by Brandy Purdy
I knew where he was going. Sometimes I even followed. I listened, I saw—the carousing, the drinking, the gambling, the whoring, all the obliging court ladies and harlots in taverns who raised their skirts and opened their arms and legs to him. There were rumors that he sometimes dallied with men, reveling in the forbidden sin of Sodom and, if caught, risking a fiery death at the stake. I suppose it was, for him, the ultimate gamble.
Francis Weston’s was the name linked most often with his—a hot-tempered rascal, with a wild, unruly head of hair of the brightest red I had ever seen. His right eye was a shade of gold-flecked brown that reminded me of amber. He had a hundred tales to explain how he had lost his left eye, each more amusing than the last. A generous offer to let a friend shoot an apple off the top of his head during archery practice had gone tragically awry. A quarrel in a tavern over the last sausage on a platter. “The lesson here is not to quarrel at meals and to be wary of forks; in the wrong hands they can be a dangerous weapon!” Other times he cautioned his audience not to pick their teeth while riding in a litter, or to try to pin a brooch onto their hat brim while on horseback, or to tease their ladylove’s pet monkey or parrot. “And never, never tell a temperamental tailor that you will be delinquent in settling your account while he has a pair of newly sharpened shears in his hand!” But whatever the truth, by his loss he seemed undaunted.
4
The storm that had flashed, then fallen dormant, finally began to show its strength in the summer of 1526.
I was at Hever, sitting in Anne’s chamber, embroidering and talking idly with Anne and her mother, when we heard the distant trill of hunting horns.
Hoofbeats came clattering urgently across the wooden drawbridge, and Sir Thomas Boleyn flung himself from the saddle and rushed inside as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels. Within moments he stood before us, panting and dripping with sweat. Ignoring us, he went straight to the clothespress and commenced flinging dresses and kirtles, bodices and sleeves about until the floor was lost beneath a welter of satin, silk, velvet, damask, and brocade. Suddenly he stopped, a spring green silk gown exquisitely embroidered with white roses, with just a shimmer of silver glimmering amidst the pearly threads, clasped between his hands.
“Tudor colors…green and white…roses…the royal emblem…” I heard him murmur intently as he scrutinized the gown. “It’s perfect! Here! Wear this!” He tossed it onto Anne’s lap.
I recognized the material at once. George had brought it back with him from a brief pleasure jaunt to France. I had coveted it for myself at first glance, but no matter how I oohed and ahhed over its beauty, and hinted at the nearness of my birthday, George had ignored me and given it to Anne instead.
“No more of these drab, colorless dresses!” he continued. “If you want to dress like a nun I will send you to a convent! That is the traditional fate of spinsters who fail to make a proper marriage. Need I remind you, Anne, that you are now three years past twenty and woman’s youth is fleeting?”
He reached out and yanked the plain coif of pleated white linen from her head. “Take down your hair! You’ve half an hour to prepare yourself; when you are ready, wait in the rose garden. Take your lute and play, or stroll about and admire the flowers, whatever you will, as long as you appear pleasing to a man’s eye!”
And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
I knew something important was about to happen. While Anne, clutching her lute and arrayed in the spring green gown, sullenly descended the three stone steps into the sunken rose garden, I rushed to hide behind the tall, dense green shrubberies surrounding it.
She left her lute lying upon a bench and idly roamed the pebbled path, lost in thought, crushing the fallen petals of red, pink, yellow, and white beneath her satin slippers, while all around her roses in full, heady bloom swayed gently upon their thorny stems.
Then there he was—King Henry VIII himself in all his might and majestic glory. In his eagerness he had ridden ahead of the hunting party, thus no cavalcade of clattering hooves and blaring horns heralded his arrival. He stood there, a ruddy giant of a man, hands on hips, sweaty and flush-faced from heat and exertion, legs parted as if he meant to straddle the world and declare himself its master.
The crunch of his boots upon the gravel startled her, and Anne spun around and sank quickly into a curtsy. Any woman less graceful and nimble would have lost her balance and fallen flat.
“Up! Up!” he gestured brusquely. “No ceremony, Mistress Anne. You see I come before you not as Henry of England…” At this, her brows arched skeptically. “Ardent Desire has come to call upon Perseverance. You persevere in staying away from court while I ardently desire your presence!”
“Alas, Sire, I am done with all that!” she answered. “The pleasures of the court have lost their allure, and my heart is yet too sore to contemplate…”
“Three years is time aplenty for a broken heart to mend! You have been overlong at nursing your grief, Mistress Anne, and I command you now to cease!”
“With all due respect, Sire,” Anne retorted, “my heart is not yours to command.”
Undaunted, he answered, “It will be.”
“I daresay anything is possible.” Anne shrugged.
“Aye, it is, Anne, it is!” he vowed, nodding eagerly. “With us, anything is possible!”
“As you say.” She shrugged disinterestedly.
“Come, take my arm, show me the garden.”
“As you wish.”
“Nay, dearest Anne”—Henry turned and lightly caressed her cheek—“I’ve yet to be granted my wish.”
“Then if Your Majesty will follow me along this path, I will be glad to show you the garden,” Anne said coldly, turning away from his touch.
“For you, Mistress Anne, I would follow the path to damnation itself!” he declared as they proceeded along the petal-strewn path.
“Ah! What fine roses flourish here at Hever!” His meaty fingers caressed a lush crimson bloom while his eyes devoured Anne.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall give the gardener your compliments,” said Anne, her voice crisp and cool as winter.
“You are not your sister,” he observed.
“No, Your Majesty, I am not.”
“What a rare blossom you are, Mistress Anne! An English rose who weathered the lusty storms of the French court and came home to us fresh and unplucked! The King of France, I am told, is an ardent gardener who likes nothing better than to gather a beautiful bouquet for his bedchamber. However did this English rose escape his attention?”
“One can attract attention without bestowing one’s attentions, Sire. And, as you say, I am not my sister. I would never sell myself so cheaply.”
“Cheaply?” he repeated incredulously. “Many would account it a great honor to be the mistress of a king!”
“As Your Majesty rightfully observed, I am a rarity, the exception rather than the rule. Never would I sacrifice my honor for the brief, fleeting favor that can be found between the sheets of a royal bed.”
“You are proud, Mistress Anne.”
“Too proud to be plucked by a King and then discarded. A rose does not survive long once it has been plucked, and I will not, like some dried and wizened petals made into a potpourri, be parceled out as a gift to some obliging courtier, as my sister was to William Carey!”
King Henry just stared at her, pulses throbbing. There was a sharp snap as his fingers tightened round the stem of the crimson rose.
“Roses are meant to be plucked, not to wither upon their stems, their petals by the winds and rains dispersed and trodden underfoot!”
“That would depend, Sire, upon who does the plucking. I think it is not meet for someone to steal into a garden and take whatsoever he desires, like a thief in the night. Better that it be done lawfully, by one who has the right!”
“It is not for roses to decide who plucks them! I look forward to seeing you at court, Mistress Anne.”
“I thank Your
Majesty for your kind invitation….”
“It is not an invitation.”
“It is a command?”
“We understand each other perfectly. Good day, Mistress Anne.” He extended the rose to her and, with a curt nod, left her.
With her left hand Anne tore the petals from the rose and flung them fiercely aside as her right hand did likewise with the stem; then, with a swirl of spring green skirts she turned and ran from the garden to lose herself in the maze where I dared not follow.
That night Anne kept to her chamber, ignoring her father’s repeated summons to come down to dine.
“The King requests your presence,” the first message said. Another followed shortly afterwards, saying, “Bring your lute; the King desires you to play for him.”
Anne sent her lute downstairs with her answer. “Play it for him yourself. My head aches and I am going to bed.”
Sir Thomas Boleyn did not dare send for her again and made her excuses instead to the much annoyed monarch.
The next morning we assembled in the courtyard to bid the King farewell. Only Anne, to her father’s supreme annoyance, was absent.
King Henry pursed his lips and a cloud of anger seemed to hover above the swaying white ostrich plumes on his round velvet cap.
“We hope Mistress Anne will soon regain her health and grace our court again,” he mumbled gruffly.
“Indeed she will, Your Grace, I am certain of it!” Sir Thomas assured him. “I am certain of it!” he repeated as he knelt upon the dusty, sunbaked flagstones to hold the gilded stirrup for the royal foot.
It was then, as he started to swing himself up into the saddle, that King Henry looked up.
Framed like a painting by a master artist, Anne stood at her ivy-bordered window, still in her thin, clinging white nightshift, idly running an ivory comb through her long black hair. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, out into the distance, pointedly ignoring what was happening in the courtyard below. Then, abruptly, she turned away and disappeared from sight, even as King Henry breathed a long sigh and shuddered with desire.
“Tell your daughter that Love is the physician who cures all ails,” he commanded. Then he leapt into the saddle and spurred his horse onward and, with his retinue following, took to the road again.
5
And so it began, the chase, the hunt, that would consume the better part of seven years, shattering and destroying lives, and shaking and tearing the world like a rat in a terrier’s mouth. Nothing would ever be the same again, all because of Ardent Desire and Perseverance.
At Sir Thomas Boleyn’s command, an army of dressmakers descended upon Hever, and the rustle of costly fabrics, the snip of scissors, the snap of thread, and the chatter of women soon filled the sewing room. Lace makers, furriers, clothiers, perfumers, jewelers, shoemakers, stay makers, all rode forth from London as reinforcements summoned by her anxious father, to outfit Anne for battle even though she herself stood haughty and recalcitrant in their midst, with no intention of fighting.
“When Henry of England desires a woman there is never any other answer but ‘Yes,’” Sir Thomas counseled, circling Anne appraisingly as she stood upon a stool while a seamstress knelt to adjust the hem of her new, sunset orange gown.
“Then I shall teach him a new word—No!” Anne announced, prompting George, lounging in a chair draped with swags of silk and lace, to burst into great, rollicking peals of laughter, thus earning himself a sharp cuff upon the ear courtesy of his father.
“But he is the King!” Elizabeth Boleyn protested, wringing her hands despairingly. “Please, Anne, do not provoke his anger! By refusing him you risk all that we possess, all that your father has worked so hard for, all these years!”
“Ah, the life of a court toady!” Anne sneered. “Such backbreaking labor almost makes one envy a bricklayer!”
In his chair George sniggered helplessly, despite his father’s warning stare.
“Enough!” shouted Sir Thomas Boleyn. “You are a clever girl, Anne, so I know that you will understand what I am about to say to you. Your matrimonial prospects are nil; men may flirt with you, but there are no suitors banging at the door begging for your hand. So now you must choose: a life of gaiety at court, where you will do everything that you can to make yourself pleasing to His Majesty, or a bleak life of silence, contemplation, and prayer, locked inside a nunnery. The choice is yours. You should account yourself fortunate that the King casts even a glance at you! Mark me, you are no beauty. A tall, skinny stick topped with long black hair is what you are; your skin is sallow, your bosom small, your eyes too large, and your neck too long. Then there is that ugly wen upon your throat, and that nub of a sixth finger you hide so well with your oh-so-cunning sleeves. And yet…for some unaccountable reason, the King has noticed you; he wants you, and what Henry wants he shall have! I as your father command you, Anne, to make the most of this opportunity. Take it and make it turn to gold!”
“You would serve me to him upon a platter if it would enrich your coffers and elevate your station,” Anne said bitterly.
“Indeed I would! You are a gambler, Anne, so play him, Anne, play him; and take Henry Tudor for all that he is worth! Just don’t lose like you did with Percy. I think it is safe to say that you will not have another chance. Now I will leave you to your thoughts, though I trust that you have already decided.”
And with those words he left her, with his wife trailing after him, admonishing Anne to listen to her father, for he was a wise man and surely knew best.
“Sacrificed upon the altar of parental ambition!” Anne sighed. “It is either the King’s bed or a convent cot!”
“Nan, listen to me.” George went to her and lifted her down from the dressmaker’s stool. His hands lingered on her waist as hers did upon his shoulders as they stood close together, leaning into each other’s embrace. “I have been at court long enough to know that it is the chase that delights him most, so lead him, Nan, and lead him long; resist and run until he wearies. His interest will wane, and he will turn his eyes towards a different, and easier quarry. He is not the most patient of men, and there are women aplenty who line his path ready to throw themselves at his feet.”
“Aye, my sweet brother, have no fear.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “Perseverance will outpace Ardent Desire. I will give Henry Tudor the run of his life!”
“I know you will, Nan.” He smiled. “There’s none who can match you, Nan, none!”
Seeing them standing there, so close, so lost in one another, made my blood boil. By now I was well accustomed to these displays of tenderness and intimacy. I used to watch them, as vigilant as a hawk. The way they walked together, talked together, danced, sat with their heads together whispering confidences, composing songs and sonnets with their pens scratching over parchment, or bent over their lutes; the way they touched hands, embraced, and kissed; the way George’s hands would linger at her waist when he lifted Anne down from her horse; and the way sometimes of an evening or a rainy day by the hearthside he would lay his head in her lap and she would lean down with her hair forming an ebony curtain around him…they looked like lovers. It was as if they were made to be together and, as blasphemous as it sounds, God had made a mistake when He made them brother and sister so that full passionate love between them was forbidden. I never saw, either before or since, such a strong devotion between two people. It was as if they were bonded together, fused, with a chain of unbendable, unbreakable links; nothing could divide them. Together they were whole and complete, but apart something vital was lacking. Was everyone else blind? Why was I the only one who could see it?
“If I did not know better, I would swear you two were lovers!” I shouted at them. But even as the words were upon my lips I wondered, did I really know better? Did I? Then I ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me just as hard as I could.
George followed me and caught hold of my wrist. “What are you about?” he demanded angrily.
“You seem overeage
r to defy your father’s wishes, George. You dislike the thought of Anne in the King’s bed!” I charged with eyes blazing.
“She will find little happiness there,” he answered.
“And her happiness is very important to you.” I nodded knowingly. “Or should I say that it is everything to you? Tell me, George, would that not be more apt?”
He frowned at me. “Do not quibble words with me, Jane. You know well that Anne’s happiness is of the utmost importance to me. We are alone against the world, I often think, and though I lost my battle, I will do everything I can to help Anne win hers. I have been a pawn to my father’s ambition, and you see what it has wrought me—and you with me. Together in this bitter parody of a marriage we are bound.”
I reeled back as if he had slapped me. My voice failed me, and I could do nothing but gape at him as hot, angry tears poured down my face.
“I know, Jane,” he said softly as he took my hand in his and held it oh, so tenderly. “You yearn for what I can never give. For reasons I will never understand, you claim to love me, though you find fault with nearly all of me and heap scorn and jealousy upon everyone and everything that pleases me. You harp and badger, weep and shriek, jeer and cling, until it is all I can do not to strike you. And that displeases me; that I should be roused to the brink of such an ugly thing!”
“Would that I could be the only one who pleases you!” I sobbed, snatching my hand away. “Would that I came first before your sister, your dissolute, foppish friends, and all your foolish and unsavory pursuits—the gambling, wine, and whores, and the music and poetry upon which you squander so much of your time! Your will is weak, George, and I would be the one to make you strong. Banish them all, George. You need none of them—only me!”
