I found he shared even my love of gemstones—and yet, this led us only to division, for he refused to admire, truly admire, the size, excellence, and clarity of my diamonds, my emeralds, my sapphires. He always told a tale of how he had a prettier one, a costlier one, back in Paris. At once, we felt like brothers—but as with brothers, I wanted to push him down in the dirt and make him cry to me for mercy.
One evening, we swapped women. Francis and his men made their way to my pavilion, where they dined with Katharine and her ladies-in-waiting. My men and I went to his encampment—a huge tent gilded with night stars and hung on a great mast—and I dined with his mother and Queen Claude. After our feast, my gentlemen and I slipped out and dressed for a masque in Russian garb and beards of gold wire, then went back in to charm the French ladies with our sweet talk and Moscow accents. We danced with them and together tasted plums and dates and sweet wines. When done, we bowed and left.
In the dark of night, halfway back to our encampment, we met Francis and his men going the other way, having just been served at my fairy castle with every delicacy that could be wrenched out of forests, parks, fields, salt seas, rivers, moats, and ponds. When I saw him, I wagged my beard of wires and cut a caper. I am fond of masque antics. He laughed, and in that moment, once again passing like mirror images, we felt, I believe, true friendship in our similarity. We embraced heartily and continued on.
Once he was gone in the darkness, however, I worried my leaping had been foolish. Some find masqueing infantile.
When I got back to our pavilion, I went to speak to Katharine.
“He enjoyed his feast?” I asked.
“He did. He is a charming man.”
I looked quickly at her. “How charming is Francis?”
She sighed. “Oh, Henry,” she said. “I must go to sleep.”
“Did he like the monkeys with gold fur?”
“He was fairly in love with the monkeys. They stole the Lord Admiral’s dagger and almost murdered someone with it. They flung ordure at the Bastard of Savoy.”
“Do you know the time my groom spent brushing gold leaf into the fur of those monkeys? Did Francis appreciate that my royal touch had turned them gold? Like Midas’s?”
“He wants the monkeys.”
“He can’t have the monkeys.”
“I am worried the monkeys will sicken if they lick their own gilding.”
“Did he dance with the ladies?”
“Henry.”
“It is important that he enjoyed himself but took no liberties.”
“Yes. He danced with us. He kissed all the ladies, too, except the ones he said were too old or ugly.”
A man like myself—but too close for comfort.
And there are no ugly women in the English court.
One day, during the wrestling bouts, I could stand the rivalry no longer. Francis and I had been watching, while exchanging pleasant observations such as “Last week, when I entertained the Holy Roman Emperor…” and “In a letter the Pope recently sent to me, asking for advice…” I despise this kind of sparring—far beneath a king—and yet, when another is weak enough to do it, it would be wrong to allow myself to be conquered.
Breton and Cornish wrestlers were flipping each other on the reeds beneath us. I looked up from the sport to see Francis whispering to Katharine. The two of them paid no attention to the men writhing below. Katharine laughed.
It was a sight almost unseen. Katharine putting her hand before her mouth to hide her teeth—and laughing.
I stood and walked to the side of my rival. “We should wrestle, too,” I said. “Down there.”
The King of France was surprised. “The two of us?”
“Just us.”
“Sir, we have agreed to undertake no contests against each other.” He smiled, which seemed on its surface the smile of a friend, and yet dismissed me as an unworthy opponent—as if he were sorry for me, that I would stoop to challenging him; as if the need to challenge made me weaker.
“To turn down a contest of strength,” I said, “is a great insult.”
I moved closer, to tower above him; the body speaks its own challenge, one which demands more than words in response. Behind Francis, I could see Katharine dropping her eyes. She did not agree with me, and yet did not want to disagree.
Francis said smoothly, “Sir, it is against our agreed code, which our own heralds announced.”
I answered, “Combat for glory is never against my code.”
Francis looked displeased. “Let it be so, then. We will wrestle.”
We came out before the court half naked. There was, strangely, no applause.
I faced off against him, and, as I will do when I wish to rush someone, filled my fancy with images of victory: the hunt, the stag finally bleeding, pawing at the ground in confusion as it dies and the dogs swarm around it; armed men bursting backwards as my lance unseats them; the aura of coronation. And I rushed the King of France.
So France wrestled England.
The arms straining—the legs shuddering—the solid self of the enemy finally upon me.
It does not matter who “won.” The contest was, as I discovered, unfair, because wrestling was a specialty of that vain young man. Had we met in some sport I had trained in equally, there is little question who would have won. Yes—so—faith: He flipped me—and may have felt victory. I looked in his face and saw iron will as he held me down. There was something ugly and professional in his wrestling, not like a gentleman, but rather like those greasy vagabonds who travel from inn to inn, inviting locals to paid bouts in the stables. Unbecoming in a king.
And I lay there and vowed that someday I would seek out one of his women and bed her—bed her often, long, and hard—and so I did—and she said I was much more skilled at that pleasant wrestling than the God-damned King of France. Then he could not say that I was not man enough, when his own mistress lay heaving at my side, when I had stolen her from him. He could not know that she would one day bear my weight just as I, lying there on the Field of Cloth of Gold, bore his.
In that moment, trapped on the rug, I needed my Queen. I needed her to laugh off the contest and help me rise and save the moment. I needed Katharine to look at me with love.
But the sombre cow glared at me from the stands. I cannot forget the look in her eyes.
She looked down upon me as if she hated me for losing. (Not that I earned the defeat—Francis cheated, telling me nothing of his skill.) Or was it that her unforgiving eyes said that she found it pathetic I had even demanded the match?
She despised me. I am sure she despised me.
Just an hour later, she simpered over me. She hid that hatred. I would not see that look again for many years—until the time of the trial, when all the world was watching.
And during that trial, years later, I wondered: Has she hated me all this time, since she saw me thrown at the Field of Cloth of Gold? Have I been deceived?
Never mind. She is no longer mine. The pomegranate, cracked open, showed nothing but an empty husk, and so has been shied into the midden.
That night, after the wrestling, the King of France and I took our pleasure in my palace of illusions. I had to appear in public so I was not thought to be defeated.
We finished our feast and then passed down our scraps for the poor gathered outside the gates. When the time came for dancing, I found myself doing a brisk step with one of Queen Claude’s maids of honour.
“Your Majesty,” the girl asked, “did you enjoy your wrestling match today?”
I wondered whether she was being impertinent.
“We all have our skills,” I said vaguely. “I have shattered many more lances than Francis.”
She spoke English suddenly, to my surprise: “That rhymes in our own tongue,” she said, and sang out, in translation, more lances than Francis. She lowered her head and giggled. She was, after all, but a girl.
I was displeased with the idiocy of this whole conversation.
“It
must be difficult for a girl to enjoy and understand this great meeting,” I said to her. “It is a serious business. The meeting of men.”
“I think I understand it perfectly, Your Highness,” she said. “Two weeks of men striding about, wagging their long poles in front of them, hoping someone notices. What else is men’s business ever about?”
With that, we switched partners in the dance, and she was whirled away from me.
The next in the line, who moved in to take her place, was also a familiar of Queen Claude.
“You seem startled, Your Highness,” she said. “Did your last partner say something amiss?”
“Who is she?” I asked. “She sounded English.”
“She’s the daughter of your ambassador, sir,” answered the woman in my arms. “Her name is Anne Boleyn.”
18 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The Queen’s Lodgings
A Few Hours Before Midnight
“She’s locked herself in the closet,” I hear my nurse, Mary Orchard, cry with alarm. She raps on the door. “Queen Anne, are you all right?”
I don’t answer directly, but when she continues to knock I feel forced to say, “Yes, I’m fine, I just need to be alone to pray and prepare.”
But that’s not exactly true. I have prayed for many days now and am fully prepared to die. Indeed, I should have died this morning, but they delayed my execution to the afternoon. And now I am told it will happen early tomorrow. Being granted time when you are prepared to die is not a blessing. The mind wanders down paths perhaps best left unexplored. I find myself longing to explain how I ended up in this Tower to someone unprejudiced, someone far away, someone who doesn’t know me. After weeks of captivity, I have finally found clarity. And now I wish to tell my story.
An empty chair rests in the corner of the small closet that I have used as a private chapel these past weeks. I imagine that the someone I seek sits upon it, eager to learn all that will be buried tomorrow.
I clear my throat. “Where to begin? Words hold such weight and consequence. I have not always been mindful of my tongue, and it has cost me. For if given the choice, people will believe the worst of you, not the best.”
I hear rumbling outside the closet. It sounds as though my ladies press their ears against the door.
“Who is she talking to? Is someone in the room with her?” Lady Rochford asks.
“She’s praying,” Mrs. Orchard replies.
“No, she’s not praying, because she’s not speaking in Latin,” Lady Rochford corrects her.
“Perhaps she talks with an angel?” young Caroline offers.
“Or a ghost?”
“Or perhaps she’s losing her mind, before she loses her head,” Lady Rochford says.
“Our poor Queen. Should we comfort her?” Mrs. Orchard asks.
“Let her be,” my cousin Madge says with authority. “Queen Anne wishes to be alone. If she needs us she will call for us.”
And there ends the debate.
Thank you, dear Madge.
I look back at the chair with a smile. “Where was I? Ah yes, people like to believe the worst of you. Indeed. Every story must have its villain, whether what is said to cast that villain is true or a torrent of lies. Truth is boring, after all, compared to rumour and lechery. And yet, were I quiet, without wit, and lacking all strength, could I have been cast as a bitch or a whore, a villain or a witch? I rather think not.
“I take comfort in the fact that God knows what is true and right, for He sees all. I shall die in peace because I have faith in this above all else.
“My downfall happened so fast. Not a month ago the King still insisted that the world acknowledge me as his Queen. And tomorrow I become the first English Queen to face the scaffold. Henry and I had been fighting, perhaps more fiercely than in the past, but a few weeks ago, I could never have imagined that I would become la Reine sans tête. The Queen without a head.”
26 APRIL 1536
Greenwich Palace Gardens
“Down, Maman! Down! I walk,” Elizabeth squeals, and wriggles in my arms.
“Oui, ma petite rose, but Maman wants to hold you in her arms today.” I kiss my daughter’s head of fire-red ringlets the exact same shade her father’s was once. Now his hair is dappled with grey.
“S’il te plaît?” Elizabeth pleads with such sweetness that I have no choice but to acquiesce and let her go. She sprints away from me like a young foal after days of confinement. Several nursemaids chase the Princess in circles around the garden until they are quite out of breath. But their displeasure only delights her. For Elizabeth, everything’s a game. She’s so much her father already. Stubborn and playful. Charming and sly. And I pray that, above all else, she will be strong.
My dearest almoner, Matthew Parker, joins me on a bench in the centre of the garden. As we converse, Elizabeth dashes past us, blowing kisses and screaming, “Look, Maman!” every other minute, lest I forget she’s here.
I hand Almoner Parker a gold locket with portraits of me and Henry inside. “It holds no great value, but when the Princess is older, will you give this to her?”
“Of course,” Matthew says, somewhat perplexed. “But does Your Grace not wish to give it to the Princess herself?”
I shake my head. “I fear that may not be possible.” Then, before he can dispute my premonition or offer words of comfort, I add, “Which brings me to the reason I summoned you here.”
A sudden, violent crack of thunder shakes both sky and ground. From the look of the low, menacing clouds, it will be a nasty storm. “Please forgive my directness, but I require from you a favour of some gravity.” I take a deep breath.
“Should anything happen and I be sent away, as was Princess Dowager Katharine before me, I ask that you watch over Elizabeth. I need you to promise me that you will be her guardian, Almoner Parker. My daughter’s father and the world may turn away, but I know if you are there for her, as you have been for me, then, and only then, can I be at peace. Promise me this, Matthew, please.” Tears well up in my eyes.
Lightning branches above us, followed by another great smack of thunder. Elizabeth jumps into my arms. “Make it stop, Maman!” She burrows her little head against my chest and covers her ears with her hands, trying to block out what frightens her.
“Ne pas avoir peur. It’s just a storm.” I rock Elizabeth and kiss her head. “It will pass.” I try not to look desperate as I await Almoner Parker’s response.
He crosses himself. “I hope we will guide the Princess together, but I give you my word, Your Grace. I shall watch over and protect your daughter, always.”
“Merci,” I say through tears. I could fall to my knees and kiss his feet, but that is not appropriate behaviour for a queen. I clutch his arm. “I will be forever in your debt.” Rocking my baby, I add, “And please tell the Princess how dearly her mother loved her.”
Almoner Parker nods.
“Take your leave now, that you might get ahead of the rain.” I dismiss him as I rise with Elizabeth in my arms.
The Princess dabs at my eyes. “Maman, don’t cry.” She kisses my cheek. “Just a storm. It will pass.”
I smile. “Oui.” Oh, ma petite, je l’espère. I really do hope so.
A second-story window on the east side of the castle stands open. As I carry Elizabeth towards the palace, Henry leans out and unfurls his royal palm to feel whether the rain has begun.
Cradling Elizabeth, I call up to him, “Your Majesty!” The Princess and I wave, but I can see even at this distance that the mere sound of my voice causes Henry to wince.
“What do you want, woman?”
I smile, hoping that perhaps our daughter might bridge some peace between us. Lately when Henry isn’t ignoring me, all we do is argue. And yet he asked that I accompany him on an extended trip to Calais in a few days, so he can’t be completely without care for me. Perhaps being away from this miserable country will help. Perhaps a trip back to France, where our love caught flame,
might spark Henry to visit my bed again. Unfortunately, I’m expected to bring that wretched Jane Seymour along as part of my entourage, so he will likely spend most of his time with his latest amour.
“Your daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, visits us today. Would you like her to come give her papa a kiss?”
“Did you think you would bring that child here and all would be forgiven, Anne?” Henry shakes his head.
There are many things I could say in response, but before I launch a retort, Elizabeth shouts merrily, “Bonjour, Papa!”
Henry spits out the window. “That girl is too much like her mother.”
“She is your daughter and your heir!” I snap back at him.
“That little bitch of yours will never be my heir!” Henry screams, and slams his window.
Elizabeth begins to wail, but not before every servant within the palace has heard the awful exchange between Henry and me.
Without warning, the rain arrives in an angry downpour. I cover my little girl’s head and run for shelter. “Your papa loves you, Elizabeth. Always remember that no matter what he says, he loves you very much.”
2 MAY 1536
From Greenwich Palace to the Tower of London
The call of a bird draws my focus from the tennis match. I look up, but see only sky. No one else stirs, so perhaps the sound was a figment of my imagination, one further sign that I’m losing control of all that surrounds me.
I feign interest in this game, even place a bet on my champion, yet ever since Henry’s abrupt departure from the May Day tournament yesterday I can’t shake the fear that something’s terribly wrong. But I say this to no one, not even my cousin Madge.
Now I hear wings flap loudly overhead. In a wink of sun, I catch a flash of pointed feathers and hooked beak.
Sure as I am the Queen, a falcon hovers ten feet above me, midair. He eyes me as if he wishes to devour me, then swiftly takes his leave. I tap Lady Rochford, my brother’s wife, on the shoulder. “Did you see that?” I ask.
Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All Page 7
