The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  “…or nothing,” they finished as one.

  Their eyes locked, Catherine’s intent and searching, Anne’s scorching with ambition.

  At last, Catherine sighed and shook her head, her gray eyes misty with sorrow and what, for just a moment, looked like pity, but it passed so quickly I could not be sure.

  “That will be all,” she said quietly. “Leave me now. I am weary,” she murmured, pressing a hand against her brow, her fingers rubbing as if they could erase the lines that time and worry had etched there, while her other hand reached for the rosary beads ever present at her waist.

  As we walked away Anne said, “She is as stubborn as one of her Spanish mules! Even a blind fool could see the King no longer loves her. Why doesn’t she just accept it and get the best terms while she can? Henry is prepared to be generous; he will allow her the title of Princess Dowager and love her like a sister—which is what she is—his sister by marriage. Why does she not give in? I do not understand her at all!”

  And she would not understand until she herself stood where Queen Catherine stood now.

  Henry’s next move was to dispatch Wolsey to France to barter for a French bride; while at the same time another messenger was, unbeknowst to the great and powerful Cardinal Wolsey, sent secretly to petition the Pope in Rome.

  Henry chose to keep Wolsey in the dark simply because he feared the Cardinal would not work as hard to bring about the divorce if he knew Henry’s intended bride was Anne Boleyn.

  When Anne learned of this she scoffed, “You all but bend your knee to Wolsey! Are you King of England or does the butcher’s boy wear the Crown? I thought it was the Chancellor’s task to do the King’s bidding, not the other way around!”

  Thus she brought the King around to her way of thinking, and Wolsey’s star began its slow descent.

  8

  While Anne played for a King, her heart would suffer another blow when Tom Wyatt chose to graciously withdraw from the field where he had battled Henry for Anne’s love.

  Ever the poet, he renounced her in a poem:

  Whoso list to hunt? I know where is a hind!

  But as for me, alas! I may no more;

  The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;

  I am of them that farthest cometh behind.

  Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

  Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore

  Fainting I follow; I leave off therefore,

  Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

  Who list to hunt, I put him out of doubt,

  As well as I, may spend his time in vain!

  And graven in diamonds in letters plain,

  There is written her fair neck round about:

  ‘Noli Me Tangere; for Caesar’s I am,

  And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.’

  I was there the night he stood up and recited it to the court. And I saw sorrow, true and deep, in his brown eyes.

  Their eyes met across the banquet table where Anne sat beside the King, who possessively rested one meaty, jewel-laden pink paw upon her knee. They shared a long glance of regret, mourning for what could never be.

  Though Wyatt had never replaced Percy in her heart, Anne truly did love him in her way. And, had he been free, I am certain they would have wed.

  When he spoke the last four lines, Anne’s hand reached up to touch the choker of diamonds encircling her neck, and a pained expression flashed across her face. Then it was gone and she cast her eyes sideways at Henry, who was nodding in approval at the words “Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not), for Caesar’s I am.”

  When he finished Wyatt bowed low to the sovereign, and Henry leapt to his feet, applauding loudly. The court, ever quick to follow the King’s lead, did the same.

  Only Anne remained seated and silent, then slowly she stood. I was seated only two places down and I heard her softly plead a headache and that she must go at once to bed.

  As she passed him, Henry seized her wrist and said in a voice that made me shiver, “Rarely when I hunt does the quarry escape me, no matter how fleet of foot or cunningly it hides. Make no mistake, Mistress Anne, I will catch you, and you will be mine!”

  Anne curtsied quickly and fled.

  Tom Wyatt’s eyes followed her as his body dared not do. He pressed a hand briefly to his heart as if it pained him, then he forced himself to smile and gave himself over to the congratulations of his friends.

  The clock had just struck midnight when Anne appeared at George’s door, huddled in her satin dressing gown and trembling violently.

  Wordlessly, he gathered her in his arms.

  Her words came out in a rush. A nightmare. Anne in a fawn satin gown running frantically through the forest, pursued by baying hounds, hoofbeats, and hunting horns. Then she was cornered, her back against a tree, and the King was there before her, steadily advancing, willful and determined, pressing into her, holding her fast, and lifting her skirts. It was then that she awoke, screaming.

  Murmuring soothing words, George led her to sit beside the fire. There was wine warming in a small cauldron and he ladled some into a goblet and pressed it into her hands.

  Both of them ignored me standing in the doorway.

  “I want to stop, George,” she sobbed.

  “Then stop,” he said as he sank to his knees before her and, taking the goblet and setting it aside, took both her hands in his.

  “I cannot! It has gone too far! I thought when the court failed to deliver the desired verdict that would be the end of it, and I could wave farewell and dance away from him, but he will stop at nothing to have me! I have become trapped in my own net! And Father and Uncle Norfolk never stop pressing me. Winning is all that matters, they keep telling me—it doesn’t matter how I play the game, only that I win! ‘Do not fail, Anne!’ they caution with such hardness in their eyes it takes all the will I have not to let them see me give way to tears. They come at me from all sides, urging me to ‘Give in, Anne, give in! It is a great honor to be the mistress of a King!’ until it is all I can do not to stamp my feet and scream and tear the hair from my head! Were he not King I would tell him what I truly think of him! Every time I see him I must bite my tongue to keep the words from spewing forth else he send me to the Tower and have them chop off my head, and yet I cannot help but think that at least then I would die with the truth upon my lips; that would be better than living a lie!”

  “You mean you no longer want to be Queen?” I asked.

  Sobs shook her and Anne buried her face in her hands.

  “If the prize is within my grasp I shall take it; it would be folly to reject it, and there would be no forgetting or forgiving if I did, but do not ask me whether it is worth it because I no longer know! I am so tired, George, so very tired, yet the battle rages on and I must keep fighting!”

  “Then you must rest, darling Nan.” He stood up and gathered her tenderly in his arms and carried her to his bed. “Sleep now,” he said as he laid her down and drew the covers up over her. “And I shall sit here”—he brought a chair close to the bedside—“and see that no one disturbs you.”

  And there he sat, stroking her hair, until sleep claimed her.

  “Damn them all for doing this to you, my sweet sister,” I, still lurking in the doorway, heard him whisper.

  “Now you have what you have always wanted,” I jibed. “Your sister is in your bed! Do not let my presence keep you from joining her!”

  “Bite your viper’s tongue!” George hissed, and flung his slippers at my head.

  I turned my back and started back to my own bed, but my feet had scarcely crossed the threshold when I felt his fingers biting into the soft flesh of my arm.

  He pushed the door shut so our conversation would not disturb his dear, precious Anne.

  “Why do you always do this?” he demanded. “Why do you say these awful things? What has Anne ever done to you to make you despise her so?”

  “She has stolen what is rightfully mine!” I rounded on him furi
ously. “She has stolen my husband!”

  George laughed wryly and threw up his hands.

  When I heard him laugh at me, mocking me, I wanted to throw myself at him and claw at his face, raking long, bloody furrows into that handsome visage with my nails. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself doing so, and I hated myself for it. How could I have such violent, bloody thoughts about hurting the person I loved most? It was Anne who deserved pain and punishment, not my beloved George.

  “You are a madwoman!” he declared. “You talk naught but nonsense. Anne is my sister. You talk of her as if she were my mistress!”

  “She is!” I shouted. “She is your mistress! Mistress of your heart! No brother loves his sister as you do her—it is unnatural, George, unnatural! I should not have to compete with my sister-in-law for my husband’s attention, or his affection, but I do. Every day of my life, Anne is always between us. I know you bed other women, but I never worry about them because I know that for you there is only Anne, and that with her no other woman can compare! You don’t want a wife or a mistress, George; the only woman you want is Anne! And I hate her for it!”

  George just stood there staring at me, then he shook his head and laughed at me. “You are deranged,” he said, and then he left me. He went back to Anne, and I fell weeping onto my bed to cry myself to sleep.

  But there would be no true rest for Anne. Henry continued to press her to grant him the ultimate favor, and all of her family, except George, took his side.

  I spied on them one moonlit night in the gardens of Greenwich.

  Anne stood steadfast in a gleaming gown of silver tissue, with diamond stars sparkling in her hair, while the King groveled at her feet like a lovesick swain.

  Suddenly Anne seemed to wilt and pressed a hand to her brow. In the moonlight she seemed very pale.

  Henry saw his chance and seized it. He clutched her close, pressing and grinding his loins, forcing her to feel his hardness through her skirts. His lips found hers, then traveled down her neck to her breasts, trussed high above the low, square-cut diamond-bordered bodice. He peeled her gown down from her shoulders until her breasts were fully exposed, with the cool evening air stiffening her nipples. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, his cruel little mouth closing round each rosy pebble of flesh and leaving it glistening with drool. But when his hands began to fumble with her skirts she somehow found the strength to shove him away.

  “Anne, have mercy upon me! For three years I have lived like a monk, all for love of you! Do not be so cruel to one who has been nothing but kind to you. Give yourself to me, tonight, Anne!”

  Anne drew up her gown, tucking her breasts back inside and folding her arms protectively across them.

  “And tomorrow have you show me what a nimble dancer you are as you dance out of your promise to make me queen?”

  “You are queen of my heart already!” he protested.

  “But not of England! If you make me Queen of England I shall share your bed and give you sons; it was that we agreed upon, and I will keep my end of the bargain only if you keep yours!”

  “In time, Anne, all shall be yours in time! But for now…” He reached for her again, but Anne slapped his hand away. “Is it not enough that I promise you my undying love?”

  “Would you chance your son being born a bastard?” Anne asked icily.

  “No, no.” Henry sighed, his great padded shoulders sagging in defeat. “That I cannot risk. For the sake of my unborn son I must damp my carnal lust, though I am in the sight of God a free man….”

  “But not in the eyes of men,” Anne reminded him. “And until that day comes, I shall go alone to my bed.” And with only the briefest of curtsies she left him.

  Gleefully, I gathered up my skirts and raced back inside, eager to taunt George with what I had just seen. But George was not there and his valet could not—or would not—say where he had gone.

  The valet was putting away some freshly laundered linens when I came in, and every time I asked his master’s whereabouts he studiously lowered his eyes and murmured, “I do not know, my lady.” As he bent over the chest, I drew back my foot and kicked his plump posterior as hard as I could; then, seething with annoyance, I stormed into my own chamber and slammed the door.

  I was very curt with my maid as she undressed me.

  Joan was a timid country girl I had brought from Great Hallingbury to serve me; she had previously been a dairy maid and was not accustomed to waiting on great ladies. Her nervous fingers often fumbled and she was ever prone to dropping things. Father had always taught me that we must be patient with our inferiors, but tonight I was in no mood to remember the teachings of childhood, and when she pricked her finger on my ruby, pearl, and emerald flower brooch and dropped it, and one of the stones popped out of its setting, I swung round and struck her soundly across the face.

  As she cringed and cowered before me, a trickle of blood snaking slowly from one nostril, I should have deplored my anger and tried to comfort her, but tonight I was so incensed by George’s absence that I just could not control myself, and instead I called her “a fumble-fingers” and said she was “as stupid as the cows she used to milk.” I seized my heavy silver-backed hairbrush from my dressing table and flung it at her head as I ordered her from my sight. “Go back to your cows until you learn how to properly attend a lady!” I shouted as she ran out, whimpering, with tears streaming down her face.

  I finished undressing myself, and in my temper and haste I tangled the laces that fastened my ornate over-sleeves to my bodice and ended by tearing them badly. Furiously, I flung them down on the floor and kicked them into a corner in disgust. They were my best and most expensive sleeves—red velvet trimmed with golden tinsel and intricate gold embroidery—but at that moment all I cared about was the fact that George was elsewhere, making merry with his dissolute friends, no doubt.

  Then, in my nightshift and dressing gown, I went into my husband’s room, ordered his valet to bank up the fire and be gone, and settled down in a chair to wait.

  Hours passed and I fell into a doze. The dawn was already breaking when I finally heard voices outside the door. I sat up, wincing at the crick in my neck, and watched with mounting fury as the door swung open to reveal Francis Weston and Will Brereton supporting a very drunken George. He sagged there between them, his arms slung across their shoulders, head drooping, feet dragging, too drunk to walk unassisted.

  Brereton was bemoaning the loss of a pair of fine Spanish leather boots that he had wagered when his coins were gone.

  “Be of good cheer, Will,” Weston advised him. “All things Spanish are on their way out—or will be if the King has his way. You have merely anticipated the fashion!”

  “Aye.” Brereton nodded. “He seeks to discard Queen Catherine like an old boot!”

  It was then that they noticed me.

  “Ah, my Lady Rochford!” Sir Francis exclaimed, using my new title. The King had given George the title of Viscount Rochford to please Anne. “I bid you good morning!”

  I was in no mood to bandy words. “Put my husband down upon the bed and get out!” I ordered sharply.

  They smirked and exchanged a knowing glance as if to say “Is she not a bitch?”

  Well, let them think what they would of me! Harpy, shrew, termagant, scold, bitch; I knew they called me all these things and more, lamenting that George was bound to me. How dare they keep my husband out, carousing the whole night through, then bring him home as insensate as a corpse with drink? What wife would not be upset? What right had they to smirk and roll their eyes at me when it was clearly their fault that George was in such a state? Did they honestly expect me to make them welcome, invite them to sit down by the fire, while I sent a servant running to fetch wine and cakes?

  “As you will, Lady Rochford!” Weston shrugged. “Come, Will, let us not be remiss in giving satisfaction to the lady.”

  “Aye, never let it be said that we failed to give satisfaction to a lady!” Brereton chortled as the
y deposited George upon the bed.

  “Or gentleman either!” Weston added cheekily.

  “Speak for yourself, Francis.” Brereton patted him upon the back as he headed for the door. “You and I do not enjoy all the same games.”

  Impatiently, I held the door open wide.

  “Upon my soul, Lady Rochford, never have I seen a more vicious vicountess with such a viperous tongue and so much venom in her eyes!” Then, chuckling at his own wit, Brereton tipped his cap and sauntered away, whistling a merry tune.

  I turned back to the bed impatiently, wondering why Weston lingered. And then I saw—George had begun to stir and had clapped a hand round Weston’s wrist and was trying to pull him down on top of him.

  “Nay, George,” he said lightly, pulling back, “you are drunk, and I would not take advantage of you in such a state.”

  “Why ever not?” George murmured, still holding fast to Weston’s wrist. “I want you to.”

  “Well, that makes all the difference in the world! But, nay, George, tempt me not! I would not have you for my lover, I would rather keep you as a friend; friends last longer. Now release me.” He gently extricated his wrist. “Your wife is impatient to have me depart.”

  “As I am impatient to have her go!” George cried with surprising savagery.

  “And where would you have me go, George?” I inquired, coming to stand at the foot of the bed and tug off his muddy boots.

  “To the Devil!” he shouted, wrenching his foot free and kicking out at me.

  I jumped back, my left hand smarting from a well-aimed boot heel. “Go now, Sir Francis!” I commanded, pointing adamantly at the door.

  “Your wish is my command!” he said, gallantly doffing his cap. “Such scenes of domestic bliss are not for my eye.”

  “No doubt you are well accustomed to such scenes on the rare occasions when you deign to visit your wife!” I cried.

  “Nay, Madame.” He shook his head impishly. “When I am with my wife I am as good as gold. Verily, she thinks me a saint and worships the ground I walk upon. It would break my heart to disillusion her, so it is best she keep to the country while I tarry here at court.”