The Lady Anne

by G Lawrence

  I shook my head and sat beside him. “I cannot feel the same way, Tom, because if I allowed myself to love you, it would lead to naught but my own ruin. My reputation, my honour, my chances at marriage… they would be destroyed. Yours would not, for it seems that morality and virtue are only issues when they rest on the shoulders of women. I will lose myself in gaining your love. I cannot love you, and give up myself. Can you not see that?” I sighed. I could explain nothing clearly, it seemed, to Tom.

  “For a woman of much wit and intelligence, that was the most convoluted nonsense I have ever heard,” he mumbled. I looked at him and there was a half-smile on his face, which was just about covering the bitter twist of his mouth as I refused him and his love.

  “Do you understand what I mean though, Tom?” I asked. “All I could be to you would be your mistress, and I will not be that. You can offer me nothing more, and that is the way of things. If I were to give in to you, and become your mistress in truth, then I would be untrue to myself, and that is not love. Love cannot ask a heart to be untrue to its own self. Do you not see? I cannot love a man and leave all that is me behind in loving him; there must be some Anne Boleyn left in any love I have, or it is not love, it is only possession. I cannot be other than what I am, and to love without my own honour is something I could never do. You are my friend, Tom. And that is how it will stay. We are not meant for each other.”

  He nodded. “And if my wife went to a nunnery? Or died?”

  A chill fell over me and I looked sharply at him. There was nothing in that charming face that made me suspect him capable of what his words seemed to suggest. People often died before their natural course of life was through, and yet… did Tom mean something else with that question? Would he be willing to remove his wife, by some means? I thought not, surely, but in the moonlight, there fell a wolfish expression onto his fine angular face and I drew back from him.

  He noticed and raised his eyebrows. “You would think me a murderer now?” he asked lightly. I shook my head, although I was still not certain.

  “I have not the slip of the soul required for cold-blooded killing, Anna,” he said ruefully, his tone returning to jest. “Although, give me a few years of being under your heel, and I might consider it, just to release myself of my present pain.”

  I laughed a little, even though, in truth, I had little heart for it. Tom reached towards me and took hold of the jewelled tablet I wore at my waist on a ribbon. It was a pretty thing, made of gold and pearls with our family’s crest on it. My mother had loaned it to me when I was a child, to wear to the coronation of the King and I had begged her to allow it to remain with me, because I admired it so much. I had kept it with me all these long years, and worn it often. It was precious to me. “Give me this,” he pleaded softly. “So that I may remember well this night, when you all but said you would love me, were it not for the rest of the world getting in our way.”

  I unclasped the pendant and gave it to him. Although it meant a great deal to me, he looked wounded, and I wanted to ease his pain. Thomas put the tablet in his pocket and took my hand again. We were silent as we walked back to the others in the garden. George, Henry Norris and Francis Bryan were singing a soft, sad song by the moon’s light as ladies of the court looked on, and, as we reached them, Thomas and I both joined in; the sorrow of the song reflecting the sadness in our hearts for something lost that had never been allowed to begin.

  I had many courtly admirers in my time, but Thomas Wyatt loved me as true as any man loved a woman. I knew the difference between false flattery and honest devotion. But I could not love him as he loved me. All he could offer me was the place of a mistress, and I did not want that, no matter what my heart whispered to me in the darkness as I fell into the arms of sleep. I had feelings for Tom, yes… and I struggled with them then… But they were not like the feelings which came to me later… with the man who would finally claim my heart and make me believe that anything in this world can be overcome, with the might of true love. That knowledge, that awareness, came to me later in my tale…

  In early July, the Emperor Charles left England for Spain from the docks of Southampton. A fleet of one hundred and eighty ships carried him and his entourage, and it took two days of near-chaos to arrange their departure. The Bay of Biscay was calm, for once, and Charles arrived in Spain happy to have a new ally in his war against France. For Henry, there was the possibility that he would one day wear the mantle of the King of France, and for Wolsey, there was the possibility that he would one day rule over the Church as Pope.

  But the future power each man would hold had come at a price… and all at court secretly knew that we had just said a farewell to the man who may well, one day, become the King of England.

  Chapter Twelve

  Richmond Palace

  1522

  Months passed and, much to my relief, nothing further had been said on the matter of the proposed union with James Butler. This silence on the matter seemed, however, to distress the young man himself. James still seemed eager for the match, and kept his attentions to me alive at court; often asking me to partner him at dances and trying to walk with me to talk. But there was a distinct lack of anything approaching effort on my father’s side towards completing the match, which really should have been sign enough to everyone who knew him that he favoured it not. It seemed also that the King was not in the mood to discuss the matter further, and Wolsey seemed, too, to have cooled on his enthusiasm for the match. My father believed that Henry was considering granting on him the title of Earl of Ormond, and all that title’s holdings, without the match; but we waited daily for some news to come either from Mary, or from our father. We waited in vain.

  I was, however, overjoyed to find that support for a marriage between James Butler and I had cooled. In my relief at not having to face a life in far-off Ireland, I felt a carefree and somewhat wild exhilaration come upon me. This was somewhat tempered by sorrow for Tom. I could not reciprocate his feelings of love for me, and although I had made this clear, his attentions continued. I offered him my friendship, and position as a courtly admirer, which was all I was willing to give, but he would always want more of me. This was perhaps the first man I knew who had truly loved me. All other admirers had been just that; admirers. They admired me and courted me, but it was just part of the game to them. Tom was the first man who I think loved me for who I was… But I could not give my heart to him. He wrote poetry for me, including a riddle that he gave to others at court and challenged them to find the answer:

  What word is that which changeth not,

  Though it be turned and made in twain?

  It is mine answer, God it wot,

  And eke the causer of my pain.

  It love rewardeth with disdain:

  Yes is it loved. What would ye more?

  It is my health eke and my sore.

  Tom was a clever poet, and the riddle caused a stir at court as all were trying to work it out. Although it accused me of disdain in the face of love, I liked the poem and laughed when I worked out the answer was Anna. I complimented Tom on his work, and yet remained aloof from his continued protestations of love for me. I had given my answer and could offer him no more.

  Despite such complications as a jilted would-be lover and a jilted would-be husband, life at court was increasingly sweet to me. The spring cold had dissipated and the true summer had arrived, bringing with her fine long days and warmer nights. Wheat and barley grew golden in the fields and the songs of the field-workers tarried late into the evenings. Harvest time was coming close, bringing hard work and good toil for the common man. Soft cheeses became a part of almost every meal at court, and we waited for the tang of the cheeses still ripening in their moulds to come to our lips. The court’s council broke for summer, and hunting of grouse started in the moorland amongst the purple flowering heathers.

  The festivities at court ran on late into the evenings and when one arose for Mass in the mornings there was sunshine in the Chur
ches, replacing the chill gloom and mist of the months in which I had first arrived. I read from my own book of devotions, feeling the warmth of God as I read. Many people brought their own devotional books to Mass, for often the priests rambled on in unintelligible and inarticulate Latin, but I had to hide the words of some of my books, for they included such works as De Maria Magdalena et triduo Christi disceptatio, by Jacques Lefevre; a work, amongst others I owned, which was deeply controversial. It had been condemned by many leaders in the Church, including John Fisher, once the chaplain of Margaret Beaufort, the King’s grandmother. Fisher was Bishop of Rochester, and had once been a tutor of theology to the King. Such men were not to be made enemies of in the court.

  I could have simply listened to the droning of the priests at court, but I chose to read of other things and encounter other thoughts. My time with Marguerite had taught me not to close my mind to new thoughts, and even though I was removed from her circle, which I still missed, I would not abandon her teachings. I spoke Latin, yet what some of the priests spoke sounded to me more like nonsense. If I could barely understand them, and I understood the language, then what hope did the common people have of understanding the word of God through the priests of this land? My own French works of theology, even the more moderate ones that I did not hide, were looked on as a little scandalous; most people read their religious texts in Latin. I was no heretic, but I understood the sense, as Marguerite had in France, of the word of God being available to people in their own language. It was not an idea the Church was happy with at all, but it made sense to me, and to many others. If the priests could not be trusted to transfer the word of God to His people in an understandable way, then the people of God should be given the chance to understand it by themselves. The Church called this heresy, but I thought it was just good sense.

  The Church feared, I knew, that if the common man were able to read and interpret the word of God for himself, then there would be less use for priests and bishops, for cardinals and popes. This frightened the men of the Church who drew power from control, but it also limited their understanding of the amazing good that might come if the whole world were able to truly understand the word of God. They were blinded to goodness, I thought, for fear of losing their power. But such power was not granted to them to keep all other children of God in the darkness. If they had a real care for the people, then they would have supported the notion of translating the Bible and other works into the vernacular.

  I did not often voice my opinions on this subject aloud. It was dangerous to do so, as hostile eyes may turn on one who is outspoken in the defence of practises thought by the Church to be heretical. But in my private circles, especially with George, who was of the same mind as me, I did raise opinion on the matter.

  How can one call something heresy, if it can bring a person closer to understanding God? I also believed that the Church needed to make certain reforms. The scandal of selling indulgences, and the many worldly vices of many priests, monks and nuns required attention. In order for the Church to hold itself as holy, and close to God, it must be without stain of sin, which it was not at this moment. The wealth of the Church should be used to ease the suffering and to educate scholars, whereas now it was hoarded in the coffers of cardinals and bishops. New ideas should be listened to, and some embraced, such as offering the word of God to His people in their own language. Trust must be set between the word of God and His own people.

  When I sat in church each morning and afternoon, and said my prayers in the evenings, I prayed to God that the Pope and his cardinals would come to embrace the thoughts of His people having a closer union with Him, and in so doing, allow a greater light to enter their lives through His Grace. The Bible was the source of all true authority in my eyes, and I understood those thinkers who believed that redemption from sin was achievable through the loyalty of faith, and the grace of God alone. I saw the sense in putting faith ahead of ritual, as many Lutherans wrote of, for in truth, the Church had become awash with false ritual, for reasons of profit. But whilst I saw and understood all of these things, I did not consider myself to be a Lutheran. The Church required reform; it had done so in the past, and may do again in the future. It was up to us, as the children of God, to work towards a time when the new ideas of faith could be united with the old, and each benefit from such a marriage of minds.

  My father had many men, such as Master Reyner Wolf and others, on the continent who sought out new books by learned thinkers on such subjects as these, and he shared them with George and me. We kept these books secret, just as I had done in France, for to be caught with any of them was to enter into a great deal of trouble. Many of the volumes my father procured for us to read had been banned by the Church, and so George and I, with others of the court who held the same views, met in secret to discuss them. We kept our books well-hidden when they were not on our person. My mistress, Katherine, would have dismissed me from her service in as much time as it takes a colt to leap, had she found me with works she considered heretical and against the laws of God.

  But court life was not all shadow and secret. Soon enough, there was a lighter time for me. It came with a new face at court. His name was Henry Percy, the young heir to the Earldom of Northumberland. He was new at court, I knew, for I would have quickly noticed such a handsome, and yet innocent, face as his. He had been sent to serve in the household of Cardinal Wolsey. He had the air of a boy about him and this I found most appealing. I was so used to cultured gallants of the court who flattered and danced their way into the hearts of maidens and matrons. But Percy was different. He had an air of truthfulness about him which many would have called naïve, and perhaps he was; but he was refreshing to me. He was tall and broad of shoulder… and almost from the first day of his arrival I noticed that he could not take his eyes away from me.

  Think not that this is reckless flattery of myself; by this time I was enveloped in the centre of an exciting group of people at court. Tom and my brother George were great wits and their merry ways attracted people to them like wasps to fresh-baked fruit tarts. Margaret, Bridget and I were at the centre of many court entertainments and I was often chosen to sing, dance or perform in pageants alongside my sister and Jane Parker. We were amongst the best dancers and often came up with new and witty entertainments. The King chose more and more often to be present in our lively throng with his sister whenever she was at court rather than at her family seat at Suffolk Palace, or Westhorpe. Mary of Suffolk had lost her eldest son, Henry, earlier that year, at the age of only five, and his loss weighed heavy on her, even though she never failed in her duties to her brother during the visit of the Emperor. When she was at court, however, she tried to cast off her sorrows and make light of life. It must have been hard, but she knew her brother’s spirit well; he did not like to be surrounded by sadness. Henry loved to be in the most interesting place at court, but it also gave him every excuse to be near to my beautiful sister with little observed scandal.

  I was a new and rising star in this band of poets, wits and dancers and I found myself happy and content. I thought of France now and then with a pang of homesickness, but my present life was so filled I had little time to remember my old life with sorrow. Our father was satisfied with our progress and situation at court, and was pleased to see that his children were making such an impression on the King. I was free of the yoke of marriage to Butler, even if James knew it not, and I had admirers courting me. I was flushed with happiness and my eyes sparkled to think of the day ahead as I rose each morning. This was the Anne Boleyn that Henry Percy first saw when he came to court; this wild and happy girl, free from care and rising in the estimations of the court, her family and the King. It was an exhilarating mixture… that I see now, looking back. There is no treatment more conducive to true beauty, than knowing the joy of a happy soul. When Percy first saw me, he saw the lady Anne who shone like a star at the centre of the court, and when I first saw him, I was indeed drawn to his innocence, and the truthful nature
of his boyish heart.

  Henry Percy was heir to one of the greatest seats in the country; when his father died he would be the Earl of Northumberland, an ancient and great title. The house of Northumberland had been the wardens of the north for as long as any could remember, but their influence had waned slightly after the civil wars between the houses of York and Lancaster. The Earl of Northumberland had tried to return his house to a position of prominence, but his efforts had made the King somewhat distrustful of him. Percy was brought to court perhaps in the same way as my erstwhile suitor, James Butler, had been; to secure the Earl of Northumberland’s loyalty through the King’s possession of his son at court. But even with these issues surrounding them, the Percy family were still most important, and potentially, very powerful if they could secure the love of the King upon them. I had lived all my life within the bounds of courtly life; the attraction of such power was not lost on me. Although my sister may profess that she chose to take the King’s bed for the man himself, I was more pragmatic. After all, part of the man was his position; part of the man was the sphere in which he moved, the influence he wielded. It was not wrong to desire a man’s power, as it was not wrong to desire a man for his good looks. They were all part of the things that made him as a person. When Henry Percy of Northumberland cast his boyish and open face in my direction then, I will admit that it was not only the handsome man I saw, but an interesting opportunity for a good and safe future. Was I wrong to think thus? To consider that such a match might bring power and influence to me also? Women are used as bargaining tools in the world of men often enough. Should I not think on a future I could devise for myself in the same manner?