by G Lawrence
In my father’s absence, I took it upon myself to charm Percy all I could, knowing that if I could indeed secure such a match, then I would do so with the blessing of my family, and, the blessing of my own heart.
Chapter Fourteen
Greenwich Palace
1523
The winter swept through England with driving storms of snow and freezing rain which lingered well into the spring. We celebrated Christmas at court, and then came the New Year with presents exchanged between courtiers, and between masters and fortunate servants. Throughout the winter, whenever we were able, Percy and I would meet, to talk or play at dice together, and our attraction seemed to deepen within each of our hearts. He looked for me at every entertainment, and my eyes sought him out too. I felt as though something sacred and sweet had touched my heart, and went about the court with a flush of happiness within my blood. The freezing airs of the winter could not touch me; I felt warmed by the growing love between this innocent young man and me. Tom was not happy with me, but that, too, I seemed to be able to cast off just as I shrugged off the cold of the winter. I walked through the spring snowdrops and daffodils feeling as though my heart was as merry as those bright little flowers.
Many verses came from Tom that winter about the hardness of a mistress who could discard the feelings of another so cruelly. But I did not mean to be cruel. I had explained my feelings to Tom. I had tried to be kind to him, but I could not spend my life waiting for a love that could never be. And despite my attraction to Tom, I had come to realise that if one is able to shut one’s heart to love, then it is not love. I was able to shut my heart to Tom, and so I knew that I did not love him, not truly. But my feelings for young Percy crept into my heart bit by bit, until I found there was little of my heart left without his touch.
“My brother is much sorrowed these days,” Margaret said to me one stormy afternoon as we walked in the long galleries at court. I sighed, and gave her a half-smile.
“And I am sorry for it, Margaret,” I replied, “but your brother has a wife already… I can be nothing more to him than a friend, and that is what I have offered him.”
She nodded. I believe she understood, but she was still worried for her brother. They were close, as siblings and as friends, much as I was with my own brother and sister. “I will talk to him on the matter,” she assured me, pressing her pale hand to my sleeve.
“I would be grateful,” I said. “I mean to cause him no harm. He is very dear to me… But I cannot help what he feels for me… you know that well enough. I would that he would accept me as his friend alone, but I wonder if he ever will.” She tucked my arm through mine and gave me a little smile; we continued to walk, talking of lighter matters.
In May, our father returned from Spain, happy with his efforts there to negotiate on behalf of the King. He brought back many gifts for his family, including a work that he had had smuggled into Spain, which George and I discussed avidly; a French translation of the New Testament by Lefevre. The notes on the text suggested a belief that the Holy Scripture was the only true rule of doctrine, and that redemption from sin was based on faith alone, rather than through penance, or pardon as the Church taught. Later that year, Lefevre would publish translations of the Gospels and Epistles, which we also gained copies of, and talked on at great length. In that same year, Martin Luther would publish a German translation of the New Testament, with much the same philosophy held within its pages. It was wondrous to me that two such thinkers, whom many considered heretical, could come to such revelations in theology at the same time. Surely, I thought, it must be the hand of God, touching on the minds of such men, and bringing forth such ideas. Lefevre was much attacked by leaders of the Church in France, but Marguerite had him under her protection. Her obvious love and support for the man only increased the value that his work held for me.
Our father brought word that François intended to invade Italy, pursuing a claim to the lands of that country and taking action against the Emperor Charles. The Emperor and Henry were increasingly determined now to unite against him, and take Italy, and even France, from François. The treaty that united England with Spain was now secure, and Henry was eager and willing to join with Charles on this military venture. I found the idea distressing. Perhaps in knowing François personally, and in having great love for his sister Marguerite, and for Claude, his queen, I would that my country was allied with France. It was a glorious country, sophisticated, filled with poetry, wit… a country that offered protection to philosophers and theologians… But my personal feelings were of course of little importance to men like my father, who were sent to do the King’s will, and strove to gain the King’s love through such efforts.
One day, as the warmth of the summer began to return to England, I was in the gardens at Greenwich. Every day at court, provided that the weather allowed it, I would walk accompanied by my sister or Margaret and Bridget. We walked along the knot gardens and physic patches, crushing the leaves and stems of herbs in our fingertips and relishing the smell of rosemary, sage and thyme. I loved the fresh and scented airs as the summer blooms burst forth. I had been at court for over a year now, and there were many aspects of England’s palaces that I had come to love greatly. The Queen too, liked to wander the gardens, but not as much as her ladies did. Katherine’s chambers were kept hot and often gloomy in the chill of winter, and even into the spring, for fear that the cold airs might bring illness. But as the warmth returned to England, Katherine’s ladies escaped the dreariness of the Queen’s chambers to tarry in the gardens with pleasure.
More and more, Katherine would commit herself to prayer in the afternoons, as well as in the mornings and in the evenings, hearing at least three or four Masses each day and locking herself away in the gloom of her chambers and Chapel to pray when she was not at Mass. Her charitable acts increased three-fold that year, as though she were petitioning God for clemency. We all knew what it was that she prayed for so long each day. There were rumours growing, whispered in the stone halls of the great palaces and repeated behind closed doors all over the land; that the Queen was now barren and could not produce children. She would never give Henry a son.
The Princess Mary was the only child of their marriage to survive infancy, and although she was adored by her mother, and loved by her father, a male heir was needed to follow Henry on the throne. We knew it was not the King who was at fault, for he had a few bastards from his past mistresses; good proof of his fertility. One of these, and the only bastard the King acknowledged, was a boy; Henry Fitzroy, the little son of Bessie Blount, my sister’s predecessor in the King’s bed. All knew that Henry was capable of getting male children. The fault must lie therefore with the Queen.
Katherine was growing desperate, and in her need she turned increasingly to God, in whom she placed all her trust. The secret plan to marry the Emperor Charles to the Princess Mary was well-known about court. But we also knew that this was not the ideal path for England… England needed an English King, not a foreign Emperor who watched over such vast lands and territories as those under Charles’ control. There was, too, a sense of pride in the hearts of the English; they wanted to be ruled by the blood of their blood, by the English heart which beat through the lands. Henry had laid a plan to provide a successor should he and Katherine fail ever to have a male heir… but we all knew that he desired a son above all other things.
Perhaps it sounds cold, but many of us who served the Queen came to the gardens with relief at having a few hours away from her quiet but relentless desperation. The endless praying and good works, the continuous noise of her lips murmuring to God, praying for a miracle child to grace her womb; all these things weighed down the spirit and the soul after some time. We needed to escape from the sense of overwhelming sadness that Katherine exuded.
If you think me flighty, remember that I was young, and forgive me for having the faults of the young. We are none of us perfect beings.
Whilst we walked in those glorious gardens we w
ould talk of court affairs, of the admirers that the ladies had amongst the court gallants, of the latest entertainments and of poetry and humanist thought. Many days, such gallants would spy us out walking and would come to join us. It was a merry time in my life. There was flirting and singing and laughing in this happy throng, and Percy came to my side whenever he was able. I looked for his face in the crowds at court and was always disappointed if I could not see him that day. At each meeting my affection for him grew. Since my father’s talk with me, I had grown used to the idea that Percy was a match of which my family would approve and a match that I wanted also. And he wanted me. There was no doubt, for I read it in his open face as easily as one could read a book. Had I asked him, I believed in those days, Henry Percy would have done anything for me. As it turned out, I was mistaken… but that was later.
That day he spied a book that hung from my waist, decorated with jewels and covered in fine leather and gold; he asked if he could read over it himself. “I would deny you nothing,” I said with a mischievous look that made him almost shiver. “But I swore, when my friend gave this book to me, that it would not leave my sight, and to this I hold. But you may read it when I am here.”
“It was a friend… dear to you, then?” he asked. The look of fear in his face, that this friend might be a man, was almost comical.
“Yes, she is,” I replied most deliberately. The look disappeared and he was happy again. “Marguerite, sister to the King François gave me this,” I opened the soft pages of the Miror de l’ame pecheresse and looked lovingly at them. “It is her own work and it is precious to me.”
“Sister to the King?” Percy lifted his brows. “You rose high in France.”
I nodded. “I served the Queen Claude, and was in the King’s sister’s circle of intimates,” I said, thinking of France with a pang of homesickness.
A look of concentration came over Percy and he stared away into the gardens. “Anna, there is something I would say to you,” he said. “But I know not if I have the right or the courage.”
I put my hand on his arm. “We are good friends, are we not? What may not be spoken between friends?”
“That is what I wish to talk to you of,” he sighed. “You know, I suppose, that I am engaged to be married to the Lady Mary Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury?”
I flushed with sadness. It was not contrived; the thought of Percy leaving my side brought great unhappiness and tears flooded to my surprised eyes. I had not realised the full depth of my feeling for him, even now. His gentle hands reached to my face and drew my eyes up to his. There was gentleness and concern in his eyes and also surprise. “Is it so, then, Anne?” he whispered to me. “Do you feel the same as I? It is so hard to tell what you think beyond those black eyes of yours. Other ladies are so easy to read, they give away all, but your eyes betray nothing and I know not if you love me or if you are simply kind to me as you are to all who adore you.”
I shook my head, but tears stifled my response; still he held my chin in his hands and looked at me. He took my hand and led me to an alcove in the walls of the palace, leading to stairs which went to the chambers of servants below. The others in the group had wandered away and there was no one about, it seemed, but us. He pulled me into the alcove and then into his arms. I reached out suddenly, impulsively, and threw my arms over his shoulders, drawing his lips down to mine. I felt him gasp as he drew me close. There was fire in his lips as he kissed me. He pushed me up against the cold stone wall, his hands stroked my body… and I let them I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to have me, to hold me… I wanted to be his.
“Then it is done,” he whispered, breaking from the kiss, smiling down at me and moving me closer to him as he spoke. “I am engaged… if you will have me.”
I gasped, for I had not quite expected that to come from his mouth. “To me, you mean?” I asked, stupid for once in his arms.
“I would have no other.” He lowered his lips to mine once more. I felt the hardness of him through his clothing, the sinewy muscle of his chest and the rock hard aspect of his manhood against my hip. I heard him groan a little, through a mist of pleasure, and then he pulled back and tugged me from the alcove. “Here, Anna,” he said, moving me to an arbour where there was a seat. “We need to talk.”
I sat down, re-arranged my clothing and put my hands to my flushed face. So pale was I normally that colour in my face made me seem unearthly in appearance. Percy stroked my face and tucked my hair back in my hood.
“I am engaged, it is true, but it is an old engagement and can be broken,” Percy said earnestly. “Our families put forward the idea long ago… talks have gone on for more than eight years. But she has no love for me, and I none for her. We have met on several occasions, and I find her utterly repellent. I am of an age now where I can choose my own match, my own bride, and that is what I intend to do. The minute I saw you, I knew I could not rest unless I was by your side and now I cannot rest unless you are by mine for the rest of our lives. I want to marry you, Anne, and I will marry you.” He frowned. “My family may have some objection, your blood is not as noble as ours, but your family is in high favour at court… And you…” he paused, smiling at me. “I see not how they could not fall for your charms as easily as I have done, once they meet you.”
“My family will have no objections,” I said breathlessly. Our moment of passion had opened my mind to all I had not realised about the way it could be between a man and a woman. I felt a little dazed; passions that I had never known flowed through my veins. “There can be no objections,” I said firmly. “We must marry and then we shall be the happiest in the world, for there are few who find love in their marriage bed.”
“You and I will have great sons, Anne,” he said. “I see them now. We will have a fine life together.”
I laughed. I was happy. I was abandoned in happiness; it seemed as though there could be nothing in our way and there could be no objection that would make sense against our marriage. I was to have everything I had ever wanted; marriage and love together in one, a place at court and an adoring husband who loved me for who I was. I reached out and kissed him again fiercely, but he was respectful of me in his love, and would not take the matter further between us until he had talked to his master, Wolsey, and to his own family.
I was elated and I burned for him. That night I dreamed of his hands pulling at my dress and forcing their way down and over my breasts. I dreamt of his fingers and lips at my nipples, of the hardness of his manhood pressing into my heated and reckless body. I dreamt of passion I had never known. I felt his hands sliding up my thighs, I felt him pushing against me and finally, entering me, as soft and wet as my mouth as it sucked the fingers he put through my lips. I groaned in my sleep as I felt him deep inside me and awoke suddenly, cheated of the final moment of pleasure as the bells for Mass pealed through my chamber. I awoke hot and desperate for Henry Percy. I had only ever felt such a passion once before; when I was young, and my feminine ardour had been first awakened at the sight of Henry, King of England. But this was no remote passion now, and I no young girl with no understanding of her feelings. This was the passion of love, I thought, and it had stolen my senses.
I sat through Mass trying to get my thoughts concentrated on God, where they should have been. But I could not draw them from thoughts of Percy’s body conjured by my dreams. I was fidgeting and restless. I could not concentrate on anything I was doing; all my thoughts were of him. My sister noticed this change in me and was speculative, watching me with some small measure of amusement. I had after all, always been the sister in charge of her emotions and now, it seemed, I was not.
“Are you in love?” Mary whispered to me as she helped me clear a dish that I had dropped in Katherine’s chambers. Fortunately the Queen herself was not there, but at her second Mass of the day, held privately in her chapel. Otherwise, I should have been in trouble for breaking the dish. I flushed at my sister and nodded, smiling. I could not contain my excitement a
nd it seemed that this was the time to tell her. I felt as though I had to tell someone. I was bursting at the seams of my fine crimson gown to talk of my love.
“Yes,” I whispered. “And I am engaged.”
Mary gasped with excitement. “To whom?” she shrieked, and I sought to quieten her, shushing her and waving my hands. “Wait, I know!” she cried in triumph. “To Thomas Wyatt!”
“What?” I laughed. “You think me engaged to a man already married?” I giggled again at the sudden, crestfallen look on her pretty face. “No, Mary… I am engaged to Henry Percy.”
“Heir to the Earl of Northumberland?” she gasped again, looking at me with wide eyes. “There is a fine match for you! Do you love him? Yes, I see the look in those great eyes of yours. You are in love, Anne! Oh, I am so happy for you!” She clasped my hands and went to jump up and down like a child and then, suddenly, the happiness fell from her face and she gaped at me like a fish on a chopping block. “What will our father say?” Mary looked pale and concerned. She was right, after all; it was not as though our family was of noble enough blood to ordinarily consider a match with such an old and noble family. Had I not had our father’s permission to advance, I could have been in a great deal of trouble from it. Mary was afraid for her younger sister. I felt a little flush of affection and love for my older sister.
