The cardinal’s cooks had surpassed themselves. As well as stuffed peacock and swan, goose and chicken, there were great haunches of venison and four different sorts of roasted fish, including his favorite, carp. The sweetmeats on the table were a tribute to the May, all made into flowers and bouquets in marchpane, almost too pretty to break and eat. After we had eaten and the day started to grow chilly, the musicians played an eerie little tune and led us up through the darkening gardens into the great hall of York Place.
It was transformed. The cardinal had ordered it swathed in green cloth, fastened at every corner with great boughs of flowering may. In the center of the room were two great thrones, one for the king and one for the queen, with the king’s choristers dancing and singing before them. We all took our places and watched the children’s masque and then we all rose and danced too.
We made merry till midnight and then the queen rose and signaled to her ladies to leave the room. I was following in her train when my gown was caught by the king.
“Come to me now,” Henry said urgently.
The queen turned to make her farewell curtsy to the king and saw him, with his hand on the hem of my gown and me hesitating before him. She did not falter, she swept him her dignified Spanish curtsy.
“I give you good night, husband,” she said in her deep sweet tone. “Good night, Mistress Carey.”
I dropped like a stone into a curtsy to her. “Good night, Your Majesty,” I whispered, my head down. I wished that the curtsy might take me down further, into the floor, into the ground below the floor, so she could not see my scarlet burning face as I came up.
When I rose up she was gone and he was turned aside. He had forgotten her already, it was as if a mother had left the young people to play at last. “Let’s have some more music,” he said joyously. “And some wine.”
I looked around. The ladies of the queen’s court were gone with her. George smiled reassuringly at me.
“Don’t fret,” he said in an undertone.
I hesitated, but Henry, who had been taking a glass of wine, turned back to me with a goblet in his hand. “To the Queen of the May!” he said, and his court, who would have repeated Dutch riddles if he had recited them, obediently replied: “To the Queen of the May!” and raised their glasses to me.
Henry took me by the hand and led me up to the throne where Queen Katherine had been sitting. I went with him but I could feel my feet drag. I was not ready to sit on her chair.
Gently he urged me up the steps and I turned and looked down at the innocent faces of the children below me, and the more knowing smiles from Henry’s court.
“Let’s dance for the Queen of the May!” Henry said, and swept a girl into a set and they danced before me, and I, seated on the queen’s throne, watching her husband dance, and flirt prettily with his partner, knew that I wore her tolerant mask-like smile on my own face.
A day after the May Day feast Anne came whirling into our room, white-faced.
“See this!” she hissed and threw a piece of paper on the bed.
Dear Anne, I cannot come to see you today. My lord cardinal knows everything and I am bidden to explain to him. But I swear I shall not fail you.
“Oh my God,” I said softly. “The cardinal knows. The king will know too.”
“So what?” Anne demanded, like a striking adder. “So what if they all know? It’s a proper betrothal, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t they all know?”
I saw that the paper was shaking in my hand. “What does he mean, he will not fail you?” I asked. “If it is an unbreakable betrothal then he cannot fail. There can be no question of failure.”
Anne took three swift steps across the room, came up short against the wall, wheeled around and took three steps back again, prowling like a lion in the Tower. “I don’t know what he means by that,” she spat. “The boy’s a fool.”
“You said you loved him.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not a fool.” She reached a sudden decision. “I must go to him. He’ll need me. He’ll wilt beneath them.”
“You cannot. You’ll have to wait.”
She flung open the clothes press and pulled out her cloak.
There was a thunderous knock on the door and we both froze. In one movement she had the cloak off her shoulders, slammed into the press and she was sitting on it, serene, as if she had been there all the morning. I opened the door. It was a serving man in the livery of Cardinal Wolsey.
“Is Mistress Anne within?”
I opened the door a little wider so he could see her, thoughtfully gazing out over the garden. The cardinal’s barge with the distinctive red standards was moored at the bottom of the garden.
“Will you please come to the cardinal in the audience room,” he said.
Anne turned her head and looked at him without replying.
“At once,” he said. “My lord the cardinal said that you were to come at once.”
She did not flare up at the arrogance of the command. She knew as well as I did that since Cardinal Wolsey ran the kingdom, a word from him carried the same weight as a word from the king. She crossed to the mirror, threw one glance at her reflection. She pinched her cheeks to draw a little color to them, bit her upper lip and then her lower.
“Shall I come too?” I asked.
“Yes, walk beside me,” she said in a rapid undertone. “It’ll remind him that you have the ear of the king. And if the king is there—soften him if you can.”
“I can’t demand anything,” I whispered urgently.
Even at this moment of crisis she shot me a swift patronizing smile. “I know that.”
We followed the servant through the great hall and to Henry’s audience room. It was unusually deserted. Henry was out hunting, the court with him. The cardinal’s men in their scarlet livery were at the doors. They stepped back to let us through and then barred the way once more. His lordship had made sure that we would not be interrupted.
“Mistress Anne,” he said as she entered the room. “I have heard a most distressing piece of news today.”
Anne stood very still, her hands folded, her face serene. “I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace,” she said smoothly.
“It seems that my page, young Henry of Northumberland, has presumed on his friendship with you and on the freedom which I allow him to dally in the queen’s rooms and prattle of love.”
Anne shook her head, but the cardinal would not let her speak.
“I have told him this day that such freakish sports are not fitting in one who will inherit the counties of the North and whose marriage is a matter for his father, for the king, and for me. He is not a lad on a farm who can tumble the milkmaid into the haystack and no one think the less. The marriage of a lord as great as he is a matter of policy.” He paused. “And the king and I make the policy in this kingdom.”
“He asked me for my hand in marriage and I gave it to him,” Anne said steadily. I could see the gold “B” she wore on the pearl choker around her neck bumping to her rapid heartbeat. “We are betrothed, my lord cardinal. I am sorry if the match is not to your liking but it is done. It cannot be undone.”
He shot her one dark look from under his plump hat.
“Lord Henry has agreed to submit to the authority of his father and of the king,” he said. “I am telling you this out of courtesy, Mistress Boleyn, and so that you may avoid giving offense to those set above you by God.”
She went white. “He never said that. He never said he would submit to his father’s authority instead of—”
“Instead of yours? You know, I did wonder if that was how it was. Indeed, he did, Mistress Anne. All of this little matter is in the hands of the king and the duke.”
“He is promised to me, we are betrothed,” she said fiercely.
“It was a de futuro betrothal,” the cardinal ruled. “A promise to marry in the future if possible.”
“It was de facto,” Anne replied unswervingly. “A betrothal made before witnesses, and consumma
ted.”
“Ah.” One pudgy hand was raised in caution. The heavy cardinal’s ring winked at Anne as if to remind her that this man was the spiritual leader of England. “Please do not suggest that such a thing could have happened. It would be too imprudent. If I say that the betrothal was de futuro then that is what it was, Mistress Anne. I cannot be in the wrong. If a lady bedded a man on such slender surety she would be a fool. A lady who had given herself and then found herself abandoned would be totally ruined. She would never marry at all.”
Anne shot a swift sideways glance at me. Wolsey must have been aware of the irony of preaching the virtues of virginity to a woman who was sister to the most notorious adulteress in the kingdom. But his gaze never wavered.
“It would be very injurious to you, Mistress Boleyn, if your affection for Lord Henry persuaded you to tell me such a lie.”
I could see her fighting her rising panic. “My lord cardinal,” she said, and her voice quavered slightly. “I would be a good Duchess of Northumberland. I would care for the poor, I would see justice done in the North. I would protect England from the Scots. I would be your friend forever. I would be eternally in your debt.”
He smiled a little, as if the thought of Anne’s favor was not the greatest of bribes he had ever been offered. “You would be a delightful duchess,” he said. “If not of Northumberland then elsewhere, I am sure. Your father will have to make that decision. It will be his choice where you are wed, and the king and I will have some say in the matter. Rest assured, my daughter in Christ, I will be careful of your wishes. I will bear in mind,” he did not trouble to hide a smile, “I will bear in mind that you wish to be a duchess.”
He held out his hand and Anne had to step forward, curtsy, and kiss the ring, and then walk backward from the room.
When the door shut on us she did not say a word. She turned on her heel and headed for the stone staircase down to the garden. She did not speak until we had marched down the pretty winding paths and were deep in a bower of roses which were sprawling around a stone seat and opening their white and scarlet petals to the sunshine.
“What can I do?” she demanded. “Think! Think!”
I was about to answer that I could think of nothing, but she was not talking to me. She was talking to herself. “Can I outflank Northumberland? Get Mary to plead my case with the king?” She shook her head for a moment. “Mary can’t be trusted. She’d botch it.”
I bit back my indignant denial. Anne strode up and down the grass, her skirts swishing around her high-heeled shoes. I sank down to the seat and watched her.
“Can I send George to stiffen Henry’s resolve?” She took another turn. “My father, my uncle,” she said rapidly. “It’s in their interest to see me rise. They could speak to the king, they could influence the cardinal. They might find me a dowry which would attract Northumberland. They would want me as duchess.” She nodded with sudden determination. “They must stand by me,” she decided. “They will stand by me. And when Northumberland comes to London they will tell him that the betrothal is done, and that the marriage has taken place.”
The family meeting was convened in the Howard house in London. My mother and father were seated at the great table, my uncle Howard between them. Myself and George, sharing Anne’s disgrace, were standing at the back of the room. And it was Anne who was before the table like a prisoner before the bar. She did not stand with her head bowed as I always did. Anne stood with her head high, one dark eyebrow slightly raised, and she met my uncle’s glare as if she were his equal.
“I am sorry that you have learned French practices along with your style of dress,” my uncle said baldly. “I warned you before that I would have no whisper against your name. Now I hear that you have allowed young Percy improper intimacies.”
“I have lain with my husband,” Anne said flatly.
My uncle glanced at my mother.
“If you say that, or anything like it, ever again, you will be whipped and sent to Hever and never brought back to court,” my mother said quietly. “I would rather see you dead at my feet than dishonored. You shame yourself before your father and your uncle if you say such a thing. You make yourself a disgrace. You make yourself hateful to us all.”
Seated behind Anne I could not see her face, but I saw her fingers take in a fold of her gown, as a drowning man might catch at a straw.
“You will go to Hever until everyone has forgotten about this unfortunate mistake,” my uncle ruled.
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said bitingly. “But the unfortunate mistake is not mine but yours. Lord Henry and I are married. He will stand by me. You and my father must bring pressure to bear on his father, on the cardinal and the king, to let this marriage be made public. If you will do this then I am the Duchess of Northumberland and you have a Howard girl in the greatest duchy of England. I would have thought that gain was worth a little struggle. If I am duchess and Mary has a son then he is the nephew of the Duke of Northumberland and the king’s bastard. We could put him on the throne.”
Uncle’s gaze flared at her. “This king executed the Duke of Buckingham two years ago for saying less than that,” he said very quietly. “My own father signed the death warrant. This is not a king who is careless of his heirs. You will never, ever speak like this again or you will find yourself not at Hever but behind the walls of a nunnery for life. I mean it, Anne. I will not have the safety of this family jeopardized by your folly.”
He had shocked her with his quiet rage. She gulped and tried to recover. “I will say no more,” she whispered. “But this could work.”
“Can’t be done,” my father said flatly. “Northumberland won’t have you. And Wolsey won’t let us leap up that high. And the king will do what Wolsey says.”
“Lord Henry promised me,” Anne said passionately.
My uncle shook his head and was about to rise from the table, the meeting was over.
“Wait,” Anne said desperately. “We can achieve this. I swear to you. If you will stand by me then Henry Percy will stand by me, and the cardinal and the king and his father will have to come round to it.”
My uncle did not hesitate for a moment. “They won’t. You are a fool. You can’t fight Wolsey. There isn’t a man in the country who is a match for Wolsey. And we won’t risk his enmity. He would put Mary out of the king’s bed and pop a Seymour girl in her place. Everything we are striving to do with Mary will be overset if we support you. This is Mary’s chance, not yours. We won’t have you spoil it. We’ll have you out of the way for the summer at least, perhaps for a year.”
She was stunned into silence. “But I love him,” she said.
There was a silence in the room.
“I do,” she said. “I love him.”
“That means nothing to me,” my father said. “Your marriage is the business of the family and you will leave that to us. You’ll go to Hever for at least a year’s banishment from court and think yourself lucky. And if you write to him, or reply to him, or see him again, then it will be a nunnery for you. A closed order.”
“Well, that didn’t go too badly,” George said with forced cheerfulness. He and Anne and I were walking down to the river to get the boat back to York Place. A servant in Howard livery went before us, pushing beggars and street sellers out of the way, and one came behind to guard us. Anne walked blindly, quite unaware of the eddy of disturbance all down the crowded street.
There were people selling goods from off the backs of carts, bread and fruit and live ducks and hens, fresh up from the country. There were fat London housewives bartering for the goods, quicker-tongued and quicker-witted than the countrymen and -women, who were slow and careful, hoping to get a fair price for their provender. There were peddlers with chapbooks and music sheets in their sacks, cobblers with sets of ready-made shoes trying to persuade people that they would fit all varieties of foot. There were flower sellers and watercress sellers, there were lounging pageboys and chimney sweeps, there were link boys with nothi
ng to do till the dark came, and street sweepers. There were servants idling on their way to and from marketing, and outside every shop there was the wife of the owner, sat plump on her stool, smiling at the passers-by and urging them to step inside and see what was for sale.
George threaded Anne and me through this tapestry of business like a determined bodkin. He was desperate to get Anne home before the storm of her temper broke.
“Went very well indeed, I’d say,” he said staunchly.
We reached a pier leading out into the river and the Howard servant hailed a boat. “To York Place,” George said tersely.
The tide was with us and we went quickly upriver, Anne looking blindly at the beach on either side strewn with the dirt of the city.
We landed at the York Place jetty and the Howard servants bowed and took the boat back to the City. George swept Anne and me up to our room and finally got the door closed behind us.
At once Anne whirled round on him and leaped like a wildcat. He grabbed her wrists in his hands and wrestled her away from his face.
“Went pretty well!” she shrieked at him. “Pretty well! When I have lost the man I love, and my reputation as well? When I am all but ruined and shall be buried in the country until everyone has forgotten about me? Pretty well! When my own father will not stand by me and when my own mother swears that she would rather see me dead? Are you mad, you fool? Are you mad? Or just dumb, blind, God-rotting stupid?”
He held her wrists. She made another slash at his face with her nails. I came from behind and pulled her backward so that she should not stamp on his feet with her high heels. We reeled, the three of us, like drunkards in a brawl, I was crushed against the foot of the bed as she fought me as well as him, but I clung on around her waist, pulling her backward as George gripped her hands to save his face. It felt as if we were fighting something worse than Anne, some demon that possessed her, that possessed all of us Boleyns: ambition—the devil that had brought us to this little room and brought my sister to this insane distress, and us to this savage battle.
The Other Boleyn Girl Page 14
