‘Nan, calm yourself and tell me what has happened.’ Nan tried desperately to control her sobs, which were coming through great gulps of air. Eventually, she managed to say,
‘Madame, something terrible has happened! Your book . . . George took it from me.’ I knew immediately that she was referring to her lover, Master George Zouche. ‘I begged him to give it back to me, but he said that he wished to read such a goodly text for himself. I was called away to you as I tried to retrieve it from him . . . but thinking the book belonged to me, he took it.’ Nan looked at me with a desperate terror in her eyes, but I knew what she was going to say and I felt an incredible sense of calm descend upon me. Nan continued her story, ‘Oh, Madame, I swore that I would not let it out of my sight; I have let you down!’ Nan cried before bursting again into another gale of sorrowful sobs. However, I needed Nan to finish her story, so I took her firmly by the shoulders and gently shook her to raise her from her hysteria.
Nan, what has happened to the book? You must tell me. I am not cross with you or Master Zouche, but I need to know the truth.’ I spoke with dignified authority, for I knew with certainty that it was not the time to lose one’s head. My stern words seemed to bring Nan to her senses, and she took one deep breath before continuing,
‘George was in the King’s Chapel reading it when the Dean, Dr Sampson came in. George was so delighted with what he was reading that he caught Dr Sampson’s eye and did not see the priest approaching. Before he had any chance to hide the book, the Dean snatched it from him and looked upon it for himself. He cursed my love with most foul language, saying that these were heretical words.’ Nan paused once more, still struggling to regain her composure. ‘He demanded to know the name of my love and whose man he was. Madame, he is to turn it over to His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey . . . I am so afraid . . . I’m so, so sorry . . .’ Her words trailed away yet again, but by then I had heard all I needed to know. Placing my arms around my friend, I lifted Nan to her feet, indicating to Mary Norris, as I commanded,
‘Mary, take Nan to my privy chambers and see that she gets some posset to soothe her disquiet.’ Mary stepped forward, put her arm around Nan’s shoulder, and led her gently back into the main palace complex. I looked round at my friends, all of whom stood silent, gripped by an ominous foreboding of what such a discovery might lead to; it was well known that the King was a conservative in his religion and had little tolerance for heretics of the reformed faith. It was also well known at court that the Cardinal had commanded his prelates, especially Dr Sampson, Dean of the King’s Chapel, to keep a vigilant eye over all people for such books, so that they might not come to the King’s reading.
Yet amongst my friends, I alone knew of the great opportunity that would arise like a phoenix from the ashes of this dangerous situation. I imagined Wolsey gloating over what he undoubtedly perceived as his triumph. However, he had underestimated Anne and the depths of the King’s infatuation yet again. Unwittingly, it would be Wolsey who would be the first catalyst of the Reformation taking hold in England; he had just handed the perfect opportunity for Anne to light the fuse that would blow apart the Roman Catholic Church in England and ultimately bring about his ruin. ‘Sir Henry, where might I find the King?’ I said directly and without hesitation. Before Henry Norris could reply, my brother interjected,
‘Sister, is it wise to speak directly to the King of such matters?’
‘Brother, you do not know the King as I have come to know him. Let me tell you this; His Majesty listens to those who have the wit to be the first to lay their case before him and in this matter, I am resolved to shape the King’s mind towards the truth.’ I suspected my brother saw only too well the fierce resolve that had already taken hold within my breast, and he knew that there was little use in attempting to dissuade me further. I turned back towards Sir Henry, ‘Sir Henry?’ I asked again impatiently.
‘I would imagine the King is finished in Council. He is most likely in his Privy Chamber.’
‘Then there is no time to lose.’ I raised myself to my full height, before stalking off in dogged determination to find the King’s Grace in his apartments.
I found Henry in his private study, and as I was being escorted into the King’s presence, I passed the Duke of Suffolk, who was just leaving. We greeted each other cordially enough, yet as always with my Lord of Suffolk there was an air of circumspect refrain. I thought for a moment to catch His Grace by the arm and tell him of Wolsey’s audacity; for the Duke of Suffolk hated Wolsey as much as any man at court. However, I decided to keep my counsel until I had spoken directly with the King. When I entered Henry’s private chamber, I found him studying a set of maps; yet he had been alerted to my arrival and looked up immediately.
‘Sweetheart! How are . . .’ The King stopped in his tracks, his broad smile suddenly crumpling into deep frown of concern, for in my steely resolve I could not match his warm countenance. ‘Anne, what is it my love? Does something trouble you?’ Henry asked as he moved round from behind his desk and made his way towards me, his arms open and outstretched inviting my response. With this, I ran forward and dropped to my knees in front of the King. Looking up at Henry’s towering presence, I held his gaze firmly and spoke with such passion that I might have converted the devil himself to Christianity.
‘Your Grace, something has been taken from me that I hold most dear.’ I paused for a moment as Henry cocked his head quizzically to one side, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows. He remained silent, but I knew that I had his permission to go on. ‘It is a book that I lent to one of my ladies, Mistress Gainsford. She in turn lent it to her betrothed, Master Zouche, and from him it was seized by Dr Sampson under orders from His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey.’
‘What book do you speak of, sweetheart?’
‘Verily, Your Majesty it is the dearest book that ever the Dean or Cardinal took away.’ I paused briefly, gathering up my courage before taking a deep breath and forging on fiercely, ‘It is entitled, ‘The Obedience of a Christian Man, by Master Tyndale.’ I watched as the King’s eyebrows raised in astonishment at the name of this well-known, Lutheran heretic. ‘Your Majesty . . . Henry . . . forsooth, I swear to you upon my life that in this book are words which decry the unholy interference of the Pope upon Your Majesty’s God given right to govern supremely within your own realm.’ Henry reached down to me, much as I had reached down to Nan, and lifted me to my feet. There was a moment of silence between us.
Suddenly, it was not my Lord that I stood before, but my love. I think that my passion must have stirred something primitive within the King, for he drew me close and with our lips almost touching, I whispered,
‘My love, I believe with all my heart that Master Tyndale speaks of matters that could free you from Katherine and allow us to be wed.’
Henry paused in contemplation of these sweet words, which filled the air with promise. He lifted his left hand, and with his right index finger and thumb, withdrew an ornate ring from his little finger. He then took my hand, tenderly placing the golden ring, which bore Henry’s cipher in diamonds, within my palm. Closing my fingers about it he said,
‘Then you must take this as a token. Deliver it to His Grace and request that I command the book to be returned unto you.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but enough to convey the gravity of his intent. He continued, ‘Then I command you to bring this book to me, so that I may see it; for if you speak the truth, then verily, it is precious indeed.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ I said softly with a warm and alluring smile that drew the King ever closer, until our bodies pressed firmly against one another. In this way, we passed several breathless moments, the mutual desire to lose oneself in the other, surging up in waves of ferocious passion. Henry leaned forward, lifting up my chin and gently biting my lower lip, teasing me with his gentle kisses. I closed my eyes, yielding helplessly to his touch. Extending my neck, I sought to keep myself from drowning in an ocean of rapture and longing. I was intoxicated
by the warm, musky scent of the King’s cheek as he brushed it against my own; the sharp bristles of his beard to which I had grown accustomed, sending small electric shocks through every cell of my body. I could not help but notice a growing flush of desire between my legs. Henry reached his arms around me and grabbed hold of my buttocks, drawing me up and pressing me closer to his body. It was clear that he was deeply aroused.
‘Oh, Anne! I do so want you.’ Henry groaned before picking me up effortlessly, my legs lifting up to clench about his waist. He spun me around so that I perched on the edge of his desk. Our kisses became frantic, as they often did when we found ourselves in such moments of intimacy. Suddenly, Henry broke away from me, his hands resting on either side of my waist; my legs clasped around him. He held my gaze with the same intense focus that a hunter would behold its prey. So lost was he in his rapaciousness for my body that I wondered if I would be able to withhold the King from fulfilling his ultimate desire. However, what happened next took me by surprise. The King unfastened the front of my loose English gown, before unfastening my front-lacing kirtle. He pulled deliberately at those laces, so that the smock below was revealed by degree. When it was loose enough, he said in a whisper,
‘Show me your pretty dukkies.’ Henry and I had shared many moments of passion and tender intimacy; we had run our hands up and down each other’s body as if the other was a fantastical adventure hiding great swathes of unknown territory to be explored, but I had never shown my nakedness to him. I confess that I found Henry’s sheer magnetism overwhelmingly sexy and incredibly exciting; I was well aware that as an alpha female, Anne responded in kind, and I sensed that as their physical and sexual intimacy deepened, Henry and I would enjoy the play of dominance and submission in the bedroom.
The King stepped backwards, whilst with an air of shy submission, for I knew even then how to arouse him, I slowly unlaced more of the kirtle, until it was easy for me to pull down the linen chemise to reveal my naked breasts. The King was breathing heavily; his eyes roamed across the soft swell my breasts in wonderment. Suddenly, before I knew what had happened, Henry’s coiled and serpentine energy burst forth as he pushed me back passionately onto the desk; his mouth coming down to clasp itself around my left nipple and cover my breasts in frantic and ardent kisses. I heard myself cry out involuntarily, and found myself in a storm of erotic love and ever closer to being shipwrecked on the King’s shore. Somehow managing to fight my way back from the brink, I came to my senses. As I was well aware, Anne was not yet secure and the marriage bed was still too far away to give myself entirely to Henry. I needed to stop the torrent of passion, yet give the King release of his sexual tension. With urgent whispers I gasped,
‘Henry, let me give you pleasure.’ With that Henry stopped and looked up at me with a gaze soaked in lust. I pushed the King gently away and slipping effortlessly into the dominant role, I turned about our positions; stalking the King, I held his gaze and demanded his submission. With Henry leaning back against the desk, I stood, partially naked from the waist up, in front of him. I had smiled provocatively, before sinking to my knees and transporting the King into an ocean of divine ecstasy.
Chapter Twenty
Palace of Placentia, Greenwich
May 6, 1528
Two days later, I was walking alone with my father in the Privy Orchard at Greenwich. It was an enchanting and balmy evening; the languid buzzing of bees filled the canopy of the apple trees above us, bringing them alive with a hum of industrious expectation; whilst an occasional fragile petal would fall down like a silken raindrop, forming a carpet of delicate blossom under our feet. I glanced at Sir Thomas Boleyn, who looked every inch the wealthy and favoured nobleman.
He was dressed that day in the latest fashion. His silk doublet was a delicate pinkish-mauve colour. This contrasted admirably with the deep tone of crimson in the velvet bands edging the garment; the square-neck opening, the waist-belt and two guards around the bottom of the skirt also had a border of the same coloured fabric. My father wore a crisp white linen shirt which sat low about the neck with frills at the wrists; cuts across the chest area of his doublet produced slits through which the linen lining of the garment was visible. The cloak my father wore must have been new, for I had not seen it before. It was truly dazzling; made of cloth of silver damask, lined and turned back with sable and edged with a double band of silver passamayne. Finally, as was often the case, Sir Thomas wore a black velvet hat upon his head, decorated with a gold medallion pinned to the underside of the brim.
Spending time alone, we took the opportunity to discuss the incident involving Nan Gainsford and the little book that I had lent to her. After sending an usher to retrieve it from Wolsey with the King’s token, I delivered ‘The Obedience’ myself into the King’s hands. The King had devoured it quickly, calling me back into his presence the following afternoon. When I came upon him, I found him clutching the book in his hand, his eyes were alight with eager anticipation and he could not contain his enthusiasm. No sooner had I arisen from my deep and deferential curtsey, did the King exclaim his great joy at the marvelous words contained therein.
My father was silent for some time as I recounted the episode, his sharp intellect circling through the complex web of ramifications and opportunities that this might bring forth. We walked some paces in silence, side-by-side, before my father spoke again,
‘Tell me again, what did the King say to you then, exactly?’ He spoke to me with equanimity, keeping his gaze directed before him.
‘He said, “this book is for me and all kings to read”.’ I too spoke without looking at my father, remaining focused on the path ahead. After some further consideration, my father delivered his verdict.
‘Then this is good news indeed, for it means that His Majesty will find himself at odds not only with His Grace, the Cardinal, but also with the filthy stranglehold of the Pope.’ My father stopped in his tracks, taking a deep breath as he raised his face to the sky; his distinguished profile illuminated in the rich glow of the early evening sunset. There was a moment’s silence, before he continued, ‘It is a beginning, Anne. Wolsey has played into our hands. If we continue to advance with wisdom and wit, methinks that we will evermore be able to bend His Majesty’s mind toward our cause.’ My father looked at me, reaching up to stroke my cheek affectionately, as he continued, ‘Let us see what news from Rome. I hear tell that Dr Foxe arrived at Dover recently, and will presently come to court.’
I knew that there was great expectation for the return of the King’s trusted ambassadors. I was painfully aware that this delicate matter was far from resolved. Yet, I kept this to myself and planned to make marvellous demonstrations of great joy should Dr Foxe bring back good tidings from the continent. I smiled good-naturedly at my father, allowing him to offer me his arm, which I graciously took. Together we walked back to my privy apartments, for I needed to make myself ready; that evening I was to entertain the King in my chamber.
A little later, I received the King’s Majesty as a guest at my table for supper. However, I found myself in entirely, and somewhat unexpectedly, different surroundings. Just a couple of days before, my mother and I had hastily relocated from my apartments, which had been close to those of the King’s, to the Tiltyard Towers that were set separately from the main palace and on the western side of the complex. Henry was concerned, for an outbreak of measles had taken hold of the court, affecting, amongst others, the twelve-year-old Princess Mary.
The Tiltyard Towers were originally designed to provide magnificent views across the tiltyard below, allowing courtiers and visitors alike to follow the spectacle of the joust in great comfort. In every way, they paid homage to the chivalric values which underpinned the sport of jousting; octagonal stair-turrets surmounted with fanciful pencil-pointed pinnacles, providing a mock medieval backdrop to this most beloved sport of the Tudor nobility. There was no doubt that the towers dominated the palace complex, and although I was entirely familiar with their external appea
rance, I was delighted to finally explore their interior.
On the morning of our relocation, my mother, my ladies and I were led along a gallery that connected the towers to the main buildings at the western end of the Queen’s Apartments. The towers themselves comprised five storeys; each turret being set at every level with tall rectangular windows on each external facet. This let in a flood of light, allowing a truly panoramic view of the tiltyard, the tournament and the surrounding countryside. In turn, each tower was connected to the other by a complex of galleries or rooms. Whilst on the first floor, the gallery was windowless, providing an open but sheltered space from which to view the joust; on the top floor was a large fenestrated gallery that served as a kind of bizarre museum, housing a whole array of horse and man armour, arranged on lifeless, wooden dummies.
With no tournaments imminent, my mother, my ladies and I had the towers to ourselves. Although I found the gallery a peaceful place to pass the time, it was strangely haunting. In the few short weeks that I stayed there, I was often drawn to visit it. I would find myself walking alone amongst the mannequins, pausing often to run my fingers across the cold steel and musing on whether any of these pieces would survive to find its way into the modern day collection of the Royal Armoury.
Yet I had found something else even more troubling. Oftentimes, I would stare down at the empty tiltyard below and imagine a time when, eight years in the future, Henry would suddenly storm off leaving Anne alone to preside over the annual May Day joust. I often wondered if she was unaware of her impending doom; surely at the very least she must have been deeply anxious that something was sorely amiss. I tried to imagine the fear that must have gripped her; a sense of rising panic in the face of the King’s growing disdain and rejection.
I knew well that Anne would gather about her many enemies at court during her relationship with Henry, and that she would always be deeply unpopular with the people of England. Yet, while the King loved her above all others, she would be safe and protected from the pack of wolves that would always circle her, baying for her blood. I mused on how she must have known, sensed even, that as Henry recoiled from her, there was little to stop her freefall into oblivion. Of course at that stage, I never for a moment thought that I would taste that bitter poison for myself; at the time, it was all still in my imagination. For this reason, despite the palace at Greenwich being an exquisite example of early Tudor architecture and royal magnificence, I could never feel totally at peace there. I was always compelled on some subtle level to flee from the place which would ultimately be the stage for Anne’s dramatic downfall.
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