instead of professional musicians. What would you like to do? You are not permitted to mope about because Henry is at Greenwich with Katherine.”

  “Well, I do feel like languishing. But you both know me better than that; I will not allow anyone to see me with a long face,” I replied, then considered Maggie’s suggestions. “A masque perhaps …? No, I think not. Oh, I am so undecided! It just feels as if we would be planning entertainment for no audience at all. Henry’s bearing on our celebrations is so… so… immense. And his laughter so loud and infectious that it leaves a gaping hole when he is not around.” I slumped in my chair at the expansive table, my cheek propped on my fist.

  Anne Gainsford leaned across and placed a sympathetic hand on my arm. “It will be different next year, Anne, I am sure of it. In fact, perhaps we will be planning your marriage celebration. A Christmas wedding would be so lovely!”

  I sighed, but then gave her a squeeze in return and smiled back appreciatively. “Thank you, my Anne. You always know how to raise my spirits.”

  “Oh, and by the by, Anne, I forgot to show this to you.” Maggie reached for a book on the table and withdrew a piece of parchment tucked inside the pages. It was a poem, beautifully transcribed. “It is a piece written recently by my brother Thomas. This is a copy, and I wanted you to see it.”

  She handed me the sheet while Anne looked over my shoulder.

  I read the script, mouthing the words to myself:

  Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,

  But as for me, alas, I may no more;

  The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,

  I am of them that furthest come behind.

  Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

  Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

  Fainting I follow; I leave off therefore,

  Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

  Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,

  As well as I, may spend his time in vain.

  And graven with diamonds in letters plain,

  There is written her fair neck round about,

  ‘Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,

  And wild for to hold, though I seem tame’.

  I looked back to my dear friend and whispered, “This is me, Maggie. He has written about me. Truly, it is a beautiful composition. Thomas is such an insightful man: he, like no other, comprehends my plight. Indeed, I am Caesar’s, and Caesar’s I will be, nor anyone else’s, for who would have me should this not work out?”

  It was then that the full realization of what I had just said struck me. “Can you imagine? I will be one or the other - Queen or spinster! Is that not the height of irony?”

  I laughed, too loudly, and my friends heard the undertone of fear.

  “Anne, you must have faith that all will be well. Trust in the abilities of His Grace. The King will stop at nothing to make you his wife. You must not give way to constant worry.”

  Anne then looked at the two of us and smiled impishly. “My ladies, you should know worry does nothing for one’s looks - just see what it has done to Katherine!”

  There was nought else for it. We glanced at each other and burst into giggles.

  On Christmas Eve, the King sent me gifts of sweets, fruit, and a large dressed and gilded deer for our table. We managed to have a merry time, but I missed him dreadfully.

  Henry returned to me before New Yeartide, having sent Katherine and her covey of sycophantic crones back to Richmond. I was joyful and felt alive again.

  Once the Monarch was again installed at York Place, the number of daily visitors increased dramatically. One afternoon, we received a visit from Guillaume du Bellay, Seigneur de Langey. The Seigneur was the eldest brother of Cardinal Jean du Bellay, our French ambassador. These gentlemen represented a very wealthy French family of the powerful Angevin line. It was a great advantage to the good relations between France and England to have the support of such noblemen. I had not met du Bellay’s brother before that day, but I very much liked the Cardinal and, I truly believe, he me. We enjoyed conversing in French, and he had shared with me the witty and often bawdy writings of his close friend, François Rabelais. Seigneur de Langey had already sent me gifts at the New Year - quite exquisite jewellery which included two rings of opal, a gold link necklace and a beautiful rosary of gold, with pearl beads. I found the gesture to be charming and was looking forward to meeting him.

  Seigneur de Langey had also sent a message informing Henry that he was in possession of some jewels which Henry might be interested in purchasing. Since Henry and I both had a love of beautiful gemstones, he had invited de Langey to meet us at Windsor so we could view what he had to offer.

  We convened in the Windsor library one sunny morning in late January. Pale yellow light streamed through the windows and spilled across the massive oak desk over which the Seigneur had spread a bolt of deepest black silk velvet. It was a fine fabric of the richest quality, likely made in Brussels, and I noted de Langey’s shrewdness with admiration, since its lustrous black surface would show off any gem to its best advantage. After we had exchanged pleasantries, and partaken of a delightful Bordeaux, the Seigneur placed a diamond on the velvet which took my breath away. It was huge – perhaps the largest diamond I had ever seen – and its surface had been planed perfectly flat and smooth with many facets polished underneath and on the sides which positively shimmered in the sunlight. Its broad upper surface looked like that of the clearest, coldest lake. Precisely positioned in the beam of sun illuminating the table, it possessed an incomparable allure.

  Watching us closely and smiling, de Langey reached again for his bag and, with a flourish worthy of any magician, withdrew a sizable cross. When he placed it on the velvet, Henry and I gasped in amaz
ement. Ornate but most tastefully designed, it was fashioned entirely of diamonds: each substantial in size, and glittering fiercely. I had never seen such magnificent work. Apparently neither had Henry, for he asked de Langey in awe, “Monsieur, where was this crucifix made? And who is the artisan?”

  De Langey looked quite satisfied with himself and his ability to impress Henry, a widely recognized connoisseur of exquisite jewellery.

  “Your Grace,” he said with a deferential dip of his head, “C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas? I knew that you, above all, Majesté, would appreciate its beauty and quality. This is a most special piece. Il est trés rare - a masterwork from the former studio of the great Giovanni delle Corniole of Florence. I am sure you have heard of him: he is acknowledged as one of the greatest gem engravers of all.” He lowered his voice and said, almost reverentially, “His patron was Lorenzo de Medici - Il Magnifico - and he was a longtime resident of Lorenzo’s court. His pieces are greatly prized, Your Grace, and rarely become available for purchase.”

  With a dramatic pause, he then added, “I thought it might be of interest to you.”

  I was enthralled not only with the jewel but with the Seigneur’s masterful technique.

  Henry scrutinized it, expertly using a jeweller’s glass. I then squinted through the glass, marvelling at the workmanship, and wondering how anyone could so precisely polish a surface as hard as a diamond? Even more so - how could anyone summon the courage demanded in making the first cut at risk of shattering the gem into valueless fragments? I had heard that such craftsmen would spend weeks - indeed months - in considering the task before striking the irretrievable blow.