For the Love of Anne

by Margaret Brazear

  “Then let me make it clear. I long for you, Anne. I yearn for your pretty little duckies to be close to me in bed. I love you and I want you. Can I make it any clearer?”

  “You cannot, Your Grace,” she replied. “You want me for your mistress.”

  He smiled.

  “I do. May I come to your bedchamber tonight?”

  “No.”

  “No? You suggest we meet somewhere else?”

  “No, that is not what I am saying, Sire.”

  “What then? I will meet you anywhere you wish, I will give you anything you wish. Tell me, please, put me out of my misery.”

  “That I cannot do, Sire,” she said. “I have promised myself that I will go to my husband a true maid. That is a promise that is precious to me and I will not give it up for any man.”

  He could not believe it. This slip of a girl, who should be honoured by his attention, was turning him down. How could that be? But she was merely attempting to increase his ardour, that was it.

  “You are teasing me, Anne,” he said.

  “No such thing, Your Grace,” she said. “I refuse to be any man’s mistress.” She curtsied then and went on. “May I return to the dance now, Sire?”

  He nodded, not knowing what to say, and she hurried from the room before he changed his mind.

  THAT WAS HOW IT BEGAN. At every opportunity, the King pursued Anne, and always she refused him. The whole court was talking about it; indeed, the whole of London were talking about it.

  It was unfortunate for Anne that not one of those gossipmongers admired her for standing out against the King, not one of them saw that she was right to refuse to let a married man into her bed, not one of them admired her for wanting to keep herself pure for any future husband. But the way the King was besotted, it seemed unlikely she would ever have such a husband, as he would never consent to her marriage to anyone and no gentleman would dare to ask.

  Henry made no secret of his infatuation with Mistress Anne Boleyn, not to his advisors, not to his courtiers and certainly not to his wife. She it was who was compelled to suffer the woman’s presence, each and every day in her household.

  At first, Katherine not only tolerated Anne, but was particularly friendly to her. She was happy enough to welcome someone her husband was so fond of, if it pleased him, but now she felt she was being made a fool of.

  She wanted to dismiss Anne, and Anne would most certainly have not objected, but the King would have none of it.

  “Sire,” she pleaded with him. “You are making it difficult for me. The Queen casts evil looks my way, the other ladies resent me.”

  Henry stepped close to her, held her face in his warm hand and smiled.

  “Dearest Anne,” he said. “That is not my wish. I will speak with the Queen about it.”

  “No. I do not want you to speak with the Queen about it. I want you to stop pestering me.”

  “Pestering?” His voice thundered through the empty room as he stepped away from her. “Is that really how you see it? I have pursued you for months because I love you; I cannot stop thinking about you. I dream of you at night, I see you everywhere in the day. And you call it pestering?”

  Was this it? Was it the answer to make him so angry he would despise her? She could only hope.

  “I know your feelings, Your Grace,” she said. “But I do not return them. I wish to be released to find an honourable man who will marry me.”

  He was silent for a long time, so long that she turned to study his expression. Had she displeased him with her words? Had she angered him enough that he would cast her into the Tower, or leave her alone and find another on whom to settle his affection?

  “Marriage?” he demanded. “Is that what you want?”

  Oh no! He had taken her words completely the wrong way.

  “No,” she replied. “At least not marriage with anyone. I loved Harry Percy; I still love him, but you and your priest have made it impossible for me to have him. I can never love any man as I loved him, but I would like to try. I cannot do that while you have this hold over me. Will you give me leave to try? Please.”

  He shook his head.

  “Never. I could never part with you, never think of you with another man. If it is marriage you want, then marriage you shall have.”

  She caught her breath. Now she was quite certain he had lost his mind.

  “You cannot offer me marriage while Katherine lives,” she said. “You know it and I know it. The whole world knows it, so why even mention it?”

  “I’ll find a way, Anne. I swear, I’ll find a way.”

  “There is no way.”

  She looked at him with fear in her eyes. Henry was a man who had never been refused anything he ever wanted and if he was determined to find a way to annul his marriage to Katherine, he might well succeed. And where would that leave Anne? Compelled to marry a man she resented and had sworn to despise, and one she found unappealing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Poison, That’s What!

  FOUR YEARS SINCE HER marriage and Mary Percy wished for that numbness to return, to aid her through whatever the future might have to offer.

  Harry had consummated their marriage, but since then he kept to his own chamber, until some two months later when he came to hers one night as she had just got into bed. The maidservants had gone, left her alone, and she settled down to sleep, expecting this night to be no different from any other.

  That was when he entered, that was when he approached the bed and stood staring down at her. She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him, a little dart of fear making her heart leap as she wondered what he wanted.

  He had scarcely spoken to her since the wedding, except to tell her he’d not have Cardinal Wolsey’s servants in his house. Just why he told her that, she could not know. Perhaps he believed the attempt to have them here was her idea; who knew?

  “You have not conceived?” he said.

  “You might have noticed if I had,” she replied.

  “Then it would be best to make a further attempt,” he said. “You can give me nothing that I want, except an heir.”

  She scrambled to a sitting position, drew her legs up to her chest and clutched the covers.

  “No,” she said. “Not again.”

  “You’ll do your duty, Madam,” he said, “as I must do mine. Do you imagine I want to be here? But you must at least try to give me a son.”

  Then he pulled the covers out of her clenched fist and climbed into the bed beside her. She slid away from him, tried to get her feet onto the floor, but he grabbed her and flung her back onto the bed. He pushed her shift up and forced himself into her, while she struggled and tried to push him off, but he was too strong.

  When he had finished, he rolled away and stood up.

  “Damn you!” she cried. “Is it my fault I am not your beloved Anne?”

  “If you were Anne, I’d have cherished you.”

  “And if you were a real man, I might have cherished you.”

  He slapped her then, leaving an angry mark on her cheek which would turn to a bruise by morning. The sound of her sobbing followed him out of the chamber and filled him with shame.

  He lay awake that night for hours, trying to fathom why he had done that, why he had gone to her in the first place, why he had forced himself on her and why he had hit her. It was not in his nature to be violent, but he was still so angry and frustrated with his marriage, still aching about losing Anne. He had to take his fury out on someone, and Mary happened to be available. He despised her, but she did not deserve such treatment.

  That night he retired to his bed and thought about his life as it had become, compared it to the life he had wanted with Anne, and his anger had grown like a monster within. He had to have something that would make what remained of his life worthwhile, and he could think of nothing he wanted from his wife but an heir.

  Yet he knew in his heart it was no fault of Mary’s, that she resented him as much as he resented her. He ha
d a right to use her if he so wished, but that was not how he wanted his marriage to be. And he had no right to hit her; that was unforgiveable.

  He came to her the following morning, where she sat at her meal in the great hall. He never broke his fast with her, so she was wary at this sudden courtesy as he slid into a chair across the table from her and waited until the last servant had gone.

  “I came to apologise,” he said. “I lost my temper last night and I had no right to strike you.”

  Mary did not expect this and had no idea what to say, so she said nothing. Perhaps that made it worse, she would never know, because he got to his feet after a few minutes and left her alone. Nothing more was said on the subject.

  Since then there had been little contact between them and Mary felt that she was living on the edge of a precipice, wondering when he would push her over, make another attempt, wondering when he would lose his temper again.

  The surprising thing was not that he resented her, as she resented him, but that Anne Boleyn loved him. How could she? What man did she see in Lord Percy that Mary had never seen? He despised Mary for not being Anne and Mary despised him because he loved Anne. It was a recipe for an unhappy marriage, and that is how it had developed. He would never get over her, that was for certain and Mary wondered if Anne felt the same, now that the King of England was pursuing her. Such exalted company could well push Harry out of her heart, but Mary knew that Anne still wrote to Harry, still wrote fondly.

  Now she watched him as he rode away. He had work to do protecting the borders of his county, his slackness in that direction having recently caused the King himself to complain.

  Harry was now the Earl of Northumberland, since his father died the year before, and when he thought about Anne, he wished only that the old man could have died earlier, when Harry would have been able to decide for himself who his bride should be.

  But of course, that was foolish. The King had his sights set on her so nothing he did or said could have made a difference. And it was so unfair. Anne did not want King Henry; she did not want him then and she did not want him now, but still he pursued her, still he would not allow her the freedom to live the life she had always expected.

  The whole country was gossiping about how Anne would not give in to the King’s desires. He knew not how she was holding him at bay or how much longer she could do so. Surely he would grow weary of the chase, but it seemed he just grew more determined. It might be better for her if she gave in to him; he might leave her alone then, might decide that the chase was far more pleasurable than the prize.

  Mary had been passing his chamber that morning when she noticed that the door was open. She had no real reason to stop, to look inside, but a movement drew her attention and she saw that he was sitting at his desk, the top drawer open. That was a drawer that was usually locked; Mary knew, because she had tried several times to open it.

  She moved into the doorway, just far enough to see that her husband held in his hand a miniature portrait of a young woman with dark hair and eyes, a young woman named Anne Boleyn. She caught back a sob, a sound which made him turn to her and jump to his feet.

  “So,” he said. “You spy on me for yourself as well as for Norfolk.”

  “What are you talking about?” she answered.

  She cursed herself for the sudden and unexpected emotion that escaped her. She had no love for her husband, indeed she despised him with all her strength, but to know that he still hankered after the Boleyn trollop was just too much to stomach.

  “I know you have been spying on me and reporting back to Norfolk,” he shouted. “How else does the King know my every action?”

  “You are wrong,” she said. “I have done no such thing.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “I care nothing for your beliefs. I was distressed at seeing you with her portrait, after all this time.”

  “Why should you care?”

  “I do not care about your love for her, but about the disrespect to me.”

  He tossed the portrait back into the drawer and locked it.

  “It is none of your concern,” he told her.

  “Why do you not give her up?” Mary demanded. “She has ruined your life, and mine and now it seems the King himself is under her spell. She is known as the King’s whore.”

  “And that is a lie,” he said. “She has denied him all this time.”

  “Word is she has denied him to increase his ardour.”

  “She has denied him in the hope he will give up the pursuit and allow her to leave court.”

  She scoffed.

  “You have word from her?”

  He made no reply. She had no need to know about the occasional message he received from Anne, nor did she need to know that he lived for those letters, that the anticipation of them was all he ever looked forward to.

  When he left his wife that morning, he failed to notice the almost white colour of her complexion, nor the little beads of perspiration that clung to her forehead. Why should he notice things of that nature, he who had never wanted her, he whom she despised?

  But at the end of the day, he arrived back at Alnwick Castle to find maidservants running about Mary’s chamber with cold water and cloths, and a physician in attendance.

  For one moment his heart leapt with hope as his first thought was that she was dying. Could he be free of her at last? Would he have some peace before his own end came, which he expected to be early since he was often ill, often shaking and sweating himself.

  But he did not hurry to send for physicians and take to his bed. She was likely but seeking attention after his apology of the morning.

  Yet he could be wrong; she could be really ill and if she was, he could be free. He would never remarry; there was still only one woman he wanted in his life and the man who stood in his way was too powerful to challenge. At least he might have some peace in the years that were left to him.

  He made his way to his wife’s chamber in time to see the physician removing fat little shiny leeches. The man turned to him.

  “Ah, My Lord,” he said. “I am glad you have returned. Her Ladyship has been very ill today, very ill indeed. I must say I am surprised you noticed nothing this morning.”

  “What is wrong with her?” he replied abruptly.

  “She has a stomach ague, vomiting and loose bowels.”

  Harry grimaced. He hated talk about bodily ailments.

  “What do you think was the cause?” he asked.

  “Poison, that’s what!” mumbled a weak voice from the bed. “He has poisoned me.”

  “Hush, My Lady,” said the physician. “You do not mean that.”

  “Do not tell me what I mean.” Mary struggled to keep her voice audible. “He’s tried to do away with me so he can have his Boleyn whore!”

  The physician stepped back from the bed in shock, then turned to Harry.

  “I fear Her Ladyship is delirious, My Lord,” he said.

  Harry only stared back at him angrily. He was furious with Mary for making such accusations, especially before a physician and the servants. He would love to be rid of her, but he was not about to hang for it.

  “You may leave now,” he said. “And if you breathe a word of my wife’s accusation, I will make your life unbearable.”

  He closed the door on the man and turned to the bed. She did look ill; there was no doubting that. She was very pale; she had that film of stickiness over her skin.

  “Do you really believe I would poison you?” he asked her.

  “Are you denying it?”

  “Of course I am. I do not love you, I would not be sorry to see you go, but you are not worth hanging for.”

  He left her then, not knowing that she forced herself out of bed, weak though she was, and wrote a pleading letter to her father.

  MARY’S HEALTH IMPROVED slowly and she was confined to bed for some weeks, but her husband refused to allow the doctors to apply the ghastly little leeches to her body.

&nb
sp; No doubt they would all take that to mean he wanted her health to fail, but so be it. They could do whatever else they liked but Harry was convinced she was weaker after the application of the blood sucking little monsters.

  Harry looked down at her, where she lay still pale and weak. He would have liked to smile, to reassure her, but he found he could not do that. He hated her too much to offer her any solace.

  It was of the utmost importance to Harry that Mary lived; if she should die now, after her accusation, he could find himself on trial for her murder. The state of their marriage was no secret and that would be evidence enough to hang him.

  The first of her father’s servants arrived before she was fully recovered, carrying a letter from him to Harry, accusing him of abusing his wife and of trying to poison her. He demanded that Harry allow the servants to see Mary, to be sure she was uninjured.

  Harry was furious. Abused her? He would never think of such a thing. Once, he had lost his fragile temper and struck her and had immediately regretted it. He had apologised profusely, but he should not be surprised that she was now reporting that one incident to her father.

  He refused to allow them access to his wife, sent them away without a reply for Lord Shrewsbury.

  He would like to have excluded her servants, but she needed help with everything until she recovered. Harry could find no sympathy for her, no compassion. He knew the servants were giving her news of the latest gossip, but he could not care any more.

  He visited her to see if she was recovering, to be sure he was right about the leeches. A maidservant was just leaving and gave him a quick curtsy, her eyes showing fear as she hurried past him.

  Mary was dressed for the first time in weeks, but her clothes hung on her as she had lost so much weight.

  She was unable to stand for long and after a few minutes, sank into the chair beside the window. She looked up at him defiantly.

  “You refused to allow the physicians to treat me,” she said accusingly. “Did you hope to speed my death?”

  “I refused because I thought you too weak to take more blood letting.”