For the Love of Anne

by Margaret Brazear

  “The King has commanded this marriage,” he said. “It would not be wise of defy him.”

  She spun around, stared at her father as though frozen in time.

  “So it is true, then,” she said. “Lord Percy was refused his bride because the King has his eye on her.”

  “I cannot answer that,” he said.

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  “Cannot,” said the Earl. “I have no idea why the King is so interested in this match, but it is likely to his advantage. Everything he does is to his advantage.”

  Mary was still angry, but part of her pitied this Anne Boleyn. Perhaps she did love Lord Percy, but she could never be with the man she loved because the King, a married man, wanted to play with her for a month or two, then toss her aside as he had her sister.

  And because of that, she, Mary, would never have the life she wanted, with a husband who could care for her.

  IT WAS A SMALL CHURCH, a village church unaccustomed to accommodate such a large congregation, but it was the best way to do things considering the urgency. The King wanted no public ceremony that would take months to organise; he wanted the marriage done and settled quickly to show all the parties concerned that any future between Percy and Anne Boleyn would never happen.

  Harry stood waiting for his bride, his eyes firmly fixed on the altar and the statues behind it. He felt like crying, but as a man he could not do that; all he could do was wish that the woman walking toward him now could be Anne. He even glanced behind him and tried to see Anne there, but his imagination would not rise to such a challenge. It was not Anne, it would never be Anne and he would never see her again.

  He had to forget her; that’s what his father had told him. Forget her and concentrate on his marriage. As if he could ever forget Anne; even if he lived forever, he could never forget Anne. He was sure his life would run parallel with hers, no matter where either of them found themselves. He would keep a careful watch on where she was and what she was doing, who she was with and more than anything, if she was happy. Her happiness still meant more to him than his own, but he doubted she could be happy in some Irish wasteland with the grave and pious James Butler.

  He hoped Anne understood why he was doing this. He had promised her they would be together, even if no consent was forthcoming, and his father had assured him that he would name one of his brothers as his sole heir if he refused to marry Mary. Harry hoped she knew the truth, that he was not afraid of disinheritance, but he was very much afraid of the King’s displeasure.

  Harry had heard a whisper that it was the King himself who wanted her and if that were true, he was heartbroken to know that his beautiful Anne was being torn away from him and given to that overbearing, over-decorated bully known as the King of England. And it would not last long either; he would soon grow tired of her and cast her aside, as he had others before her. She was worth more than that, much more and Harry would have waited.

  He had received a letter from Anne, just this week, in which she assured him that she would never be the King’s mistress, even if she had to remain a maid forever. He clung to that, hoped it was because of him. But he did her a disservice; she had assured him in the past, when they were making their plans, that she would go to her husband a true maid.

  Harry did not turn to see his bride as she made her slow and reluctant way toward him. If he had, he would have seen that her veil adhered to her face with the tears she shed. He could not know how she dreaded this marriage as much as he did himself.

  He only knew what he was told, that Mary Talbot wanted the marriage still, despite knowing the reason for the sudden change in arrangements, and for that he despised her.

  They stood in silence as the lengthy ceremony went on for most of the morning, but she did not take his arm as they left the church, husband and wife. Neither felt in the mood for the festivities that followed, when they sat together at the high table, ate as much as their gloomy moods would allow and avoided each other’s eyes.

  They danced only the formal dances, the ones where they were not required to touch. It was impossible not to think about the night to come. The guests would not ignore it either, as when the minstrels had packed up their instruments ready to leave, the crowd gathered around the newly weds and pulled them from their seats, hurried them to the stairs and up to their bedchamber.

  Not one of them noticed how grim the couple looked, how they did not seem happy with the celebrations, how they did not join in the laughter and the gaiety. They were all too intensely enjoying the putting to bed of the newly married couple and, once that was done and the priest had blessed the marriage bed, they all left them alone, in the silence, in the darkness, to stare at the carved ceiling and wish they were anywhere but here.

  “They said you wanted our marriage,” Mary said. “They told me you had changed your mind about Mistress Boleyn. They lied, did they not?”

  “Yes, they lied. I love her and I always will. You should have known that when you insisted we go on with the wedding.”

  She sat up, glared down at him angrily.

  “I insisted?” she cried. “I did not want this. Do you think I want to be tied to a man who loves another woman?”

  “So they lied to me, too,” said Harry.

  “They did.”

  “It matters not at all. I cannot help but resent the one who took her place.”

  Mary lay back down, but made no reply. What reply was there to give, after all? It was hardly her fault he could not have his Boleyn slut.

  “A fine start to a marriage,” she said.

  The words were spoken through repressed tears that gathered in her throat.

  “We will have to consummate this farce,” said Harry. “They will inspect the bedsheets in the morning. If they find no evidence, they’ll never let it go.”

  Mary said nothing for a few moments. He was right; she knew he was right but this was not the way she had imagined giving up her maidenhead. She always hoped it might be with desire, if not love. There was no tenderness in her new husband, no ardour for her as a woman. He hated this as much as she did and she knew in her heart that the only way he would be able to perform this last part of the marriage, was to close his eyes and think of Anne Boleyn.

  She pushed back the covers and raised her knees, dropped them to the sides.

  “Get it over with quickly, please,” she said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The King Commands It!

  NEWS THAT HARRY PERCY had married reached Anne from the lips of her mother, Elizabeth. Until that moment, she still hoped, still prayed that things would develop as they both wanted, but now that hope died. He was lost to her forever and she felt a numbness spread over her, a sense that nothing mattered any more, nor ever would.

  If she only but knew it, many miles away Mary Talbot, now Mary Percy, was feeling the exact same numbness, the same despair and despondency.

  Weeks after her return to Hever and the news of Harry’s marriage, Anne still felt that despair and she could feel nothing else when she received the news that she was to return to court.

  “I have no wish to return to court.”

  “You do not mean that,” said her mother.

  “Do not tell me what I mean,” said Anne. “Would you want to return to a place where the love of your life has been humiliated before his peers, where everyone knows your business, knows you have been sent away?” She turned to stare out of the window at the fountain below. “There is nothing for me at court. I cannot smile and pretend all is well, when I know it will never be well again. You may as well proceed with organising my marriage to Mr Butler, send me off to Ireland. I shall feel no different there as here.”

  “Your marriage to James Butler has been cancelled,” said her mother.

  She faced her mother with wide and startled eyes. This was something she had not anticipated.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “The King has decided to cancel it. It is he who commands you to return to court.”


  “The King commands it?” said Anne.

  Her mother smiled knowingly, gave her a sideways glance.

  “He has expressed a special interest in you. You should be honoured.”

  “Like my sister, you mean? As she was honoured?”

  Elizabeth pulled herself up stiffly, her mouth turned down with displeasure.

  “I only know he has sent for you and that you must return to court. You are to serve Queen Katherine as one of her maids of honour, as you did before. An honour indeed, considering how you disgraced yourself with Lord Percy. Now, please arrange for your boxes to be packed.”

  Anne knew now what she had not known before, that maid of honour to the Queen was the first step to the King’s bed. Well she would have none of it.

  The King had his eye on her. Other women might be flattered, but not Anne. She had seen her sister used for his personal pleasure then discarded, she had seen how rich Mary’s husband had grown because of it. Anne had no intention of going the same way.

  These last months she had dreamed of bedding with Harry Percy, of sharing his love in that intimate way which only people in love should share. To think of sharing that with any other man made her stomach heave and her nerves cringe.

  She had heard that King Henry was a handsome man, but she had seen him up close and she did not agree. Once, perhaps, but no more. He was not ugly, to be sure, but handsome was not a word she would have used to describe him.

  He was heavy set, not slim and muscular like Harry, and he was several years older than her, not young like Harry. She did not love him and she would never bed with a man she did not love, even if he was the most powerful man in the realm.

  She watched her mother go, then picked up the nearest heavy ornament and flung it with full force at the door. The action soothed her temper for but a few minutes before she stood rigidly and contemplated the reality of this news.

  “Damn him!” she screamed. “Damn him to hell!”

  She failed to notice that one of the maidservants had entered the chamber and was packing her clothes. The woman shrieked and jumped, stared at her mistress and curtsied quickly, terrified that it was she who had caused this bout of temper.

  Anne waved her hand to indicate that she should carry on, then turned back to stare once more at the grounds. She welcomed that numbness when it returned but deep down, she knew she would never forgive the King for ruining her life, her dreams of love, only because he had taken a fancy to her himself. She would never forgive the Cardinal for his part in the scheme, nor for upbraiding Harry before his entire household.

  These two men would always be her enemy and nothing would ever change that.

  ANNE BEING RECEIVED back as a maid of honour to the Queen brought a smile to the face of Sir Thomas Boleyn, if not to his daughter. This was honour indeed; the Boleyn family were moving up in the world at last. Pity his other daughter, Mary, had asked for nothing during her association with the King. Even when she fell pregnant, she asked for nothing, was content to declare the child that of her husband. Of course it could have been, but who will ever know?

  He expected more from his other daughter. Anne’s present stubbornness was caused only by her disappointment at not being allowed her own choice. She would soon recover from that, soon realise how high she and her family could ascend. It would all work out exactly as Sir Thomas wanted; all he needed to do was give Anne a few days in which to settle then he would instruct her on the ways to the King’s heart and, more importantly, to his coffers.

  But Anne still found the Queen’s household to be tedious and dour. The ladies mostly sat about embroidering or playing the lute and virginals, when they were not praying. That went on several times a day, after the mass that took place every morning, and it was a Catholic mass, something Anne had begun to question. And being there was a bitter reminder of how she had courted Harry Percy. She could not help but seek him out in the evenings, even knowing he would not appear.

  She still felt pity for Katherine. She would wait hopefully for her husband to visit her bedchamber at night, but he never did. Once he did come, but deliberately at a time when he must have known she would be at her prayers.

  Such behaviour only served to make Anne dislike him even more. If it were true that he had a fancy for her, he would certainly have to change his mind, king or no king.

  It was a few weeks after her return to the Queen’s household that she was given first hand proof of the King’s intentions when he deigned to dance with her. She accepted, of course; she could hardly refuse, but she spoke as little as possible.

  “I suspect, Mistress Anne,” he said, “that your silence is caused by my presence. I have heard you have much to say to others.”

  How arrogant!

  She turned her dark eyes on him as the dance ended, as the music stopped and she failed to curtsy. Let him make what he would of that.

  “I have little to say to the man who has ruined my life, Sire,” she said quietly.

  His expression showed his shock and anger at such words. Nobody had ever before challenged him in such a way; no one had ever dared. He took her hand and walked from the hall with her, dragging her along as she struggled to keep up with his long strides.

  In a smaller chamber, alone, he flung her in front of him and released her abruptly, so abruptly that she almost fell, had to clutch at a chair to keep herself upright. If that was meant to intimidate her, it failed miserably, for such treatment only caused her temper to rise.

  “How, pray, have I ruined your life?” he demanded. “I have favoured you with an important position in the Queen’s household. How is that ruining your life?”

  “You know very well, Your Grace,” she said. “I am told it was at the King’s pleasure that my betrothal to Harry Percy was denied.”

  His small eyes scrutinised her, stared her down until she dropped her gaze. It was only then that she realised she should not have spoken to him like that, that he was the King, not just any man. He had power over life and death. Her heart raced as she wondered what punishment he would mete out to her.

  “Percy was already promised elsewhere,” he said. “His father would never have allowed such a match and besides, he was not good enough for you.”

  She raised her eyes to stare at him once more, surprised that he would try to excuse his actions to her, when in reality he needed no excuse. His word was law.

  “Not good enough?” she replied. “I loved him; he loved me. That was all that was needed.”

  “Love? You know nothing of love.”

  He took a step toward her and caught her arms, looked into her face. She wanted to move backward, but there was nowhere to go as the table was behind her.

  “I can show you what love really means,” he said.

  So this was it, this was how it began. It must have been like this for her sister and for Lady Elizabeth Blount, his famous mistress who had served him well, borne him a son and been sent to live out her life in a convent for her troubles. Well, it would not be the same for Anne and he needed to know that.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I feel I might have misled you.”

  He gave a half smile but said nothing, only pulled her just a little closer. He was so tall, Anne’s head barely came to his chest and his grip was powerful. She knew full well he could have his way with her if he so wished and she would have nothing to say about it. But that was not King Henry’s way; he liked to assure himself that the women he bedded were all madly in love with him. If they were, it would be their loss for Anne had noticed how, when he had tired of them, they were discarded and forgotten, left to their own fate like poor Bessie Blount whose husband refused to take her back. At least Mary Boleyn had a husband to fall back on, whereas Lady Blount’s husband wanted none of her.

  Even the Queen had been ignored by this King for months, for no better reason than that she had grown old and could not longer conceive. He saw as little of her in private as he could manage.

  “How so?
” he asked at last. “How have you misled me?”

  “I am accustomed to the French court,” she said. “Things are a different there, a little more flirtatious and gay. An Englishman might consider a certain look to be an invitation, when it is no such thing.”

  He frowned. This was new to him; when he set his sights on a woman, she was usually anxious to please, if only for the favours with which she would be rewarded. Indeed, the sister had been willing enough, too willing if truth be told. He expected this Boleyn girl to be of a similar nature.

  He pulled her tighter into his arms then, held her close to his chest and listened to her racing heart. That assured him that her words were only empty ones.

  “Anne,” he said, in a tone he thought seductive. “My heart leapt when first I laid eyes on you. I have tried to resist my own emotions, but I find myself in love with you. Your every look, your every gesture brings me joy.”

  She tried to move away from him, but he was too strong. She had no choice other than to talk against his massive chest.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Sire,” she said.

  “Sorry? Why should you be sorry?”

  “Because you are a married man, Your Grace, and should be making such advances only to your wife.”

  He pushed her away then, caught her just before she hit the table behind, then stood her on her feet.

  “You dare to speak to me like that?”

  Her lip trembled and she wondered briefly if this night she would spend in the Tower. But she had no intention of becoming his mistress and he needed to know that, the sooner the better.

  “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” she said. “I wished only to set your mind at rest.”

  “Set my mind at rest?” he said, his voice rising. “You have torn my heart to shreds with your words.” He paused, moved away from her. “But perhaps you misunderstand my meaning,” he said.

  “It is possible, Sire,” she said.