The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  I stepped boldly into his path as he started for the door. “Will you not kiss me good-bye, George?”

  A chuckle escaped him and I saw the mockery in his eyes, but I didn’t care. At least he was looking at me.

  “Was ever a marriage more lacking in dignity than ours?” he said as he shook his head in wonderment. “Very well, Madame, if it will speed me on my way to the harlots and knaves of Paris, then I shall be glad to kiss you.” He put his hands on my shoulders, placed a perfunctory peck upon my cheek, then gently pushed me aside. “Good-bye, Jane,” he said without a backward glance.

  I sagged against the doorjamb, watching him go, and thought again of the tender parting I had secretly witnessed. I closed my eyes and saw again how Anne had cupped his face between her hands when she kissed him. What had they been doing in that turret? My mind was filled with lurid imaginings, visions of them coupling atop Anne’s cloak spread upon the dusty attic floor, with the pale yellow light of dawn seeping in through the grimy mullioned windowpanes to kiss their cold flesh. I bit my fist as the tears poured down my face, and vainly tried to draw a black curtain over the maddening, repulsive images that tormented my mind.

  Only later would I learn that had I lingered I would have seen Sir Thomas and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn creep down that narrow staircase, followed shortly by Francis Weston, Henry Norris, Will Brereton, and Dr. Rowland Lee, the King’s chaplain, and lastly by the King himself.

  On that bitterly cold January morning, King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn had been secretly and bigamously wed. I did not know then that a plot was brewing. Thomas Cranmer stood poised to become the next Archbishop of Canterbury; he was waiting only for the Pope to ratify his appointment. Once this was done, he would declare Henry’s marriage to Catherine null and void. And that was exactly what happened. On Easter Sunday, Anne was formally proclaimed Queen, and all over England congregations walked out en masse when they were asked to pray for “Queen Anne.”

  16

  To atone for the hole-and-corner affair that had been their wedding, Henry rewarded Anne with a coronation of magnificence unsurpassed.

  On the 29th of May, the great, grand, gaudy spectacle began when Anne, six months gone with child and clad head-to-toe in cloth of gold, journeyed upriver from Greenwich to the Tower of London, where she would lodge in the newly refurbished royal apartments until her coronation at Westminster Abbey.

  Newly gilded so that it shone bright as the sun, her barge formed the centerpiece of a huge flotilla, led by a wherry upon which was mounted a red, gold, and green mechanical dragon belching great blasts of orange flames. And towed behind Anne, in a barge all its own, was a huge effigy of her emblem, a white falcon with insolent black glass eyes, with a golden crown upon its haughty head and a scepter clutched possessively in its talons. It was perched upon a branch amidst a cluster of red and white roses. Upon a large white banner, written in bold black letters, was the motto Anne had chosen for herself—“The Most Happy.” But was she? Was she really the most happy? I hoped not.

  To both sides and behind were at least a hundred barges. There was the Lord Mayor of London in his heavy gold chain of office and crimson velvet robes, and all the guilds were represented by a barge of their own. Next came the aldermen and nobles, and a multitude of musicians. In one barge a group of men cavorted, costumed as dancing savages, and in another was a passel of white-gowned, flowing-haired virgins singing sweetly. Red and white petals bobbed upon the stinking, muddy-hued waters of the Thames, and silk banners and streamers snapped and fluttered in the breeze.

  In the midst of it all sat Anne, smiling triumphantly upon her golden throne, one hand resting lightly upon her pregnant belly, while a dozen silver-clad ladies, myself included, sat round her feet.

  The people of London watched it all, grim and unsmiling. There was not a cheer to be heard, and not a single man was seen to doff his cap. They hated her beyond measure, this usurper of the rightful queen, this “Goggle-Eyed Whore” who flaunted her belly, bulging with the King’s bastard. This “Concubine,” this “Night Crow” who had used her witchery and wiles to enslave their beloved “Bluff King Hal,” and turn him away from Holy Mother Church and good Queen Catherine. Words cannot sufficiently convey how much they hated her. Had they been able to reach her, there would not have been enough of her corpse left to bury; they would have ripped her into bloody ribbons and ground her bones into powder.

  When Anne’s barge docked at the Tower’s Watergate, a hundred cannons boomed a deafening salute to welcome her, and King Henry, robed in purple velvet and gold, came to help her disembark and then embraced her. But it was not really her that he embraced, I noticed—not Anne the woman, his new, soon-to-be-crowned Queen—but her belly and the child within that his hands cradled.

  Two days later, en route to Westminster Abbey, she made the slow and stately progress through the narrow London streets to show herself to the people in all her pomp and glory. She traveled upon a gilded throne mounted upon a litter borne by four white palfreys caparisoned in cloth of gold and white velvet, and her four favorite gentlemen—George, Weston, Norris, and Brereton—all sumptuously arrayed and smiling broadly, basking in her triumph, walked alongside and held a golden canopy above her head.

  Upon this day she wore a magnificent iridescent gown of white-gold tissue that fascinated and beguiled the eye with shifting rainbows that danced whenever the sunlight struck it. Like a virgin, she wore her hair unbound, sitting in it, flouting convention and flaunting it. She cared not a whit that it was unseemly for a married woman to appear in public with her hair unbound; it was a sight that should be reserved for her husband’s eyes alone.

  Undaunted by the silent, hostile, frosty-faced folk who lined the streets and leaned from every window and crowded every balcony, doorway, and rooftop, her smile always stayed in place, never wavering or betraying that the swaying motion of the litter made her sick. This was the day Anne had waited years for, the culmination of all her dreams and schemes, and she refused to be cowed by queasiness or the sullen, sulking, funereal faces of the crowd.

  In golden chariots, her ladies-in-waiting, and certain others Anne deemed worthy of the honor, rode divided into pairs, each one gowned in crimson velvet and ermine. I was paired with Anne’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Giddy as a young girl over being chosen to be Anne’s trainbearer in the ceremony ahead, Agnes Tilney cackled and crowed until it was all I could do not to scream at or strike her. And behind us, either on horseback or on foot according to rank and favor, the courtiers, clergy, and diplomats followed. Of course there were heralds to make a din with their blaring trumpets that would resound for hours afterwards in our ears, and a veritable legion of guards to protect Queen Anne from being mauled and murdered by the crowd.

  But for me the shining moment came when some yokel in the crowd pointed to the entwined initials of Henry and Anne, H&A, emblazoned upon all the banners and read it as “HA! HA!” The crowd was quick to take up this derisive cry, pointing at Anne and jeering, “HA! HA!” as she rode past, staring straight ahead with her nose in the air.

  At Westminster Abbey we unlaced that lovely iridescent gown and replaced it with one of heavy royal purple velvet edged with ermine. Then after a brief respite, during which she rested and gratefully availed herself of a cup of spiced wine and the chamber pot, Anne walked in slow and stately progress down the aisle, with her doting grandmother bearing her train and the sour-faced Duke of Suffolk preceding her, carrying the heavy jewel-encrusted crown upon a purple velvet cushion dripping with golden tassels.

  In full ecclesiastical regalia, Thomas Cranmer, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, awaited her, beaming with pride and no doubt congratulating himself for helping bring this happy day to pass.

  In the gallery high overhead, King Henry watched it all from behind a latticed screen; this was Anne’s special day, and upon it he would not intrude.

  She must have been sweltering in that velvet, sweating like a mule, and I am sure
it must have been a chore not to let that weighty train pull her off balance, but she never let the strain show, and with regal grace she knelt at Cranmer’s feet to be anointed with the holy oil and receive the crown. After a solemn pause, he raised her and led her to the throne, and even as the Dowager Duchess fussed with her cumbersome train, he placed the scepter and orb in Anne’s hands and she sat down as the crowned and anointed Queen of England.

  The applause was lackluster at best. Anne had made too many enemies, and legion were those who would have happily pulled her from the throne and danced upon her grave. Indeed, George and his friends made quite a spectacle of themselves with their hearty applause; they even tossed their caps in the air. The weight of the diamond brooch pinned to Francis Weston’s velvet cap nearly broke a man’s nose when it came crashing down. I shot them my most withering glare, but Weston merely stuck his tongue out at me. George and the others just ignored me. George, of course, only had eyes for Anne. Tears of pride trickled down his face, and his mouth must have ached from smiling. I daresay I could have pulled my skirts up over my head and danced a jig right there in front of everyone in Westminster Abbey and he would never even have noticed me.

  17

  Now there was nothing to do but wait. Henry had kept his end of the bargain; now it was up to Anne to keep hers and deliver the son she had promised him.

  Her belly became the center of Henry’s world. His eyes never strayed long from it, and his hands were forever patting and petting it, and he often spoke, loving and soft, to the child within. Anne the woman, the temptress who had threatened to lead him to perdition, may have lost her allure, but now by her pregnancy she was transformed into a holy vessel, the sacred receptacle that held Henry’s heir.

  As that great belly of hers seemed to swell with its own importance, it sapped away all of Anne’s vibrancy and vitality, leaving her weary and listless. While it thrived, the rest of her body seemed to weaken and wither, except for her milk-swollen breasts and painful ankles. Her arms, legs, and neck grew skinny as sticks, while dark-shadowed hollows appeared beneath her eyes, which seemed even larger as they peered out dully from her gaunt and sallow face. And her hair, that sleek ebony emblem of her vanity, hung lifeless and lackluster. Her bladder required such frequent release that she dared not stray too far from a chamber pot. Indeed, so urgent was this need that the great chair she sat in at her coronation banquet was specially equipped with a concealed chamber pot so that she might relieve herself discreetly without absenting herself from the table.

  Soothsayers and astrologers surrounded the King, all talking at once, jostling each other to show him their charts and calculations, all of which foretold the imminent birth of “a Tudor sun that will shine over England in Your Majesty’s image.”

  Henry was jubilant and showered them with gold.

  “At last the curse is ended!” he enthused. “Praise God, now I shall have no more dead boys and useless girls!”

  He even refrained from going on his usual summer progress, since Anne must not travel and he dared not leave her side. Instead he contented himself with hunting in the forests and deer parks nearby.

  It was a precarious time for Anne, Dr. Butts said. She must avoid anything that might anger, upset, frighten, or excite her, and she was forbidden to dance, ride, or indulge in strenuous activity of any kind. Her temper, he informed her bluntly, was her worst enemy.

  Then, like a godsend, came young Master Smeaton. His music was like a gift from Heaven to give Anne solace and soothe her savage temper. He was but seventeen, pale, soft-spoken, and shy, with elfin features, a tad effete, with thick, wavy locks of soft brown hair, and large, celestial blue eyes; fey, unworldly eyes like drowning pools that cried “Come hither!” If I were the fanciful or superstitious sort, I might imagine he stepped straight out of the realm of Faerie. He had the voice of an angel, and upon the lute he played and composed such music that even I was in awe of his talent. The women of the court adored him; they petted him as if he were a spaniel, lavishing him with praise, little gifts, coins, and trinkets. They bought him clothes and fed him sweetmeats. And in window embrasures, corners, and alcoves they would huddle, whispering and weeping over his unhappy past, condemning the hard-hearted carpenter father who had repudiated his only son when he chose the musician’s life over manual labor. But for all their wits and wiles, none of them could snare Mark Smeaton’s heart—that belonged to Anne.

  Day after day, no matter how vile-tempered and bloated she became, he would sit at her feet, playing his lute and staring up at her with all the devotion and worshipful adoration that Queen Catherine had displayed when she knelt before a statue of the Virgin. He composed heartrending ballads about unrequited love that, for the duration of a song, made us all despise the barriers between noble and humble birth that kept the lowborn lad and the great lady he loved forever apart. George, Weston, Norris, and Brereton used to tease her, prostrating themselves at Anne’s feet, hands clutched to their hearts and writhing about like men on a battlefield perishing in great agony of chest wounds as, gasping and groaning, they recited Smeaton’s love lyrics until Anne rocked and screamed with laughter.

  Anne liked Smeaton well enough, for his talent and slavish devotion, but he was never more than a servant, a hired musician, to her. Like me, he was forever fated to remain outside the magic circle. Anne was to Mark Smeaton as George was to me: the star beyond reach.

  In the sweltering month of August, when all drooped and languished with the heat, Anne formally withdrew from the world of men. Per royal custom, she must spend the last month of her pregnancy sequestered, attended only by her ladies, seeing no man but the doctor, until after her child was born.

  It was hot as Hell in the Chamber of Virgins, as the room chosen for Anne’s confinement was called because the walls were hung with tapestries illustrating the parable of the five wise and foolish virgins. Even though it was August, all the windows were locked and covered to keep out every vestige of sunlight. And though we had candles aplenty, against the somber hues and dark woodwork they were a poor match. Braziers burned the clock around, filling the room with strong, heady incense that induced watery eyes, coughing, and sometimes dizziness, but the doctor and midwives deemed it necessary to kill any pestilence that might be lurking in the air.

  We all felt like prisoners in that stifling, suffocating chamber, but mercifully Anne was the only one who was truly trapped. Her ladies took turns attending her and were free to come and go, but Anne must remain always, sitting listless at her embroidery frame or lying in her immense crimson velvet and cloth-of-gold bed, hands folded across her great belly, a scowl upon her face, with nothing to do but wait, her eyes darting nervously towards the table against the far wall, upon which a collection of basins, stacks of linen, and the midwife’s tools lay arranged like implements of torture.

  “Will the pain be very great?” I heard her tremulously ask her sister.

  “Yes, darling Nan,” Mary gently admitted, “it will, but the moment you hold your child in your arms, I promise you, it will all be forgotten!”

  Sometimes as she lay there her eyes would stray towards the silver cradle, with its ermine blankets already turned back in readiness, and a smile would spread across her lips, so confident was she of success.

  It was my misfortune to attend her during this time, along with her sister and mother, her old nursemaid Mistress Orchard, her aunts Lady Shelton and the Duchess of Norfolk, her dear childhood friend Meg Lee, and the oldest lady-in-waiting at court, the deaf and doddering Lady Bridget Wingfield, who was five years past seventy. But most unfortunate of all was the Lady Mary, the erstwhile Princess, the daughter who had once been King Henry’s darling and sole heiress to the English Crown.

  At seventeen Mary Tudor was a pallid, pinch-faced, mule-stubborn girl, with a will of iron like her mother, and a voice deep and gruff as a man’s. Toothaches, migraines, and stomach pains were the bane of her existence. She was careworn and aged beyond her years; already her au
burn hair had begun to fade and thin. Anne hated her with a vengeance. And, in all honesty I must admit, Mary’s own stubbornness did not serve her well. Like Anne, she had forgotten, or never truly learned, that a little honey in one’s manner can go a long way to furthering one’s ambitions.

  Anne summoned the King’s daughter from her manor of Beaulieu and commanded that she wait on her like a servant. A litter, small and cramped, with curtains of stiff, musty, age-cracked leather, was sent to fetch her, and in it Mary was forced to travel, stifled and boxed in, with the curtains drawn tight lest the people see good Queen Catherine’s girl and cheer.

  Orders were given for the Lady Mary to present herself to Anne the instant she arrived.

  Insolent and regal, gowned in gold brocade with sable-trimmed sleeves despite the heat, with one hand resting triumphantly upon her grossly swollen belly, and the other braced against a gilded table to help support her, Anne welcomed her stepdaughter.

  “On your knees! I am Queen and before me you shall kneel! Place your hand here.” Anne’s hand curled tightly around Mary’s wrist, forcing her palm closer, to feel the life quickening beneath the gold brocade. “When your mother bore you, Lady Mary,” she sneered, pointedly reminding Mary that she was no longer entitled to be called Princess, “she made a mistake, but here inside me is the remedy. When my son is born you shall be his servant. You shall wait upon him and whenever he pukes, shits, or pisses you will be there to clean up the mess!”

  Mary never flinched or faltered. “And if you bear a daughter, Madame?”

  Anne thrust Mary’s hand away and shrieked, “A son! I will have a son, I tell you!”

  She snatched up the object nearest her, a book bound in red leather with gold-capped corners, and hurled it straight and hard at Mary. One of the sharp corners gouged her forehead and drew blood.