“She is growing,” he remarks unnecessarily. “Come, let us take her inside out of this chill.” We are ushered toward the hall, our attendants and Lady Bryan following in our wake. Even while my cloak and hat are removed I do not relinquish Elizabeth, but keep her in my arms as we are led toward waiting chairs and refreshment. I fire a barrage of questions and instructions at poor Lady Bryan.
“Does she feed well?” “Is the wet-nurse clean?” “Do not let the nurse dine on onions or her milk will curdle.” “Does Elizabeth sleep well?” “Are her stools too hard or green in colour?”
In the end Henry throws up his hands. “Give us peace, my love. Here, let me take her for a while.”
I reluctantly hand her over, tucking her carefully into his arms. He tests her weight, examines her face. “Support her head, My Lord, you must be most careful, the slightest jerk could harm her.”
Henry wags his head at his daughter. “From hearing your mother speak, you’d think I had never held a child before, but I nursed your sister, and your brother, Fitzroy, too.”
Elizabeth moves her head, opens her mouth. I snap to attention. “Is she smiling? Lady Bryan, was that a smile? You did not tell me she could smile!”
“I wasn’t aware she could, Your Majesty. It must be her first attempt.”
Lady Bryan beams with pride at the excellence of her charge, and although I am a little piqued that she has chosen to bestow her first smile on Henry, I too am beside myself with joy. It is turning out to be a good day indeed.
Elizabeth has smiled.
And then Henry spoils it all. “Where is the Lady Mary? Why is she not here to greet us?”
My happiness subsides. To our great chagrin, Henry’s bastard, Mary, continues to refuse to acknowledge that her parents’ union was flawed. She will not sign, nor even verbally concede that she is of illegitimate birth. Henry has disbanded Mary’s own household and sent her here to Hatfield as part of her step-sister’s retinue. Lady Bryan looks uncomfortable.
“The Lady Mary is in her chamber and refuses to come down, Your Majesty. I cannot get her to do anything. She does not eat with us or attend her duties. All she does is weep … and pray.”
Henry sighs and hands Elizabeth back to me. I tuck her into the crook of my arm and amuse myself by counting her fingers one more time, silently exclaiming over the perfect nails, the miniscule creases on each knuckle.
“I will go aloft and speak with her.”
I look up from the adulation of Elizabeth.
“No, Henry. You must make her do your bidding. Do not bend to her demands. You are the king, she is a bastard.”
He looks uncomfortable, shifts from foot to foot. “I will go to her, this once. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
He is gone a long while. I pass the time inspecting Elizabeth’s nursery, looking over her linen and staff. “I will see that new hangings are ordered,” I say as Lady Bryan follows behind me. All the time I am trying to concentrate on domestic matters, the problem of Mary nags like a fishwife in the back of my head. I have made friendly overtures to her, tried to lure her into our family nest, but she will have none of it.
“I know no queen but my lady mother,” she retorts whenever I am given my proper title. “I will call the child sister, but never Princess,” she replies when they demand that she give Elizabeth the entitlement she deserves.
Lady Bryan and I trail about Elizabeth’s nursery until, unable to resist the urge any longer, I turn suddenly.
“Tell me, does the Lady Mary treat our royal princess with honour, or does she scorn her? Do you think it is safe to have her in Elizabeth’s company? Should harm come to her because …”
Breaking convention, she reaches out and places a comforting hand upon my arm. “Rest assured, Your Majesty. I have known Princ—The Lady Mary since she was born, she would not harm an innocent child. She is simply angry with … circumstance, and … confused as to her new status.”
“Things would go better for her if she just signed the Act of Succession. If she acknowledged the validity of our marriage and Elizabeth’s rightful place as the king’s true heir, we would find her a good husband. She is seventeen now, it’s about time she was wed and out of our hair. If she is not careful, I will have her married off to some lackey.”
Lady Bryan looks at the floor. “She is a resolute girl.”
“Stubborn, you mean, like her Spanish mother.”
“That is as may be, but I do assure you, she will not harm her sister. I have seen her edging her way toward the cot when she thinks no one is looking, letting Elizabeth grasp her finger—”
I turn sharply and almost squawk. “They are not, on any account, to be left alone together. Never, do you understand? Until she agrees to call me ‘Queen’ and name my Elizabeth ‘Princess,’ you are to watch her like a hawk. And there is to be no more skulking in her chamber either. She must eat with the rest of the household and she is to perform her duties. She is a bastard and to be treated as such.”
Lady Bryan bows her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. It shall be as you say.”
It almost tears out my heart to leave Elizabeth again so soon. I kiss her a thousand times, issue Lady Bryan with a list of instructions as long as my arm before I can be persuaded back on to my horse. I gather up the reins, not relishing the long ride back, and with tears on my cheeks, I look back to wave one more time.
As I do so I glimpse a shadow at an upstairs window, and instinctively know it is Mary. For a moment I think she has relented and is waving at me, but as I go to respond, I see Henry drop his own hand and realise the exchange was between him and his daughter.
He still loves her. With a twist of jealous anger, I tighten my reins and urge my mount forward, our former understanding marred.
April 1534-Richmond
Urien leaps from his hiding place beneath my skirts and rushes across the hall, the high pitched excitement of his bark informing me who approaches. George ruffles the dog’s ears, and when he rolls over and presents his belly for scratching, George doesn’t hesitate to oblige. Eventually he turns his attention to me.
“You look well, Anne.” George’s lips are cool on the back of my hand. As he stands up I draw him closer, incline my head toward him and speak quietly into his ear.
“There may be a reason for that.”
He does not mistake my meaning, and leads me away from the crowd toward the window that has been thrown open to admit the scents and sounds of spring.
“Are you certain?”
“As sure as I can be. It is too early to be definite.”
“And you’ve told the king?”
I hesitate, glance around the room. “Not yet, no.”
“Why ever not? He will be over joyed.”
“I know, but he will also wrap me in gossamer, forbid me to hunt and …”
“And what?”
I can feel my face warming under the intensity of his stare. “He will stop coming to my bed.”
George throws back his head, but his amusement is lost on me. Since our encounter in the wood, love between Henry and I has changed. No more fumblings leaving me discontent and frustrated. After making gentle enquiries of Nan, who enjoys a full and happy union with her own husband, I am discovering the skill to improve things in the royal bedchamber. I have learnt how to draw things out and invent new ways to please him, and I give it my utmost attention. The prudish side of Henry sees my games as sinful, but he is never repentant until after the act. I smile as my mind drifts back to the previous night.
Our bodies were slick with passion, our enjoyment full and vocal and, when I was done with him, he lay naked across my bed. “I declare, Madam,” he panted, rolling onto his belly and kissing the sole of my foot, “you must have been corrupted during your time in France.”
He was joking of course, but I know he is uneasy with what he sees as depravity, and his ever-prickly conscience shortly forced him to rise and take himself off to chapel to make his peace with God.
&n
bsp; If I tell him that my courses are late, my breasts tender and my trips to the close stool increasing, he will cease his nightly visits, discontinue our games, and I am loath to do so.
I have never been so happy.
“So, can I gather from this that things have improved?”
George breaks into my thoughts and although I try to prevent it, I find I am blushing. Queens shouldn’t blush or be discomforted by the teasing of younger brothers. I jerk my chin.
“Sometimes, George, you are just too nosey.”
We turn back and face the throng, where one of Henry’s fools is turning cartwheels along the length of the hall. The onlookers clap appreciatively while Henry roars with laughter from the dais.
Soon the musicians will come on, and afterwards there will be dancing and entertainments. Just as I decide to join my husband, I become aware of Jane at my shoulder. I turn and welcome her and Henry Norris into our company, but George turns away.
Jane’s face drops and she raises her cup. “Who will drink with me to the ridiculous fool?” she cries as he moves away. She drains her wine and I see she is a little drunk.
Her double entendre is not lost on George, who freezes and turns back to face us. They glare at each other. I wish things were better for them. If only one of them would make the effort to save their marriage. If they had a child their problems would be over, I know they would. But how can you get a child with a partner you dislike more with each passing day?
I open my mouth, hoping to find some common ground on which my brother and Jane can find mutual footing, but Norris forestalls me. Snatching a parchment from beneath his doublet, he begins reciting a verse he has written in praise of a secret lady’s smile. Of course, we all know that the muse of both Norris and Francis Weston is my cousin, Madge Shelton. She is the target of the affections of many men, but their double wooing of her has been prolonged and is a source of great amusement to onlookers. When Norris has finished his ode, George puts his hands over his heart and begins to deliver his own rhyme, aiming mocking, lovelorn eyes upon his wife.
“Jane, my wife, my love, my bane …”
The words trip unrehearsed from his tongue and with a look of fury she thrusts him aside and storms away, elbowing her way through the crowd. We laugh, somewhat guiltily, and I push George gently on the shoulder. “You are cruel. How can you hope to salvage anything—” I halt mid-sentence as my attention is captured by the sight of our sister Mary, who has freshly returned from the country. She said she’d been spending time with her daughter but ….
I nudge George in the ribs and he exhales suddenly, putting a hand to his side. “Ow, what was that for?”
With a nod toward our sister, I say through tight lips, “Mary is back. Come with me.”
Mary lets out an exclamation of surprise when, without ceremony, I take her by the elbow and steer her relentlessly toward my privy chamber. George lumbers behind us like a spaniel, oblivious to the fact which to me has just become starkly clear.
Mary can barely keep pace with me; she scrabbles at her skirts in an attempt to lift them clear of her feet as we hasten along the corridors. Scullions press themselves against the walls to get out of our way; a bevy of gentlemen, on seeing our approach, bow deeply, but I do not acknowledge them. My fury is too great to be polite.
Once in the privacy of my chamber, I dismiss my staff with a jerk of my head and spin Mary round, my eyes scanning her body, taking note of her raised bosom and flushed cheeks.
“What’s going on?” George slumps onto my bed, putting his shoes on the counterpane, but for once I do not care.
“I think Mary has something to tell us.”
I want to be mistaken; I can’t remember when I have ever wanted to be so wrong about something, but instead of looking puzzled, she flushes. I recognise from old the look of bravado she assumes as she stares me squarely in the eye.
“And what if I do?” she sniffs, her voice hostile, brittle. George, sensing something important in the air, sits up, attentive at last.
“Whose is it this time?”
Her face is white, her lips colourless, but she does not back down. I recognise that I share a similar stubborn streak. “Not Henry’s, if that’s what is worrying you.”
George, beginning to realise what our conversation is about, lets out a whistle and looks at her stomach.
“Christ, Mary. You really do heap troubles upon your own head, don’t you?”
“Shut up, George.” Since she cannot speak as she wishes to me, she turns her venom upon him. “It’s none of your business, and none of yours either, Anne. I am a woman grown and can make my own decisions.”
Anger burns through me. I feel I am on fire. I want to slap her, cast her out of my life and let her starve on the streets. “No! You are wrong. You cannot make your own decisions. You are the sister of the queen of England, and look at you … a drab, a trull. The shame of it, Mary! How am I supposed to find you a decent husband now?”
She juts her face toward me, the sinews on her neck tightening, her mouth squared and ugly, spittle forming at the corners of her lips. “You don’t have to. I don’t need your assistance at all, and I have no wish for a loveless marriage. I have a husband already.”
“What?”
In the silence that follows, George gets up from the bed and helps me to a chair, lowers me into the seat. “Remember your condition,” he whispers, “no upsets, no violence.”
He hands me a cup of wine and I gulp it, cough when it goes down the wrong way. Tears spring to my eyes, although I am not sure if it is from the wine or the situation.
If Mary has married against the express wishes of the king, things could go very ill for her. Henry and I have already entered negotiations for her marriage; we aimed high and were quite sure of our mark, no easy thing when the intended bride is soiled goods. George stands at my shoulder; I grasp his hand very tightly and blink at Mary through my tears. “What did you say?”
It is her turn to slump on the bed, her blooming breasts resting snugly on the bulge of her belly. Now that she is sitting, I realise she is further gone than I thought. She no longer seems so glowingly healthy; her eyes are shadowed by fear, her hands trembling slightly. Oh Mary, I think, why can you not keep out of trouble?
“I said, I have a husband already.”
I swallow bile as the hope that she was lying dwindles away. “Who—” I croak, handing the cup back to George. “Who is he?”
She tosses her head, her former bravado wavering. Drawing herself together, she looks me in the eye, her voice challenging as she enunciates the name clearly so that there should be no mistake. “William Stafford.”
“Good God!” George knocks over the cup, wine spreading like blood across the damask table cloth. “Stafford? Couldn’t you have done better than that?”
“George.” I shake my head, warning him to be silent, and cover my face with my hands. Stafford is of the knightly classes, the soldier I saw in her company at the garrison at Calais. I should have seen this coming but I have been so engrossed in my own affairs, so involved with Elizabeth and Henry and the forthcoming child that I forgot to worry what my sister was up to.
I groan inwardly, knowing the scandal will be huge. Henry will be furious. Father will disown her all over again. In all her life Mary has never made one good decision. She has lurched from disgrace to disaster and each time she lands in the muck, filth splashes up to mire the skirts of our whole family.
“Oh Mary,” I manage finally, but I can’t look at her. I have never been so disappointed in anyone in my life.
“Why are you so worried? William loves me, and I him. Is that so hard for you to understand? Just because you shunned love to marry a king doesn’t mean the rest of us cannot find happiness unless couched upon a bed of jewels and power.”
Is that what she thinks? That I have no love for Henry? Does she really believe I could have tolerated all the delay and self-denial if I had no love for him? She doesn’t know me at all.
I wonder if anyone really does.
“The scandal will be too great, Mary,” I say sadly. “You will be sent away from court, denied the company of your family, and all because you could not do the thing properly.”
“You would never have let me marry him.” She is on her feet now, hollering like a fishwife. “You would have insisted I be wed to some ageing lord with a long purse and a grotesque belly. I had to do it this way, don’t you see? I had to take my life into my own hands before you ruined it!”
She is weeping as George escorts her from the room, but I cannot look at her. I cannot forgive her. Tomorrow, when Henry and Father find out, there will be Hell to pay, and Henry does not forgive lightly. I fear my sister is lost to me for good.
June 1534
I am amusing myself with Henry’s cage birds where they hang in the window of our chambers. They accept my offerings of crumbs and regard me with bright beady eyes, hoping for more. One, braver than the rest, pecks at the bars. “You are a pretty fellow,” I say, reaching for more food. Then a light cough behind me makes me jump so violently that there is little use in trying to hide it. I turn around. “Master Cromwell, you startled me.”
Unruffled, he bows low, his eyes cool, a slight smile playing upon his lips. “Did Your Majesty not summon me to attend her when the king’s business was concluded?”
“Yes, yes I did. I just did not hear you enter.”
I look around the chamber for Urien, who is hiding beneath the table. When I call him he ignores me, his tail like a whip on the floor. Cromwell comes to stand beside me at the window, from which I have been admiring the ordered symmetry of the garden.
“I think your mind was far away.”
“Yes, it was. I was thinking of my mother and wondering whether a visit to Hever soon would do me good.”
“I am sure it would. You need rest and relaxation, for the sake of our little prince.”
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 18
