by Jean Plaidy
Someone had lighted a torch; another sprang up, and another. In the flickering glow from the flares the faces of the women looked like those of animals. Cupidity was in each face…cruelty, jealousy, envy….
“Ah! What will we do to Nan Bullen when we find her? I will tear her limbs apart…I will tear the jewels off her. Nan Bullen shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”
They fell into some order, and marched. There were more flares; they made a bright glow in the sky.
They muttered, and each dreamed of the bright jewel she would snatch from the fair body. A fortune…a fortune to be made in a night, and in the righteous cause of Katharine the Queen.
“What means this?” asked newcomers.
“Nan Bullen!” chanted the crowd. “We’ll have no Nan Bullen! Queen Katharine forever!”
The crowd was swollen now; it bulged and sprawled, but it went forward, a grimly earnest, glowing procession.
Anne, at the riverside house where she had gone to take supper, saw the glow in the sky, heard the low chanting of voices.
“What is it they say?” she asked of those about her. “What is it? I think they come this way.”
Anne and her friends went out into the riverside garden, and listened. The voices seemed thousands strong.
“Nan Bullen…Nan Bullen…. We’ll not have the King’s whore…”
She felt sick with fear. She had heard that cry before, never at such close quarters, never so ominous.
“They have seen you come here,” whispered her hostess, and trembled, wondering what an ugly mob would do to the friends of Anne Boleyn.
“What do they want?”
“They say your name. Listen….”
They stood, straining their ears.
“We’ll have none of Nan Bullen. Queen Katharine forever!”
The guests were pale; they looked at each other, shuddering. Outwardly calm, inwardly full of misery, Anne said: “Methinks I had better leave you, good people. Mayhap when they find me not here they will go away.”
And with the dignity of a queen, unhurried, and taking Anne Saville with her, she walked down the riverside steps to her barge. Scarcely daring to breathe until it slipped away from the bank, she looked back and saw the torches clearly, saw the dark mass of people, and thought for a moment of what would have happened to her if she had fallen into their hands.
Silently moved the barge; down the river it went towards Greenwich. Anne Saville was white and trembling, sobbing, but Lady Anne Rochford appeared calm.
She could not forget the howls of rage, and she felt heavy with sadness. She had dreamed of herself a queen, riding through the streets of London, acclaimed on all sides. “Queen Anne. Good Queen Anne!” She wanted to be respected and admired.
“Nan Bullen, the whore! We’ll not have a whore on the throne…. Queen Katharine forever!”
“I will win their respect,” she told herself. “I must…I must! One day…one day they shall love me.”
Swiftly went the barge. She was exhausted when she reached the palace; her face was white and set, more haughty, more imperious, more queenly than when she had left to join the riverside party.
There was a special feast in the dormitory at Horsham. The girls had been giggling together all day.
“I hear,” said one to Catherine Howard, “that this is a special occasion for you. There is a treat in store for you!”
Catherine, wide-eyed, listened. What? she wondered. Isabel was smiling secretly; they were all in the secret but Catherine.
She had her lesson that day, and found Manox less adventurous than usual. The Duchess dozed, tapped her foot, admonished Catherine—for it was true she stumbled over her playing. Manox sat upright beside her—the teacher rather than the admiring and passionate friend. Catherine knew then how much she looked forward to the lessons.
She whispered to him: “I have offended you?”
“Offended me! Indeed not; you could never do aught but please me.”
“Methought you seemed aloof.”
“I am but your instructor in the virginals,” he whispered. “It has come to me that were the Duchess to discover we are friends, she would be offended; she might even stop the lessons. Would that make you very unhappy, Catherine?”
“Indeed it would!” she said guilelessly. “More than most things I love music.”
“And you do not dislike your teacher?”
“You know well that I do not.”
“Let us play. The Duchess is restive; she will hear our talking at any moment now.”
She played. The Duchess’s foot tapped in a spritely way; then it slowed down and stopped.
“I think of you continually,” said Manox. “But with fear.”
“Fear?”
“Fear that something might happen to stop these lessons.”
“Oh, nothing must happen!”
“And yet how easily it could! Her Grace has but to decide that she would prefer you to have another teacher.”
“I would beg her to let you stay.”
His eyes showed his alarm.
“You should not do that, Catherine!”
“But I should! I could not bear to have another teacher.”
“I have been turning over in my mind what I would say to you today. We must go cautiously, Catherine. Why, if Her Grace knew of our…our friendship…”
“Oh, we will be careful,” said Catherine.
“It is sad,” he said, “for only here do we meet, under the Duchess’s eyes.”
He would talk no more. When she would have spoken, he said: “Hush! Her Grace will awaken. In future, Catherine, I shall appear to be distant to you, but mistake me not, though I may seem merely your cold, hard master, my regard for you will be as deep as ever.”
Catherine felt unhappy; she thrived on caresses and demonstrations of affection, and so few came her way. When the Duchess dismissed her, she returned to the young ladies’ apartments feeling deflated and sad at heart. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains round it; she thought of Manox’s dark eyes and how on several occasions he had leaned close to her and kissed her swiftly.
In the dormitory she could hear the girls laughing together, preparing for tonight. She heard her own name mentioned amidst laughter.
“A surprise…”
“Why not…”
“Safer too…”
She did not care for their surprises; she cared only that Manox would kiss her no more. Then it occurred to her that he had merely liked her as a young and attractive man might like a little girl. It was not the same emotion as the older people felt for each other; that emotion of which Catherine thought a good deal, and longed to experience. She must live through the weary years of childhood before that could happen; the thought made her melancholy.
Through her curtains she listened to running footsteps. She heard a young man’s voice; he had brought sweetmeats and dainties for the party tonight, he said. There were exclamations of surprise and delight.
“But how lovely!”
“I declare I can scarce keep my hands off them.”
“Tonight is a special occasion, didst know? Catherine’s coming of age…”
What did they mean? They could laugh all they liked; she was not interested in their surprises.
Evening came. Isabel insisted on drawing back the curtains of Catherine’s bed.
“I am weary tonight,” said Catherine. “I wish to sleep.”
“Bah!” laughed Isabel. “I thought you would wish to join in the fun! Great pains have I taken to see that you should enjoy this night.”
“You are very kind, but really I would rather retire.”
“You know not what you say. Come, take a little wine.”
The guests began to arrive; they crept in, suppressing their laughter. The great room was filled with the erotic excitement which was always part of these entertainments. There were slapping and kisses and tickling and laughter; bed curtains pulled back and forth, entreaties for cau
tion, entreaties for less noise.
“You’ll be the death of me, I declare!”
“Hush! Her Grace…”
“Her Grace is snoring most elegantly. I heard her.”
“People are often awakened by their snores!”
“The Duchess is. I’ve seen it happen.”
“So has Catherine, has she not, when she is having her lesson on the virginals with Henry Manox!”
That remark seemed to be the signal for great laughter, as though it were the most amusing thing possible.
Catherine said seriously: “That is so. Her snores do awaken her.”
The door opened. There was a moment’s silence. Catherine’s heart began to hammer with an odd mixture of fear and delight. Henry Manox came into the room.
“Welcome!” said Isabel. Then: “Catherine, here is your surprise!”
Catherine raised herself, and turned first red, then white. Manox went swiftly to her and sat on her bed.
“I had no notion…” began Catherine breathlessly.
“We decided it should be a secret…. You are not displeased to see me?”
“I…of course not!”
“Dare I hope that you are pleased?”
“Yes, I am pleased.”
His black eyes flashed. He said: “’Twas dangerous, little Catherine, to kiss you there before the Duchess. I did it because of my need to kiss you.”
She answered: “It is dangerous here.”
“Bah!” he said. “I would not fear the danger here…among so many. And I would have you know, Catherine, that no amount of danger would deter me.”
Isabel came over.
“Well, my children? You see how I think of your happiness!”
“This was your surprise, Isabel?” said Catherine.
“Indeed so. Are you not grateful, and is it not a pleasant one?”
“It is,” said Catherine.
One of the young gentlemen came over with a dish of sweetmeats, another with wine.
Catherine and Manox sat on the edge of Catherine’s bed, holding hands, and Catherine thought she had never been so excited nor so happy, for she knew that she had stepped right out of an irksome childhood into womanhood, where life was perpetually exciting and amusing.
Manox said: “We can be prim now before Her Grace, and what care I! I shall be cold and aloof, and all the time you will know that I long to kiss you.” Thereupon he kissed her and she kissed him. The wine was potent; the sweetmeats pleasant. Manox put an arm about Catherine’s waist.
Darkness came to the room, as on these occasions lights were never used for fear they should be detected in their revels.
Manox said: “Catherine, I would be alone with you completely…. Let us draw these curtains.” And so saying he drew the curtains, and they were shut in, away from the others.
October mists hung over Calais. Anne was reminded of long ago feasting at Ardres and Guisnes, for then, as now, Francis and Henry had met and expressed their friendship; then Queen Katharine had been his Queen; now the chief lady from England was the Marchioness of Pembroke, Anne herself. Anne felt more at ease than she had for four years. Never had she felt this same certainty that her ambition would be realized. The King was ardent as ever, impatient with the long delay; Thomas Cromwell had wily schemes to present to His Majesty; there was something ruthless about the man; he was the sort one would employ to do any deed, however dangerous, however murky—and, provided the reward was great enough, one felt the deed would be done.
So, at the highest peak of glory she had so far reached, she could enjoy the pomp and ceremony of this visit to France, which was being conducted as a visit of a king and his queen. The King was ready to commit to the Tower any who did not pay her full honor. When, a month ago, she had been created Marchioness of Pembroke she had acquired with this high honor the establishment of a queen. She must have her train-bearer, her ladies of the bedchamber, her maids of honor, her gentlemen-in-waiting, her officers, and at least thirty domestics for her own use. What Henry wished the world to know was that the only thing that kept the Marchioness from being Queen in name was the marriage ceremony. “By God!” said Henry to Anne. “That shall take place before you are much older, sweetheart!”
They had stayed four days at Boulogne, and there Anne had met with some slight rebuff, being unable to attend the festivities which the French arranged for Henry, as the French ladies had not come with Francis. It was understandable that Francis’s wife should not come, for on the death of Claude he had married Charles’s sister Eleanor, and Henry was known to have said, when the visit was being discussed, that he would rather see a devil than a lady in Spanish dress. The Queen of France therefore could not come. There remained Francis’s sister, the Queen of Navarre, but she had pleaded illness. Consequently there were no ladies of the French court to greet Henry and his Marchioness. Doubtless it was a slight, but such slights would be quickly remedied once Anne wore a crown.
Now they were back at Calais and very soon, with her ladies, Anne would go down to the great hall for the masked ball; she must however wait until supper was concluded, since the banquet was attended only by men. Contentedly she browsed, thinking of the past months, thinking of that state ceremony at Windsor, when the King had made her Marchioness of Pembroke—the first woman ever to be created a peer of the realm. What a triumph that had been! And how she, with her love of admiration and pomp, of which she was the center, had enjoyed every minute of it! Ladies of noble birth, who previously had thought themselves so far above her, had been forced to attend her in all humility; Lady Mary Howard to carry her state robes; the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex to conduct her to the King; my lords of Norfolk and Suffolk with the French ambassador to attend the King in the state apartments. And all this ceremony that they might do honor to Anne Boleyn. She pictured herself afresh, in her surcoat of crimson velvet that was lined with ermine, her lovely hair flowing; herself kneeling before the King while he very lovingly and tenderly placed the coronet on the brow of his much loved Marchioness.
And then to France, with Wyatt in their train, and her uncle Norfolk and, best of all, George. With George and Wyatt there, she had felt secure and happy. Wyatt loved her as he ever did, though now he dared not show his love. He poured it out in his poetry.
“Forget not! O, forget not this!—
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss—
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!”
She quoted those words as her ladies helped to dress her. Wyatt would never forget; he asked her not to. She smiled happily. No, she would not forget Wyatt; but she was happy tonight for she was assured of the King’s steadfastness in his intention to marry her. He had declared this, but actions speak so much louder than words; would he have created her Marchioness of Pembroke, would he have brought her to France if he were not even more determined to make her his Queen than he had been two years ago? She felt strong and full of power, able to bind him to her, able to keep him. How could she help but be happy, knowing herself so loved! George was her friend; Wyatt had said he would never forget. Poor Wyatt! And the King had met the disapproval of his people, even faced the possibility of a tottering throne, rather than relinquish her.
Courage made her eyes shine the brighter, made her cheeks to glow. Tonight she was dressed in masquing costume; her gown was of cloth of gold with crimson tinsel satin slashed across it in unusual fashion, puffed with cloth of silver and ornamented with gold laces. All the ladies were dressed in this fashion, and they would enter the hall masked, so that none should know who was who. And then, after the dancing, Henry himself would remove the masks, and the ladies would be exhibited with national pride, for they had been chosen for their beauty.
The Countess of Derby came in to tell her it was time they went down
, and four ladies in crimson satin, who were to lead them into the hall, were summoned, and they descended the stairs.
There was an expectant hush as they entered the hall which at great cost Henry had furnished specially for this occasion. The hangings were of tissue of silver and gold; and the seams of these hangings had been decorated with silver, pearls and stones.
Each masked lady was to select her partner, and Anne chose the King of France.
Francis had changed a good deal since Anne had last seen him; his face was lined and debauched; she had heard alarming stories of him when she had been in France, and she remembered one of these was of the daughter of a mayor at whose house Francis had stayed during one of his campaigns. He had fancied the girl, and she, dreading his advances and knowing too well his reputation, had ruined her looks with acid.
Francis said he could think of no more delight to follow supper than the English King’s idea of a ball in which the ladies were masked.
“One is breathless with suspense, awaiting that moment when the masks are removed.” He tried to peer lasciviously beneath hers, but laughingly she replied that she was surprised he should be breathless. “It is the inexperienced, not the connoisseur, is it not, who is more likely to be reduced to such a state?”
“Even connoisseurs are deeply moved by masterpieces, Madam!”
“This is what our lord King would doubtless call French flattery.”
“’Tis French truth nevertheless.”
Henry watched her, jealous and alert, knowing well the French King’s reputation, distrusting him, disliking to see him in conversation with Anne.
Francis said: “It is indeed exciting to contemplate that we have the Lady Anne here with us tonight. I declare I long to see the face that so enchants my brother of England.”
“Your curiosity will be satisfied ere long,” she said.
