Jane’s harsh voice came from the window embrasure where she was reading. Startled, George looked across at her, realising he had not thought she would be here. Had he known, he would have borrowed a clean shirt from Tom Wyatt and gone straight to the King. He avoided Jane whenever he could.
Jane stood and came nearer. ‘To treat his Queen like that! Why does he think she deserves it, I wonder? He wasn’t like that with Mary. But Anne - I see the bruises on her wrists and arms,’ she continued. ‘And bruises and scratches on her ….’
‘It is not for us to speculate on what happens in the Royal bedchamber, Jane.’ He had to stop her speaking about this. He couldn’t bear to listen. George turned away and closed his eyes, pushing down the fury he was feeling, trying to calm his breathing and school his features into the impassive mask he usually wore when he had to deal with his wife.
‘At least something is happening in their bedchamber,’ said Jane nastily.
George walked to the armoire and took out a clean shirt. When he turned round, shirt in hand, Jane was immediately in front of him. He rocked back on his heels, startled for a moment by how close she was. Suddenly she reached out and traced her hands over his chest and shoulders.
‘Something could also happen in ours, George,’ she said, looking up at him as her hands roamed his torso, over his biceps and shoulders, then across his chest muscles and making their way downwards.
George looked at her silently, as if she were insane, and quickly gathered her hands in his own, pressing them back to her chest. He kept hold of them there until she understood not to touch him again, then he let her go.
‘Nothing is going to happen, Madam. I have been called to the King.’ He was surprised how steady his voice was.
‘Why don’t you ever make love to me, George? We could have a good marriage, a successful marriage. I could give you children.’ Jane’s voice, strident by nature, was rising hysterically and the sound was shooting daggers through George’s head. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear her!
‘You know ours is a marriage of convenience, Jane. Our fathers arranged it, and we complied. That doesn’t mean there has to be more. I don’t want more from you.’
‘But you’re getting more from someone, I know it,’ she shrieked. ‘Who is she?’ she demanded, tears streaking down her face, eyes narrow and sly, watching for any expression that might betray him. ‘Or is it a ‘he’? Is that why you don’t want me? Is Tom Wyatt my rival for your affection, or one of the other pretty young noble men surrounding the King?'
George was astonished at the depth of venom conveyed in his wife’s words. Her jealousy had been a part of his marriage for so long, he hadn’t realised how much she had thought about the reasons for his neglect of her.
He couldn’t tell her that her lack of understanding of his jokes, lack of interest in the important issues of the day, lack of wit or musicality were the reasons for his own lack of interest in her. She couldn’t keep up with him intellectually, with him and Anne. In short, she bored him. He suppressed both a sigh of impatience at her shortcomings, and a snort of laughter at the thought of being involved with Tom Wyatt, of all people.
‘There is no-one,’ replied George evenly, pulling the clean shirt over his head and tying the laces at the front. He wouldn’t be drawn into her rising hysteria. He might say more than he ought.
‘I will find out eventually, George. There are no secrets at court. And when I know, I will disgrace you both!’
‘Have a care, Madam. My disgrace might prove to be your own undoing.’ George grabbed his doublet from the bed and started to lace it over his clean shirt. He bowed to Jane sardonically, then left the room and quietly closed the door. A dull thump from inside the room told him Jane had thrown her book at the closed door. He continued walking quickly away.
***
Anne sat up in her bed, waiting for her husband to join her. Madge and Mary had made sure that she looked beautiful, and had dressed her in a lavender scented nightgown ready for her visit from the King.
Henry arrived with a couple of his gentlemen to assist him, George and Tom Weston. Tom was laughing and joking with Henry as he helped the King off with the heavy robe he had worn on his way from his apartments. George, his mind full of the pictures of Anne’s bruises his wife’s words had conjured, could neither bring himself to speak, nor to look at Anne. He kept his eyes downcast as he poured two goblets of wine, and handed one to Henry who drank it straight down. George went to the side of the great bed and handed the other silently to his sister, meeting her tormented gaze with his own. The lump in his throat wouldn’t allow a word to pass his lips, so he merely handed her the wine and walked away. Anne quickly blinked back the tears that threatened to fall and swallowed her own wine quickly.
Henry climbed onto the high tester bed, dismissing the courtiers with a wave of his hand. ‘How now sweeting,’ he said softly as the chamber door closed quietly.
Anne smiled, although she could smell the wine on his breath. ‘My Lord,’ she answered, putting her hands on his shoulders and kissing his cheek.
Henry grabbed her wrists and quickly turned her flat on her back, kissing her mouth hard, then moving his lips to her neck. Anne heard the fragile fabric of her nightgown tear as Henry’s large hand pulled it aside so he could kiss her breasts. Then he moved above her and pulled the garment upwards, exposing Anne’s thighs as he pushed her legs apart and settled himself, trying to enter her swiftly as usual. Suddenly, his breath hissed through his teeth as he readjusted his position and tried again. Anne moved under him to give him more access, as Henry took his flaccid member in his hand and tried to push it inside her. Henry was red with an embarrassment that was swiftly turning to anger.
Anne stroked his face gently to his beard and whispered, ‘Let me, my Lord.’ Henry looked at her questioningly. Anne pushed Henry off her, onto his back then removed her torn gown completely, kneeling at his side. Henry gasped at her audacity, then gasped again as she took hold of him in her hand and began stroking his length. He was hard once more in an instant, and Anne moved over him as he stroked and fondled her breasts, then she lowered herself onto him and began to rock. An expression of amazement crossed Henry’s face, and with a few thrusts, he spent himself inside her. Anne promptly rolled onto her back to preserve his seed – she needed a prince!
Henry kissed her brow, her eyelids and her lips, thanking her and telling her how much he loved her, how thrilling that had been, and how he had never imagined she could do that to him. Anne bore his affection without speaking words, just a few murmurs and smiles. She didn’t think she could speak without weeping.
The words that Norfolk had spoken to her flooded her mind. Having reached maturity at the court of France, she had been included in all the gossip of the Queen’s ladies, even that which was unsuited to a girl as she had been. She knew what the ladies had done with the gentlemen of the King, in bed, on the stairs, in the gardens; they had gone into as much detail as possible with each other, giggling and eating sweetmeats in their rooms at night. Anne had listened and tried not to show how shocked she was at their lewd descriptions of how they had both given and received pleasure. Much of what they had described was forbidden by the Church, she knew, and the rest had been so shocking that she had tried not to imagine it. Tears escaped her closed lids as she realised that, to get another child, she might have to put their descriptions into practice.
The people of England, including Wolsey, had long called her a whore, but she had never felt like one until tonight. She wanted to bathe and then cleanse herself in George’s arms, but she lay still, on her back, listening to Henry’s words of love turn to snores, desperately hoping she had conceived a prince.
Chapter 18 - 1534
nne looked round her chambers at the
mass of people and activity taking place. The traditional May Day joust was being held in the morning, and all her ladies and all Henry’s gentlemen were busy planning their outfits, and also planning which lady’s favour the knights would carry.
Anne missed her sister Mary so much on these occasions, but Mary had secretly married William Stafford without permission from the King, and had been banished. The King was angry that Mary, whom he needed to share his bed now Anne was carrying another child, had found herself a husband who was less accommodating than her last; William Stafford wanted his wife to himself.
But Anne missed her. She missed her kindness when Anne was upset, an event that was happening more and more as Anne’s new pregnancy progressed. Anne didn’t feel like she had when pregnant with Elizabeth. She often felt ill, sick and hot and heavy. Her morning sickness was lifting, but she still felt a heaviness in her belly that she couldn’t quite explain, not this early at any rate.
Anne was always surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of hers and Henry’s household, so she rarely saw George for more than a few words at some point during the day – pleasantries and platitudes that meant nothing, just the look in his eyes when he said them gave them anything more than their superficial meaning. She thought back to their last proper meeting, about a week after the disastrous nocturnal visit from Henry.
She had been on her way back from seeing her chaplain, who was joining his prayers to hers for a prince, when George had caught up to her in the gallery and pulled her behind some dusty hangings, which had made Anne sneeze.
Worried that they would be discovered by the sound of sneezing, George opened the door that the hangings were shrouding, and they found themselves in a tiny, empty, forgotten room with one small casement window high up in the wall. The floor was filthy and un-swept, and the light from the window could hardly span the distance to the floor. In the dim light George took Anne into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.
Anne melted into him, all her passion and longing in her kisses, on his lips, his face, his hands. If she could have crawled under his skin, she would have done, she had missed him so.
‘Oh, my love,’ Anne whispered as George kissed his way down her neck and onto her breasts. He stopped and hissed a breath. ‘What is it, my love?’ she asked, looking down at his auburn head against her white skin and wishing he would continue.
‘Jane enjoyed telling me about the bruises. Enjoyed it that he had hurt you,’ he raised his head and looked at her.
Anne looked back at him evenly. ‘Henry didn’t “hurt me” as you mean it,’ she said quietly, ‘as Jane so obviously hopes he does. He doesn’t beat me, George, he just thinks being…’ she searched for the right word, ‘forceful is proof of his masculinity! He is enthusiastic, but no-one has ever told him that enthusiasm is not enough on its own to make a good lover. Sometimes he grasps a little too hard, or doesn’t take off his rings and they scratch.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
‘Then we won’t,’ George’s soft breath in her ear as he kissed her again. ‘I have missed you, my love.’
‘As have I,’ she laughed her tears away and stroked his face with her hand, trying to imprint the feel of him onto her skin, for the times when she could die with longing for him. ‘But we must return to our real lives, my darling, before we are missed.’ He brushed his hand down the back of Anne’s gown in case it had picked up some dirt from the wall, and ghosted his hand over her hair, a loving gesture that warmed Anne’s heart and made her smile inwardly. He opened the door quietly and looked round the hangings. The gallery was empty, so they stepped back into their life, Anne’s hand decorously resting on her brother’s sleeve as he escorted her back to her solar.
The noise level brought Anne’s wandering mind back to the present. Mark and her musicians were vying to be heard over the arguments from Madge, Tom and Harry about who would carry her favour. A new little maid in waiting called Jane was being teased almost to tears by Thomas Wyatt and Will Brereton, who were both old enough to be her father. Anne told them to stop, so they joined in the teasing of Madge instead. Little Jane smiled her thanks to Anne, but Anne simply nodded absently, thinking how much she still missed Mary.
***
The following morning dawned bright and clear, a perfect May morning for the jousts. Anne was dressed by Madge and Jane Rochford in a bright silver and white brocade dress, overlaid with silver tissue with a contrasting black under gown peeping out. She had a silver hood, below which her long dark hair hung in a silky curtain beneath the attached silver tissue veil. She looked wonderful, calm and serene, and not too pregnant, although there was a thickening at her middle if closely observed. The little maid Jane passed her some embroidered kidskin gloves and a posy of flowers and Anne smiled her thanks as she took them. Jane gazed blankly back at her, seemingly overwhelmed by attention from the Queen and Anne determined to ask someone where this slip of a girl had come from and who her family was, but later, after the joust.
The field for the tourney was ablaze with colour and noise as one by one the knights came to the platform for their favours from the Queen’s household. Henry tipped his lance for her favour, and Madge gave both Tom and Harry her favour. ‘Not for the first time,’ shouted Tom Wyatt, and Madge blushed furiously while everyone else laughed uproariously at the old joke. Anne started to feel strangely hot and heavy again, and began to fan herself furiously. George looked across at her while he took the favour from his wife, worry creasing his brow, then the knights were led in procession to the stable entrance, ready for the jousting to begin.
Hooves thundered in the still air, then lances cracked and the crowd cheered. George won his bout against Harry Norris, but this was usual as Harry was the smallest of their group. Then Tom Weston rode against Will Brereton, a match of equals, both tall with the powerful shoulders of men used to horsemanship and the lists, but Tom had the edge of youth and unseated the older man quite easily.
Then Henry, seated on his powerful destrier, faced down Sir Thomas Wyatt. Everyone held their breath as the King thundered down the yard, lance at the ready. But Tom Wyatt had the edge on the King, and as their lances crashed together, the King seemed to be mounted awkwardly on his horse, losing his seat and his lance, and he disappeared beneath crashing hooves and screaming horses.
As if one person, the whole crowd shrieked and rushed forward. Tom Wyatt tried to jump from his mount and help the King, but his horse was too afraid and wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to dismount safely, so he watched helplessly as the others rushed towards Henry and removed his helmet. Tom gasped as he saw the blood.
‘Carry the King to that tent!’ Norfolk’s stertorous boom gave orders. The King’s gentlemen lifted his unconscious body carefully and carried him in the direction Norfolk pointed. Anne quickly scrambled to her feet on the platform and rushed down the steps, bumping into people in her haste to her husband, heedless of the rising nausea in her throat. Tears coursed down her white face and the spectators, seeing her distress, parted so she could reach the King’s side unimpeded. Charles Brandon stood at the entrance of the tent.
‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly to Anne, who looked up at him with terrified eyes.
‘No,’ she whispered, ‘he can’t be.’ She pushed Brandon out of the way and stumbled into the tent, aghast at the bleeding body of Henry laid on the trestle table that had been set for refreshments just a few moments ago. She went to Henry’s side and took his hand.
‘My Lord, we are here with you. Please don’t leave us, your poor subjects. We don’t know what to do without you.’ Anne spoke softly, to her husband, but loudly enough that the people round about could hear. Norfolk, she noticed, was in the corner, deep in discussions with Brandon and Cromwell. A thought about how these three men would carve up Henry’s kingdom if he were gone passed
through Anne’s mind, as she stood and held Henry’s hand, speaking to him all the time until Doctor Butts managed to make his way through the throng.
‘Your Highness,’ Dr Butts addressed Anne, ‘please let me help him.’ Anne looked at the doctor vacantly, a rushing sound in her own head making it hard to hear the words.
‘He isn’t dead, my lady. He has a severe wound in his thigh, and a lesser one on his head where he fell, which is why there is so much blood. Let me treat him, and get him back to his chamber.’ The doctor was untangling Anne’s hand as he spoke, nodding to her waiting ladies to help her from the tent.
Behind her, George’s voice penetrated her daze.
‘Sister, we must get you back to your own apartments immediately.’ She turned and looked at him quizzically. She wanted to smile at him, because it was George, but she felt so strange, with a buzzing in her ears and a shadow at the side of her vision. The muscles in her face didn’t want to work, and her legs seemed to buckle as she gazed into her brother’s eyes.
‘George,’ she whispered, ‘I feel so….!’ Her voice trailed away as he swept her up into his arms and turned to the little girl Jane who was behind him.
‘Fetch Madge Shelton and my wife to the Queen’s apartments. Tell them she is bleeding.’
Jane Seymour, with an uncomprehending look on her pale face, gazed at Anne, held tightly in her brother’s grasp, and was startled by the blood staining the back of the silver gown. There would be no prince this time.
Chapter 19 - 1534
nne sat up in her great bed, surrounded by her ladies, as tears coursed unheeded down her thin cheeks. They had learned in the last few weeks that Anne cried a lot of the time, and didn’t really know why. Anne herself wished she could stop these bouts of tearfulness, but they came unbidden, at the most inopportune times, and she had to wait until they stopped of their own accord. Her ladies had slowly brought their embroidery frames, lutes and books into Anne’s chamber, as she seemed to prefer being in bed as she recovered her strength.
The Secret: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Tudor Chronicles Book 1) Page 11
