The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  “Sweetheart, I’m sorry!” Henry exclaimed as he stooped to help her up.

  “Aye, she acts the part of a whey-faced prude, and she certainly looks the part, I grant you,” Anne said tartly, “but I see now she is nothing but another court whore masquerading as a lady!”

  Henry drew himself up to his full height. “Mistress Seymour is a pure and virtuous lady!”

  “Ah, yes, I heard that her virtue is beyond price; did she not start that rumor herself? Let me see now.” Anne, the consummate actress, tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I seem to recall something about a purse of gold. She returned it to you, did she not, with the message that her virtue was beyond price? Yet the fine bay hunter and the services of the tailor who fashioned her new riding clothes she readily accepted.” Anne arched her gracefully plucked black brows. “Are not the very linens that touch a woman’s body more intimate than coins? And the horse itself, I’ll wager, was worth more gold than was in the purse she rejected. And to wear a married man’s portrait around her neck…” As she spoke, Anne reached out and took the locket in her hand. “That does not seem very pure and virtuous to me!” Her fist closed tightly around the golden oval and she twisted the chain and yanked viciously.

  Before the delicate gold chain snapped, it bit into Jane Seymour’s neck. What little color there was in her pale face drained away as blood began to trickle from the wound, and a bright red stain spread slowly across her high-necked white partlet. Her hand rose gingerly to feel the wound and came away bloodstained. She gasped, wobbled, and Henry caught her just as her knees gave way.

  Anne looked on, serene and smiling, swinging the locket round and round by its broken chain.

  “I will deal with you later!” Henry said ominously as he scooped up the swooning Mistress Seymour and carried her from the room, bellowing for a physician.

  Smiling gleefully, I scurried after them, eager to ingratiate myself.

  “Your Majesty, if you will take Mistress Seymour to her chamber, I shall bring Dr. Butts forthwith! Please let me help; I am a good friend to Mistress Seymour and it grieves me to see her injured, and by my own sister-in-law!” I pursed my lips disapprovingly, making where my allegiance lay plain as day.

  Thus I was allowed by the very grateful and anxious monarch to remain at Jane Seymour’s bedside and even to assist Dr. Butts when he arrived.

  It was I who carefully snipped away the bloodstained partlet, frowning over the ruin of the dainty pink rosebud embroidery edging the collar. I saw the lust in Henry’s eyes when I peeled it away and revealed the bare, round white mounds of her breasts above the mint green bodice.

  I hovered helpfully at Dr. Butts’s elbow, handing him what he required, as he cleansed the wound, applied a soothing salve, and bandaged it in clean linen, and, lastly, administered a small dose of poppy syrup to help her rest and numb the pain. And all the while King Henry paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, gnawing his knuckles and darting worried glances at his ladylove lying pained and pale as death upon the blue satin coverlet of her modest maiden’s bed.

  When Jane Seymour at last, in poppy-induced oblivion, slept, the doctor was dismissed, and Henry also waved me out, saying, “I will sit awhile with Mistress Seymour.”

  Curtsying, I withdrew, but only into the anteroom, where I knelt and pressed my eye against the keyhole.

  Henry moved to sit on the bed beside her. He leaned over to caress her brow and face, letting his hand trail slowly down, gliding over her neck, carefully bypassing her injury, and down, over the exposed upper portions of her breasts, bared for the first time before the eyes of a man.

  Jane Seymour moaned and her eyelids fluttered but did not open as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss, chaste at first but then more ardent, onto her pale pink lips. Her arms rose then, seemingly of their own accord, and went round his neck and her body arched up to meet his.

  He was upon her in a trice, fat fingers fumbling to lift her skirts and unlace his codpiece.

  Her legs parted and, like her arms, lifted to twine round him, and I saw her thighs, plump and pasty-white, above the pink ribbon garters and white stocking-tops. As her legs wrapped round him, one pink satin slipper fell to join his cast-off codpiece on the floor.

  Covering her face and throat with kisses, he removed her gable hood and plucked the pins from her hair so that his hands could dive into the white-blond waves.

  I started at the feel of a hand upon my shoulder and spun round to confront the grim, unsmiling countenance of Thomas Cromwell.

  He waved me aside and, with a grimace, lowered his bulk to kneel before the keyhole. After a moment he stood up and gestured that I might resume my place. But he did not leave; instead he remained, standing, hovering behind me, the fur edging his black coat tickling my cheek, as he leaned forward and pressed his ear against the door.

  Jane Seymour mewed like a frightened kitten when he entered her, and her arms and legs tightened around him as he thrust and grunted his way to satisfaction, sounding for all the world like a greedy pig at trough.

  Afterwards, she rolled onto her side and drifted deeper into slumber while Henry washed himself and put his garments right, then sat down to wait for her to wake and realize that she had left maidenhood behind her.

  Bleary-eyed and still a trifle dazed, she sat up, wincing at the unexpected pain between her legs. It was then that she noticed her raised and rumpled skirts and tousled hair spilling down about her shoulders. Her eyes widened as the truth dawned on her. Her mouth quivered and the tears began to fall like rain.

  “Nay, sweeting, do not weep, do not despair….” Henry implored.

  “How can I not? When all that I held most dear—my virtue, my honor—is lost? My father, my brothers, the court, they shall all think me a wanton!”

  “Nay, sweeting, all will be well. By my soul, I would not see you dishonored. I would sooner fall on my sword than cause you disgrace!” He leaned over and kissed her brow. “No one will think ill of you, and we shall keep what has passed between us a secret until you are able to take your place honorably at my side….”

  Outside the door Cromwell and I exchanged startled glances. Did he mean…Could he possibly mean…marriage?

  “Ah, my little love, my little queen!” Henry sighed blissfully as he scooped up flowing handfuls of her hair and lifted them to his lips.

  “Dear heart,” he continued, “did you know that I am three years past forty? I have reached the age where a man’s lust is not so quick to kindle as it was in youth. I want a sweet and docile wife, a quiet, pleasant, gentle, loving wife, not a she-devil, or a screaming, vengeful harpy; I want peace and no more turmoil, bloodshed, and arguments. I want you, my gentle Jane!” He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. With another sigh he heaved himself to his feet. “I must go now, dearest, before I am tempted to again despoil this treasure. O Queen of my heart, rest now and worry not; I promise you all will be well!” He stooped and kissed her fervently.

  Jane Seymour merely sat there as dazed and bewildered as if she had just been struck by lightning.

  Cromwell and I shared another astonished glance, then hastened away as Henry turned his steps towards the door.

  Did I warn Anne? No! Of course not. I wanted to see her cast out, brought low, sunk into the very depths of disgrace and despair, mired so thick she could never claw her way back out, and I wanted that plain Jane Seymour to be the instrument of her destruction! What a comeuppance, what a humiliation it would be for that smoldering, black-haired temptress, with all her clever witchery and wiles, to be pushed aside to make room for pure and demure Jane Seymour, that paragon of domestic virtue!

  24

  Henry was now in full retreat from Anne. Even though her belly was swollen big with his child, he could not abide to be in the same room with her. Her laughter grated on his nerves. The sound of her voice made him scowl and wince. He often sought refuge in sport—the archery butts, tennis court, bowling green, or tiltyard. It was the latter he retr
eated to on the afternoon of the 29th of January 1536, leaving Anne alone with her ladies, talking, sewing, and listening to the devoted Smeaton strum his lute.

  I needed a breath of fresh air so I excused myself—I knew I would not be missed—and went out to watch the joust.

  Jane Seymour was there too, seated in Anne’s place in the royal box.

  Henry, armor-clad astride his great white warhorse, rode up to receive her favor, a kerchief exquisitely embroidered by her own hand with bluebells and buttercups. He pressed it to his lips before holding up his arm for her to tie it around.

  Watching from nearby, his opponent, Sir Francis Weston, glowered with his single eye at the smitten King and simpering Mistress Seymour.

  “By God and all his Saints, King or not, I shall best him!” he vowed hotly.

  “Have a care what you say,” Will Brereton warned. “Francis, it is the King you speak of!”

  “I do not care if it is Lucifer himself!” Weston flared. “Go quickly to the palace, Will, and ask the Queen to send me her favor to wear. I will be her champion!”

  And the King was made to wait, his horse pawing impatiently, while Weston’s squire dallied, making certain all his master’s equipment was in order, checking and rechecking every buckle and strap, until Brereton galloped back to bind a kerchief of scarlet silk, embroidered with Anne’s haughty white falcon, around his upper arm.

  Only then did King and knight take their places, position their lances, and let their visors clang down, poised to dig their spurs in and charge the moment Mistress Seymour gave the signal.

  Never before have I seen a man more determined to win than Francis Weston. His lance struck the King’s armored chest so forcefully it dented the breastplate. I watched in horror as the King flew backwards from his saddle and lay motionless in a cloud of billowing dust. The mighty warhorse reared, flailing its hooves high in the air, then slowly began to fall backwards until its full weight came crashing down upon the King.

  There was much screaming from the people in the stands, and many ladies, including Jane Seymour, fainted.

  “The King is dead! Lord save us, the King is dead!”

  The squire who reached him first and wrenched off his helmet, followed fast by Dr. Butts, said nothing to contradict this. Suddenly the air was rife with panic, hysterical sobs and keening laments. People raced about in utter confusion, courtiers and commoners alike, tearing their hair and clothes, screaming, embracing, colliding with and tripping over one another, blind and witless in their despair.

  Francis Weston’s face went ashen and he swayed in his saddle, and had it not been for Will Brereton he would have fallen.

  Bending over the King as several hands moved swiftly to divest him of his armor, Dr. Butts advised, “Best keep this from the Queen for now….”

  My eyes met the cunning dark weasel eyes of Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Each of us knew beyond a doubt what the other was thinking.

  Norfolk hated his haughty niece. She had served her purpose, and now that her star had fallen, he—like her equally unscrupulous father—had no further use for her. To these two hard-hearted, ambitious men, being on the winning side was all that mattered.

  Even then Thomas Boleyn and his wife were in the royal box with a vial of smelling salts, trying to revive and comfort Mistress Seymour, lamenting to her father and brothers that they had not themselves such a dutiful, obedient daughter and fine, stalwart sons.

  “Do you mean it might cause her to miscarry?” I asked.

  “Aye,” Dr. Butts nodded as he rolled up his sleeves and gave his full attention to the King.

  Our eyes met again and this time we didn’t tarry. Norfolk and I were off and running, sprinting towards the palace. He lost his feathered cap and I lost both my slippers, but neither of us cared, as we jostled and elbowed and pushed and pulled each other. We both wanted to be the first to tell Anne this most distressing news.

  “The hell you will!” We started at Francis Weston’s outraged roar and looked back to see him running behind us, casting off the pieces of his armor left and right, with Will Brereton right behind him, dodging the falling armor. “I know your game, you viper-tongued bitch, and you, you loathsome reptile!” he shouted.

  “The King is dead!” we screamed as we burst into Anne’s chamber. Weston was right behind us; he grabbed my skirt just as we pushed through the door, and tried to pull me back out into the corridor, but I kept running and it tore right off, so that I stumbled and fell into the room wearing only my petticoats and bodice.

  “He’s dead!” I crowed. “The King is dead! What will happen to you now? Everyone hates you!”

  “With no legitimate male heir, civil war is a certainty!” Norfolk chimed in as he caught his breath and smoothed down his hair and clothes.

  Anne bolted up from her chair with a bloodcurdling scream.

  “No! No, it cannot be! Whatever shall become of me?” Her eyes darted about desperately, and those watching her all pointedly stepped back and looked away, making a great show of tweaking sleeves, polishing rings, examining fingernails, or looking out the windows, studiously ignoring her. “The people hate me! They shall rise against me! Who will protect me? And my Elizabeth? My little girl! Who will fight for my daughter’s rights? Who will safeguard the throne until she is of an age to reign?”

  Suddenly her eyes went very wide and she doubled over, gasping, hugging her belly.

  George arrived then. He pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd, shouting for them not to just stand there gawking, but to get the midwife and a doctor. He carefully gathered Anne up in his arms and carried her to her bed. Before he was even halfway there the sleeves of his cream silk doublet were soaked through with Anne’s blood.

  “You bitch!” Weston spat. “See what you’ve done! If you were a man, I would break every bone in your body and last of all your neck!”

  With a mad, outraged scream, I flung myself at him. Soon, the three of us—myself, Weston, and Norfolk—were rolling on the floor, fighting tooth and nail, and shrieking curses and insults at each other while Brereton tried to pull us apart. The courtiers, ladies, and servants were torn between observing the bloody throes of the Queen’s miscarriage and watching us roll on the floor, brawling like drunkards in a tavern.

  The tangle of our bodies blocked the door, and a page in royal livery stumbled over us and cracked a tooth upon the floor before he staggered up and tried unsuccessfully to make himself heard above the din.

  Both my sleeves were torn away, and I slapped Weston’s face and accused him of trying to strip me naked to humiliate me.

  “Nay, Madame, I would not offend people’s eyes in such a way!” he retorted.

  Nearly blind with rage, my hand groped for Norfolk’s dagger.

  “No!” Brereton screamed as I hurled myself at Weston, aiming directly at his remaining eye. Brereton’s booted foot kicked the dagger from my grip, and when I rolled to retrieve it his foot came down upon my hand. As I tried to squirm free, Brereton tottered and almost fell. As he sought to steady himself his weight pressed down fully upon my hand. There was a sharp snap like a dry twig as a small bone in the back of my hand splintered and I howled in agony, startling the room into abrupt silence.

  Taking advantage of the sudden silence, the page boy—his cap lost, blond hair rumpled, hose and livery torn, his palms and knees scraped and bleeding from his fall—shouted in a reedy voice crackling between manhood and adolescence, “The King is not dead; merely stunned!”

  With a shriek, I lunged myself at him and sank my teeth viciously into his ankle.

  Bleeding from both nostrils, Norfolk sat up and regarded me strangely. “Good Lord, woman, you really are mad!” he exclaimed, speaking the words that, by their expressions, seemed to be in everyone’s mind.

  Then all was forgotten as the midwife with her apprentice, a doctor with his assistant, and an apothecary surged in, all talking at once, shouting instructions that sent the servants scurrying, and Anne beca
me the center of attention once again.

  She lay screaming upon her blood-soaked bed, naked from the waist down, knees bent and thighs spread wide, as the midwife rolled up her sleeves and tried to stop the bleeding and save the King’s unborn child.

  George knelt on the bed, ignoring the midwife’s orders to depart. He leaned over Anne, grasping both her hands tight, willing her to stay in this world as her blood continued to pour out.

  “Stay with me, Nan, stay here with me!” he pleaded and commanded urgently, tightening his grip as her eyes started to roll up so that only the whites showed. “No! Stay, Nan, stay here with me!”

  “Husband”—I touched his shoulder—“you should go; it is not proper for you to be…”

  Before I could finish, his hand swung back and caught me full upon the mouth. Even before my mind had time to register what had just occurred, he had already turned his attention back to Anne, coaxing and commanding her to fight for her life, while I reeled about, spots dancing before my eyes, blood pouring from my nose and lip.

  My tongue probed gingerly at an incisor wobbling precariously in its socket.

  “Right at the front, George—I shall lose a tooth right at the front! Oh! How could you?” I wailed as tears flooded my eyes, for there was no way to fix firm again a wiggly tooth.

  But George did not care about me or my tooth; all he cared about was Anne.

  Henry Norris soon brought word that the King had recovered his senses and Mistress Seymour was at his side, holding his hand.

  “Jane!” That was Henry’s first word, a beatific sigh, when he opened his befuddled blue eyes and saw her sitting there. And there she stayed, patient as a saint, bathing his bruised face, adjusting the bandages that swathed his head when he complained that they pinched, giving him a spoonful of honey to make the apothecary’s medicine more palatable, and holding his hand when the pain in his leg reached a crescendo under the surgeon’s nervous fingers and cruel instruments. Never for a moment did she leave his side, not even when the bone chips were removed, the blood spurted, and the vile, greedy black leeches were set down to suckle the seeping wound.