The Secret: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Tudor Chronicles Book 1)

by Lesley Jepson

  ‘Madam, you would do well to learn to look the other way, as your betters have done before you!’

  Anne was speechless. He was obviously referring to Katharine, and how she had ignored all his affairs while she was his Queen. And Plain Jane was still there, snuffling in a corner and listening intently, no doubt waiting to report Anne’s humiliation in detail to her awful brothers. Anne turned and walked sedately away towards the door to the main gallery, head high as she swept regally out of the room.

  Once in the gallery, and away from Henry’s wrath and Plain Jane’s feigned timidity, she began to hurry back to her own apartments. If she could just get there, and shut the door, she could gather her thoughts and wonder what this remark of Henry’s meant to her position as Queen. If she could just ……! Suddenly her running feet caught in the hem of her gown, and she fell forwards heavily. Her compromised balance prevented her from cushioning her fall and she hit the floor hard with her distended belly. The little maid Meg was in the gallery and, dropping the linens she carried, rushed to help her to her feet.

  Anne felt a wrenching pain across her stomach. Looking at Meg in horror, she whispered, ‘Get Mary,’ before the black shadow just out of her vision came rushing at her and everything went dark.

  Chapter 22 - 1536

  nne gazed out of the window of her solar, embroidery forgotten and neglected in her lap. She smiled as she watched Elizabeth in the garden below, playing ball with her maids, the little dogs running between the daffodils as they tried to get to the ball before Elizabeth, on her sturdy little legs, picked it up and threw it back to her nurse, Kat Ashley. Their laughter drifted up to Anne, and she thought how happy her daughter looked in the spring sunshine.

  Anne’s mind drifted back, trying to remember when she was last truly happy. It was hard to think, with all the sadness and deceit pervading her life now. She closed her eyes as she thought how angry Henry had been after he had been told of the loss of the prince. And indeed her baby had been a prince!

  Tears escaped the corner of Anne’s eyes as she gazed in wonder at the tiny, perfect body of her son, the closed eyes, the rosebud mouth, the perfect fingers and toes, shell-like nails at their tips. A far cry from the awful bloody mass of tissue and bone she had lost on the day of the joust – Henry’s lost child conceived on that dreadful night when she had played the whore for him. This perfect boy had been hers and George’s. He was too completely formed to be Henry’s child – he had not been sharing her bed when this baby was conceived, in love and passion and secrecy.

  She considered how much secrecy there now was. Mary had tenderly wrapped her dead baby in clean linen, had gently washed his face and had then quietly given him to Anne to hold and say goodbye. As she bent with the silent bundle in her arms, she whispered, ‘Your son, my lovely. Not his!’

  Anne was dimly aware that Mary would be able to tell, from the size of the baby, and the look on Anne’s face, that her pregnancy had resulted from that night Mary had helped Anne see her lover, but Anne didn’t know if Mary realised just who it was. She and George met as often as they could in the tiny, dim room off the gallery. Hurried, stolen slices of ecstasy that eased the hunger in her soul and made her bleak days more bearable, but not enough. Nowhere near enough.

  Anne remembered the expression on Henry’s face as he looked down at her, exhausted and grief-stricken, as he said, ‘I see now, Madam, that I will not have a living son with you’, then he had turned on his heel and left her chamber. She scarcely saw him anymore, except at formal events. He was closeted with Cromwell, soft words of condolence from him, ‘I am sorry for the loss of your child, Your Highness,’ – sympathy from one bereaved parent to another.

  Henry was also closeted with Norfolk – no words of sympathy from his lips, thought Anne ‘Hell’s teeth, woman! Can you do nothing right for your family?’ as he raged through her chamber, shoving her ladies aside in his anger.

  And the serpentine Seymour brothers, Edward and Thomas, seemed to be everywhere, pervading every aspect of court life. At least their plain whey-faced idiot of a sister had the good grace to keep herself away from court, thought Anne with irritation. That Jane had been invited to stay with Sir Nicholas Carew, one of Queen Katharine and Princess Mary’s most ardent supporters worried Anne slightly, but it was just one more thing that wasn’t quite right. The black shadow across her life seemed to be getting closer and darker all the time, and her sense of foreboding grew.

  Anne discarded her neglected embroidery and stood up, shaking out her skirts and making her way across to her group of ladies and gentlemen, who were busy planning their outfits for the May Day jousts to be held soon. Harry Norris, who had just become betrothed to Madge Shelton, much to everyone’s delight and no small amount of relief, was making disparaging remarks about the sketches his future wife was making of possible costumes, while everyone, with the exception of Jane Rochford was congratulating them on their betrothal. Tom Weston was loudly proclaiming that, while he was happy that his best friend was finally tying the knot, he would wait for Anne, forever if necessary. Everyone laughed, and Anne playfully tried to box his ears. Jane just watched silently.

  ***

  ‘She bewitched me, Tom. With her peacock’s plumage and her black hair and her French wiles. I have been bewitched.’ Henry hiccupped and drank another mouthful of wine.

  Cromwell examined the wine in his own cup, but didn’t drink any, and stayed silent.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to be bewitched, Tom? To be at the mercy of a French-raised witch?’ Henry’s voice was slurring, and he took another drink as if to steady it. ‘A French raised witch,’ he repeated, nodding at his cup of wine.

  Cromwell thought it sounded more like ‘fresh raised wish’, but he knew what Henry meant. He also knew Henry was very drunk and feeling very sorry for himself. He only called him Tom when he was drunk.

  ‘What would you have me do, Sire?’ Cromwell asked quietly, hoping for an intelligible answer before Henry sank completely into his cups and had to be carried to bed.

  ‘Liberate me!’ Henry’s voice was firmer than Cromwell had thought it could be, given the amount of wine Henry had drunk. ‘You managed to free me from Katharine, Tom. Can you not free me from this enchantment?’ Henry’s small eyes became even smaller as he squinted at Cromwell in the flickering light of the dying fire.

  ‘I was completely in her thrall, Tom. As soon as I saw her, surrounded by Katharine’s black crows, she seemed like a beautiful mythical bird, come down from Mount Olympus to join us mortals on earth. Now I see she was truly sent by the devil himself, to bewitch me into marriage.’ Henry took another long drink of wine, and held his cup out for Thomas to refill the goblet.

  ‘That is why, Tom, that is why she can’t carry a true prince to term. God won’t let her, because he doesn’t want the son of a witch on the throne of his England.’ Henry nodded at Cromwell to emphasise the truth in his words.

  Cromwell thought better of reminding Henry that Katharine hadn’t given him a male heir either, and no-one could accuse Katharine, the daughter of Their Most Catholic Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, of anything other than piety. And stubbornness. Cromwell thought perhaps the lack of ability to conceive lay at the King’s feet rather than either wife, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘Perhaps next time, Sire, you will have a son that lives,’ Cromwell tried to soothe the King, who was again emptying his wine goblet and holding it out for more.

  ‘Not by her, Tom. Not by her.’ Henry slopped the wine over the rim of his cup as he brought it to his lips. Cromwell looked at the King, wondering how serious he was about being freed from Anne.

  ‘A sparrow, Tom. That’s what England needs. Not a bird of paradise, not a foreign peacock. A good, plain English sparrow, one that gua
rds her chicks until they are ready to leave the nest. Not a dazzling bird, no fine feathers or colourful plumage. Just homely, down to earth good English stock. That will find favour in God’s eyes, Tom. That will give England a prince.’ Henry’s voice was becoming quieter and quieter as he sank into the chair, looking down into the goblet of wine as if he could see the future, thought Cromwell.

  Suddenly, Henry snorted as if he had dozed briefly and then awoken abruptly.

  ‘Jane,’ he breathed, looking up at Cromwell slyly, as if Cromwell were going to admonish him for saying another woman’s name. Receiving no censure, he repeated it again, ‘Jane’, and smiled.

  Cromwell, remembering how Henry’s gaze had rested on Anne to the exclusion of everything else, be it church, government, good sense, anything at all, knew that this was the dagger’s tip on which his world balanced.

  If the King wanted to put aside another Queen in his pursuit of a male heir, then Thomas Cromwell would smooth his path. Again.

  ***

  ‘He wants her gone, my Lord.’ Cromwell moved behind his desk and sat heavily, indicating the chair opposite for his guest.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Cromwell, gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where? To a nunnery I suppose.’ Norfolk’s voice was loud in the space. He looked round this ‘office’ that Cromwell kept at Greenwich. He supposed the King had so much secret business, Cromwell needed to work wherever the court might stay. The room was - serviceable, Norfolk thought the best word might be. The hangings were of good quality, not the depictions on them the finest, he thought, but the fabrics were thick and the linings heavy. Suddenly he realised where they were placed, and he applauded Cromwell in his mind.

  The hangings disguised the doors, one in the far corner to the secret passages between the apartments, sometimes used as a shortcut by servants, sometimes used for far more nefarious activities. The other door to the side, connecting Cromwell to – who? Norfolk wondered who the occupant was of the next chamber, and then the door to the corridor, the one Norfolk had just entered, which Cromwell had carefully pulled the hanging over. Not to keep out the draught, but to keep unwanted eyes and ears from hearing and seeing though keyholes or badly fitting boards. Norfolk looked at Cromwell with a rising respect.

  ‘He wants to be free of this marriage, my Lord, and it is my task to ensure that happens. I have sworn testimony from a number of people at court as to the Queen’s behaviour. The King wishes to use evidence of that behaviour to put the Queen aside.’ Cromwell stopped and looked across at Norfolk, who wasn’t blustering as was usual, just silent and a little perplexed.

  ‘What sort of testimony?’ asked Norfolk tersely ‘From whom?’

  ‘I will have a confession from Mark Smeaton that he slept with the Queen.’

  ‘Will have?’ Norfolk recoiled inside from the implications of that statement.

  ‘I have statements from other members of the court that the Queen plotted, along with other people, the death of the King – that’s treason.’

  Norfolk snorted.

  ‘The King believes he was bewitched into this marriage with charms. That the Queen seduced him with unnatural sexual practices, and that is why he cannot get a male heir.’

  Norfolk began to laugh, loudly.

  ‘I have another statement saying the Queen was conducting an unnatural relationship with her brother.’

  ‘Who from?’ Norfolk was amazed at this last.

  ‘Lady Jane Rochford.’

  ‘Yes, it would be. A jealous wife and the most nasty madam I have ever met! You can’t possibly believe her? You can’t believe any of this, Cromwell? Mark Smeaton? Plotting to kill the King? Witchcraft? Unnatural sexual ….! She wouldn’t – for so many reasons’. Norfolk’s voice was getting louder, and then he recalled his words to Anne, ‘French whore’s tricks’. He was becoming grateful for Cromwell’s forethought with the hangings.

  ‘I do not have to believe it, my Lord. I have to present this testimony to those who will judge the Queen, and the King wishes them to believe it.’

  ‘Testimony,’ said Norfolk. ‘Testimony is not proof, Cromwell. You as a lawyer know this.’

  ‘I do, my Lord. Testimony is simply that. And people who want the Queen gone,’ he took a long breath, ‘those people wish this testimony to be regarded as proof.’

  ‘Who will judge the Queen, Cromwell? You? The King?’

  ‘No, my Lord. I am not worthy to judge the Queen, and the King doesn’t want the trial to reflect on him and his judgement. He is leaving it to a council of noblemen.’

  Norfolk looked aghast at Cromwell’s quiet words, knowing what was to come.

  ‘He is leaving it to you, my Lord.’

  ‘Not just me, Cromwell, surely?’ Louder now. ‘She is my niece, and God knows we don’t always see eye to eye, but nevertheless…..,’ his voice trailed away as he thought what impact this development might have on the family, this disgrace!

  ‘No my Lord, not just you,’ Cromwell was startled by the look on Norfolk’s face, that of a man seeing all that he has fought for slipping away at the whim of another. ‘Lord Suffolk, Sir William Courtenay, Sir Edward Pole, the Earl of Northumberland, some others.’

  ‘My God, Cromwell! Harry Percy is to be among the judges?’

  ‘He won’t admit that there was a pre-contract between them, and that he knew the Queen carnally before they were married, so if there was no connection that way he can judge her.’ Cromwell’s voice was hard.

  ‘So, if the council don’t believe these charges, the charge of witchcraft from the King will be used? There will be no possibility of a nunnery, then? Will he have her burnt?

  ‘I’m sure he’ll show mercy, my Lord, as long as she, and all those accused with her, are found guilty. That is why I invited you to this meeting. I need you to know of what she is being accused, and by whom, so you can prove to the council that the testimony presented is true evidence, and so they are sure to reach the correct verdict.’

  Norfolk looked again at Cromwell, amazed that this quiet, unassuming individual was able to manipulate rumour and innuendo sufficiently well to present it as ‘proof’ to have the Queen executed.

  ‘Why is the King doing this, Cromwell? I know he and Anne are going through difficulties at the moment, but he was so in love with her. Hell’s teeth, Cromwell, they’ve only been married three years. He waited to bed her for longer than that!’

  ‘The King feels that he won’t have a male heir with your niece, my Lord. Now Queen Katharine is dead he cannot be exhorted to return to her, should he cast off Queen Anne. As Queen Katharine said, most astutely, each is the other’s downfall. He left her for Anne, and now she’s gone, he can rid himself of Anne for another. If Queen Anne bewitched him, then this marriage also is no true marriage. His next Queen will be, in his mind, his first true wife, and God will smile and give him a male heir.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Cromwell. Does he really believe all that? That Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth can remain bastards if he continues to repudiate their mothers? And he can marry again? If he murders Anne, who will take the risk?’ Norfolk was a pragmatic man, a soldier. But the intricacies of ridding the King of unwanted wives so he might choose another, that was beyond him. He didn’t envy Cromwell, being at the beck and call of such a man as Henry was becoming.

  ‘The King wants her gone, my Lord. It is my job to smooth his path.’ Cromwell met Norfolk’s gaze and shrugged slightly. ‘I always liked Lady Anne, my Lord. I did my utmost to smooth her way to the King, but I work for him, not her. And he wants her gone, and another Queen in her place.’ Cromwell gathered some papers together on his desk and stood. Norfolk also stood and they walked to the door.

  ‘And who h
as he chosen to be the new Queen, Cromwell? Do you know?’ Norfolk turned as they reached the door, before Cromwell swept the hanging aside and the conversation would cease.

  ‘It would seem that the meekness and modesty shown by Mistress Jane Seymour is currently being a balm to the King’s tortured soul.’ Cromwell managed to deliver this without the hint of a smile, although Norfolk realised the phrasing was careful. His respect for Cromwell increased.

  ‘So he wants a biddable milk-sop after he escapes Anne’s fire and fury? Good luck to him then. He’ll be bored in a year, and what will Mistress Seymour and the snakes she has for brothers do then? If I were her, I’d squirt out a prince and then quietly die of the experience. Save us the inconvenience of yet another trial!’ Norfolk put his hand on the latch, then turned with one word ‘When?’

  ‘May Day, my Lord. At the joust.’

  ***

  The day dawned for the May Day joust, and Anne dressed in her new gown. It was a rich, dark purple that almost looked black in some places. Her under gown and sleeves were of the palest eau-de-nil, and her hood matched the purple of her gown perfectly. Around her throat she wore a set of amethysts with her famous pearls, and her hood and gown were studded with amethysts and seed pearls to match.

  While breaking her fast, she looked round the solar, but couldn’t see Mark Smeaton anywhere. She realised she had missed seeing him for several days now. Last time they spoke he told her he had composed some music for her, and had promised to play it for her this morning. She rose, thinking he must have laid abed, and determined to send someone to wake him.

  She made her way down the spiral staircase towards the tilt yard. Suddenly, coming towards her, was George. They hadn’t seen each other alone for some days, and her heart started beating hard in her breast.

  ‘Good morning, my love,’ George smilingly took her hand as he whispered his greeting, his breath ghosting over her fingers and sending a tingle up her spine. Her heart beat faster. He bent his long frame over her and touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, then brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. To any casual observer, it was brother and sister meeting on the stairs and saying a good morning. They couldn’t see how he was kissing the tip of each finger in turn, and licking the sensitive underside pad of each one as he kissed. She began to tremble at the feelings this simple welcome was arousing in her belly, her thighs.