by Brandy Purdy
He was a giant of a man, massive and muscular—at the time of which I now write, an active life of dancing and sport kept the future promise of fat at bay—with broad shoulders and trim, finely shaped calves of which he was inordinately vain. He was very handsome, ruddy-cheeked, with red-gold hair and a short, neatly groomed beard. And his mode of dressing made him seem larger and more dazzling still. His velvet coats, which reached only to just above his knees lest they obscure his shapely calves, were padded at the shoulders to make them look bigger and broader still; his doublets were a frenzy of jewels, gilding, embroidery, puffing, and slashing; and his round, flat caps were garnished with gilt braid, jewels, and jaunty curling white plumes. Silk hose sheathed his legs, and the square-toed velvet slippers he favored were embroidered with golden threads and precious gems. And round his neck he wore heavy golden collars and chains with diamonds, and other magnificent gems, as big as walnuts.
From time to time he would dart swift, peevish glances at the woman by his side—Catherine of Aragon.
At the age of fifteen a golden-haired Spanish girl named Catalina had bid farewell to her parents, Their Most Christian Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella, changed her name to Catherine, and left behind her native land, to brave a savage, storm-tossed sea and marry Arthur, Prince of Wales. The moment that that frightened, weary, homesick girl, green-tinged and fluttery-bellied with mal de mer, set foot on English soil, a miracle occurred—the people of England, always wary and distrustful of foreigners, fell in love with her. It was a love that would last a lifetime and sustain her through all the travails to come. Her bridegroom was a pale and sickly boy who succumbed to death’s embrace before, Catherine swore, he could become a true husband to her, and for years afterwards she languished in penury, darning her threadbare gowns and pawning her jewels and gold plate to pay her servants and keep body and soul together, while her father-in-law, the miserly King Henry VII and her equally crafty father, King Ferdinand of Aragon, haggled over the unpaid portion of her dowry.
Then the old King died and young Prince Henry, glowing with promise and golden vitality, at age seventeen was crowned the eighth Henry. His first official act as king was to make Catherine his queen. He loved her brave, tenacious spirit, her kindness, sweet smile, quiet grace, and gentle nature. At the time, it didn’t matter to him that she was six years his senior; Henry was in love. And, for a time at least, everything seemed golden.
Time passed. The luster dimmed and tarnished. All the stillbirths and miscarriages—only Princess Mary lived and thrived—and the poor little boys who clung feebly to life for a week or a month before they lost their fragile grasp, took their toll, as did the years, upon the golden-haired Spanish girl. Her petite body, once so prettily plump, after ten pregnancies grew stout; her waist thickened; lines at first fine, but etched deeper with every passing year and fresh sorrow, appeared upon her face; the golden tresses faded and skeins of silver and white snaked through them. And more and more she turned to religion for comfort, fasting, wearing a coarse, chafing hair shirt beneath her stiff, dowdy, dark-hued Spanish gowns, and spending hours upon her knees in chapel, praying fervently before a statue of the Virgin.
King Henry grew bored and his eye started to wander. And, even worse, his mind started to wonder why he was cursed with the lack of male issue. He needed a son, a future king for England. A daughter simply would not do; no girl, no mere weak and foolish female, could ever handle the reins of government, or bear without buckling the weight of the Crown! Thus was the impasse they had reached by the night my ears first became attuned to that distant rumble, and I knew a storm was brewing.
It was the most hilarious sight! Rarely has a dance inspired so much mirth. Indeed, at the sight of Anne and Percy dancing the galliard, some of us fairly screamed with laughter. I can see them now: Anne, grace incarnate in a splendid embroidered gown done in five shades of red, with a French hood to match, and a choker of carnelian beads. And Percy, equally resplendent in lustrous plum satin, bumbling, bumping, treading upon toes, and stumbling his way through that lively measure; twice he lost a slipper and once trod upon his own hat when it fell from his head.
Suddenly the King clapped his hands and the music stopped. The dancers froze as if they had suddenly been turned to statues.
“Enough! Enough!” Henry strode across the floor, women dropping into curtsies and men falling to their knees on every side of him. He stopped before Anne and Percy.
“Mistress Anne, you will oblige me by satisfying my curiosity upon a point that has perplexed me for quite some time. You are newly come from France, where I am told the court fairly overflows with gallant, handsome men, graceful of both step and speech. And here in England we have such men as well.” He gestured to a nearby cluster of gallants, all of them eloquent speakers and accomplished dancers. “And yet, you have given your heart to young Percy here, who has feet as big and ungainly as duck boats and stammers so, it appears he can scarcely speak English, let alone flattery and flowery speeches?”
“All that glitters is not gold, Your Majesty,” Anne said pointedly, her eyes flitting briefly over his ornate, gold-embellished crimson velvet doublet, unimpressed, as she sank into a deep, graceful curtsy at his feet, with her red skirts swirling about her like a spreading pool of blood.
“Indeed?” Henry arched his brows, very much intrigued. Clearly this was no blushing, demure damsel, simpering and shy, who would quail meek and fearful at his feet! “Percy! Sit you down, man, and I will show you how to tread a measure without treading on everyone’s toes!” He clapped his hands sharply. “Play!” he commanded the musicians. “Mistress Anne…” He held out his hand, and not even Anne dared refuse him.
After the dance ended he thanked her and turned away to speak briefly with Sir Henry Norris, a dear friend as well as his Groom of the Stool, his most personal body servant. Anne dismissed the King from her thoughts as if he were no more than any other boring boy she had encountered at a dance, and headed straight for where Harry Percy sat; she never looked back. But as they stole away together, Henry’s eyes followed them, beady blue and crafty, and his rings flashed a rainbow in the candlelight as he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Then he turned and crooked a finger to summon Wolsey.
The Cardinal hurried instantly to his side. Though their words were hushed, Henry’s expression was adamant, and the Cardinal’s most perplexed. “See to it!” the King snapped before he resumed his throne, ignoring Catherine’s gentle, inquiring smile, and brusquely brushing aside the hand she laid lightly upon his sleeve.
The golden light of the torches spilled out into the garden, and there, upon a carpet of soft green grass, Anne and her darling Percy danced alone. I watched them from the terrace. When he swung her high into the air during lavolta, Anne flung back her head and laughed joyously. In that moment, I think, her happiness was complete. It was then that Percy stumbled. Anne fell. She landed, laughing still, and rolled upon her back, the grass and her full skirts cushioning her fall. Percy was all concern. But when he bent over her, Anne seized his outstretched hand and pulled him down so that he lay on top of her. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him long and lingeringly. Only then did she let him help her up and escort her back inside.
They never noticed me as they passed, arm in arm, smiling and staring deep into each other’s eyes. Never before had I seen two people so much in love. I thought of myself and George then, and nearly sank down and wept. We had danced together twice, and he was always gallant and polite, but when he looked at me there was no love in his eyes, only courtesy and…indifference. And, despite all my attempts, I could not kindle a flame, not even a spark.
Weeks passed and life went on as usual. My sense of foreboding faded and I even began to think I had been mistaken. But no, it was only a quiet lull during which the storm lay dormant, gathering its strength.
It was upon the night of a lavish banquet to welcome the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Queen Catherine’s nephew, that the
lightning first flashed in earnest.
At Wolsey’s opulent palace, York Place, an elaborate masque was to be staged and Anne and I were among those privileged to take part.
After the banquet, we hurried to the chamber that had been designated our tiring room to don our costumes. Flustered and flush-faced with excitement, we all fluttered about, chattering and screeching like caged birds, nervous fingers fussing with the laces of our gowns, fidgeting with the pearl-and gold-tipped pins and shimmering golden nets that secured our hair beneath the gold-and-crystal-bordered white satin French hoods, and snapping and slapping at the maids who knelt to hastily repair a loose hem or sagging sleeve.
It was to be a battle royal between the Virtues and the Vices. Perhaps I should have taken as a portent the roles assigned to us. Anne was Perseverance, her sister Mary was Kindness, and I was cast as Constancy.
In shimmering satin gowns of angel white, with sashes becomingly draped across our breasts embroidered in golden letters with the name of the Virtue we had been chosen to represent, we took our places upon the battlements of a large castle crafted of plaster and papier-mâché, painted in the royal Tudor colors of white and green, that had been wheeled into the Great Hall. Countless candles lit the scene, and the Cardinal’s boy choir and musicians provided heavenly music.
Suddenly a shrill, fiendish screech pierced the air and in rushed the Vices—Cruelty, Jealousy, Disdain, Malice, Envy, Slander, Wantonness, and Danger. Brandishing and cracking whips, they were gowned in jet-glittering black with embroidered hell-flames of orange, yellow, and scarlet lapping at their skirts and bodices upon which in flaming letters their Vices were blazoned, and red devil horns adorned their heads of dark, unruly, free-flowing hair.
As the music soared we made a great show of panic, beseeching the heavens to send us aid, while we pelted our attackers with a volley of sugarplums, oranges, dates, figs, and nuts. Then, with a fanfare of trumpets, rescue came in the form of seven Knights clad in Our Lady’s Blue satin, their cloaks embroidered with flaming hearts, and blue-dyed plumes swaying gracefully upon their golden helmets, each one bearing a shield emblazoned with his title. George was Sir Loyal Heart, and Francis Weston and Harry Percy were aptly cast as Amorous Youth and Gentleness. They were led by the tall and majestic figure of King Henry VIII himself, head to toe in scarlet and hearts aflame. Ardent Desire his shield and lusty, determined gaze proclaimed.
In a mock battle the Knights danced the Vices to their defeat and the demonic temptresses crumpled at their feet and begged for mercy. The Knights pulled them up roughly and set them spinning, twirling away as, with an adamant, imperious wave—“Be Gone!”—they banished them.
The trumpets blared and the choir sang hallelujah as we showered our saviors with rose petals of red and white. With hands upon their hearts they knelt and beseeched us to come down from our lofty perches.
After a great show of maidenly modesty, we relented and let Beauty—the King’s sister Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, and erstwhile Queen of France—lead us down. She had reigned for less than a year before old King Louis died, and was famous for her shining red-gold hair, lily-white skin, and determination to trade the title of Queen for that of Duchess and marry the love of her life, Charles Brandon.
Then confusion came and threatened to dissolve the intricately choreographed masque into chaos. Ardent Desire was supposed to lay claim to Beauty and lead her out to dance, and Sir Loyal Heart and Perseverance were likewise to be partnered, and so forth. Nothing was left to chance; our dancing partners had been assigned to us from the first day of rehearsals. Yet King Henry bypassed his sister and boldly seized Anne’s wrist.
With a cheeky grin, Francis Weston disdained Honor and besought Madge Shelton to bestow Charity upon Amorous Youth instead. And Harry Percy slipped upon a sugarplum and skidded into the arms of Pity instead of Mercy.
An anxious moment ensued as those of us who remained, hastily sorted ourselves into pairs. I for one did not hesitate and boldly grabbed George’s hand even as he reached for Mercy, Sir Thomas Wyatt’s pretty blond-haired sister Meg Lee, who was rumored to have been George’s childhood sweetheart.
And then, upon the sweetmeat-and petal-strewn floor, with the nuts crunching and fruits squashing beneath our satin slippers, we danced a graceful but lively measure that ended with a flourish when the Knights swept the Virtues up into their arms and carried them away. They had defeated Vice, claimed their prizes, and would live to dance and fight another day.
As George followed close on the heels of the King, I was there to see how the King tarried before setting Anne down. He seemed determined to linger there with her in his arms, despite Beauty’s icy blue, disapproving stare. It was only when Devotion, his brother-in-law, auburn-bearded Charles Brandon, clapped him jovially upon the back and exclaimed “Well danced, Sire!” that he released her.
“Mistress Anne,” he said as she curtsied low before him, reaching out to tilt her chin up so she would look at him, “Ardent Desire and Perseverance dance well together. Perhaps next time we shall change roles; I should like that very much.” And with those words he left her.
Anne sprang up and turned anxiously to George, her lips trembling with a question she dared not ask.
“Court gallantry, darling Nan.” George smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand.
“You are sure, George? Only that and nothing more?” she asked, clutching desperately at his hand while her eyes searched his. “When he held me close against his chest and looked into my eyes I felt naked and cold as death!”
Before George could answer, a new drama ensued to divert Anne’s attention. During the dance, poor Harry Percy had trod upon a walnut, and its shell had punctured the thin sole of his dancing slipper. Now he limped over, trailing a trickle of blood. Anne instantly began to fuss over him, just like a mother hen instead of the suave, Frenchified sophisticate she really was. And, supported by Nobility, Pleasure, and Liberty, otherwise known as Norris, Wyatt, and Brereton, and with George, convulsed with laughter, trailing after, they went to seek the services of a physician.
And I was left alone and forgotten once again.
That night in my father’s study at our London house, with the busts of wise Athena, chaste Diana, beautiful Venus, and bountiful Juno staring down at me from the mantel, I sat beside the hearth and rested my head against my father’s knee and asked how the marriage negotiations progressed.
“Ah, Janey.” He reached down to stroke my hair, now freed from its golden net. “It is a fine match to be sure, but I confess, I’ve had my doubts. I’m troubled about young George and the company he keeps. I’ve heard tales; things not fit for your ears. Perhaps it’s nothing and age will curb his wildness, but…” He paused thoughtfully. “I want my girl, my only child, to marry well, but I also want her to be happy.”
“And I will, Father!” I sat up straight. “I will! I will be the happiest woman alive—the happiest woman who ever lived—if I marry George Boleyn!”
“Ah, Janey.” He reached down to caress my cheek. “Your eyes are dazzled by a pretty face, and your heart bewitched by longing, masquerading as love! But you must trust me to know what’s best; though my eyes are old, my sight is truer through the wisdom that comes with experience and age. And I am quite sure that George Boleyn—handsome devil though he is—is not the man for you.”
At these words I flung myself down and wept as though a storm had broken within my heart. Such a sharp, wrenching pain seared my breast, and my whole body shook with wracking sobs that seemed to tear at my lungs, as if a cat were trapped within and trying to claw its way out. And my throat sang out a long, keening wail, a dirge of deepest despair, like a mourner’s lament.
“Janey, Janey!” Heedless of his gouty knees, my father knelt down beside me and stroked my back. “I know it is hard for you to believe me now, but time will prove me right; if you marry George Boleyn he’ll bring you nothing but grief!”
“I would rather come to grief with him than find t
he greatest joy with another!” I vowed.
“Janey, I was watching you tonight, with him and his circle of friends, and you were always on the outside looking in, but never were you a part of it.”
“But, Father,” I protested, “that will change, after we are married….”
And in my heart I firmly believed this. Once we were alone together as man and wife, away from the pleasures and wayward distractions of the court, “darling Nan,” and his band of brilliant friends, George would come to know me, and he would see that I worshipped him and that to earn his love was all I craved. My arms would always be open to him, I would give him children, and to his every comfort I would personally attend. And though he might have had a more beautiful wife, never would he have found a better one. I might lack the dazzle of a diamond, but I would make up for it with devotion as perfect as a pearl. No one could ever love him as much as I did. There was a flame in my heart that burned and yearned for him that could never be eclipsed, extinguished, or dimmed.
“And if it doesn’t?” my father asked gently. “If it is always like the necromancer’s magic circle and you can never, like the spirits, step inside?”
“Nay, Father, he will come to love me, you will see. I will make him love me!”
Oh, how young and full of certainty I was then. I did not know then that it was impossible, no matter how much you desire and crave it, to make someone love you.
“Please, Father, do not deny me this! My heart will surely break if you do!”
With a reluctant sigh he gave in. “It is with grave misgivings that I say this, Janey, but I will leave things as they are; I will say nothing to Sir Thomas of my doubts. The negotiations shall continue and we will see what comes to pass.”
