by G Lawrence
“It was naught but a tale that made you cry so?” he asked with a little amusement, possibly thinking that my femininity was a little dramatic.
“It was a tale that shows the dangers a woman must face in this world,” I replied heatedly, anger rising in me as I somewhat forgot I was talking to the King. “It tells of the unfairness of the world where a virtuous woman may be set upon by a man and yet gain no retribution. It is the injustice of the world and the pain I felt for the woman in the tale that made me cry so.” I looked away from him, staring ahead, not meeting his eye and keeping my face, flushed with anger, fixed ahead of me. I saw his eyes narrow from the corner of my eye, but he did not reproach me for my anger.
“May I read the tale?” Henry asked me, and there was still that tone of gentleness in his voice, despite my anger vented towards him. I hesitated. The papers had been sent to me as a friend, to read in confidence, but I could hardly refuse the King of England in such a request, especially after I had hissed my last words at him. He saw my hesitation. “I shall tell none of what I may read there, my lady.” He placed a finger to his lips with a smile. “I shall keep your secret as though it were my own, I promise.”
I handed the pages to him and was silent as he read the tale. I saw him wince from the story more than once; it was not happy reading after all. When he finished, he returned the papers to my hand gently. “I understand why you were distraught, Mistress Boleyn,” he shook his head slightly. “Although this is not the type of tale I would have expected a young lady such as you to be reading on such a lovely day.” He paused. “It has interesting points to it that are valuable, even if they are not so easy to read.”
I nodded. “I would not wish you to think me foolish, sire,” I blurted out, and he snorted with quick, easy laughter, smiling widely at me.
“I think there are few who would dare call you a fool, Anna Boleyn,” he smiled at me again. “I have heard your tongue spoken of in fear by more than a few lords who had been lashed with it. There is fire in you that many would fear to come close to. And yet, I do not fear you. I find you most… interesting.” He looked at me again and there was hunger in his eyes.
I held his gaze for a moment and then dropped my eyes to the pages in my lap. There was such intensity in that gaze that I dared not hold it. I knew not what might happen if I did. My breathing was quickening as was the feeling that the space between us was growing smaller. I could feel him starting to lean towards me, as though he intended for us to grow closer still. I suddenly felt most uncomfortable, awkward, excited, and perhaps a little scared. My fear, though, was not of him, it was of the feelings he brought to my heart. This was not only my King, he was my sister’s lover! It was hardly appropriate that I was drawn to him, or he to me. I rose suddenly and stepped forward, standing by the pond, tucking the pages into my pocket in a distracted manner. I turned to him. “Tell me, sire, have you read the tales of Giovanni Boccaccio? They are similar in style to tales that Princess Marguerite is writing.”
Raised eyebrows greeted my question and my stance as I stood like a hind ready to flee. He must have been surprised that I leapt from him; there can have been few who would dare to jump away from the King as though he were made of fire. But he did not seek to redress this lack of decorum; indeed, he looked somewhat amused and confused by me. “Indeed, I have read those tales and others such. You are interested in books, Mistress Boleyn?”
I nodded, smiled and began to talk at length and in a slightly rapid manner to cover my confusion and embarrassment. I spoke about many works I had read that I loved. Henry joined in; speaking with passion and enjoyment on works we had both read. Immersed in conversation, I forgot he was the King, forgot my embarrassment and talked with zeal about the literature I loved. We talked of the tales of Arthur and the works of Polydore Vergil. We talked of the verse of the French Court and the histories of Monmouth. My tongue ran away with me and I shone, talking of the books and poetry that I loved so. I felt as though I were conversing with an old friend, for it seemed that we had much in common with our taste in books and poetry, and with our enjoyment of history and philosophy.
“But I prefer the French translation,” I interrupted the King hastily and rather rudely. Henry blinked at me. He had been talking of Erasmus’ new translations of the New Testament in Latin and Greek which he had enjoyed. He looked taken aback with my boldness. I had indeed quite forgotten that I was required to be humble and demure in the King’s company. I laughed and reached out my hand to his arm, touching it with some affection as I smiled at him.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” I looked with genuine warmth into his startled eyes; as much startled I think at being interrupted and contested in an opinion as he was startled at the touch of my hand on his arm. “Forgive me,” I said again, and took my hand from his arm quickly, as though I had just noticed it was there. “I feel as though you and I understand each other so well that I quite forgot you are my King and I your subject. It was as though I was talking with an old and beloved friend. I have over-reached myself. I am sorry.”
I stood and swept to the floor with a curtsey. I looked up at him through hooded eyes with a saucy smile playing on my lips. I was not sorry at all that we had talked thus, it had been of the utmost enjoyment to me and I am sure he could read that in my smile. He expelled his breath, widened his eyes at me, and then laughed suddenly. There was both interest and puzzlement on his face, mingled with hunger in his eyes as he looked on my naughty smiling lips and at the curve of my breasts. I knew there was no harm now in the words that I had said.
“Did I go too far, Your Majesty?” I asked with a laugh. “Would you forgive me?”
His eyes narrowed, but there was a smile of desire on his mouth. I was safe, despite my outrageous outburst. “I would forgive you, Mistress Boleyn,” he said and stood, reaching for a twist of my hair that had come loose from my pearled hood. It seemed for a moment that he would draw me to him, that he would kiss me, and the beating of my heart quickened as I realised I longed for him to do so. It felt as though the birds had ceased to sing in the skies and the wind had ceased to blow. There was no movement, there was nothing but him, his closeness, the scent of his skin… Just then, there was no one in the world but us.
Then a shout came from close-by; his servants were looking for him. No king could be alone for long without his servants finding him. We both started as we heard the noise, but as I went to step backwards from him, he reached a hand around my waist and swiftly, strongly, drew me to him. Pushing my head back gently with his hand against my cheek, he pushed his lips to mine. I felt my mouth respond keenly, happily, to the softness of his lips and the roughness of the short beard against my skin. My blood raced in my veins and my head felt light. I pushed my body against his, feeling the touch of desire pulse through me like wild-fire. My hands reached around his head and his broad shoulders and entwined in his hair and on his back. My body moulded itself to him and my lips moved on his. It was a totally unplanned reaction to his kiss; I was as wanton as any bath-house whore.
There was another shout, someone calling the King’s name, which seemed to startle me from the kiss. I leapt backwards from his embrace and stared at Henry. I stood touching my lips with amazement. My face was on fire; however much I had thought that he might kiss me, I had no idea that he actually would, or how deeply it would affect my body. My every response seemed tailored to his touch. I flushed deeper, crimson red bled through my pale cheeks. He was panting slightly, staring at me with equally amazed eyes.
He reached for me again, but I drew back.
“I can’t be found like this, Your Majesty, please…” I pleaded, and stepped back as we heard his servants drawing near. I looked wildly about me. My gown and hood were rumpled and from the blush on my face it would be easy for his approaching servants to guess what we had been doing. I flushed again in shame, and looked around for a suitable place to hide myself from the approach of these men. Henry understood me and nodded to an almost hid
den arbour to one side of the court garden; it was a shadowed place hidden in a cloak of honeysuckle. I fled, my thick skirts billowing behind me as I flew into the arbour and pushed my back against the wall of entwined vines and leaves. Hiding in the shadowed arbour I saw his servants, my brother, Henry Norris and the Duke of Suffolk amongst them, discover the King standing alone in the gardens, his face flushed and a strange look on his handsome face.
“Your Majesty!” my brother cried merrily as they came about the corner of a large hedge. “We were seeking you to settle a dispute between his Grace of Suffolk and myself on the particular virtues of a pretty new girl at court!”
George swept in with a bow and then went to make a little dance before Henry, like a court fool. Suffolk quietly cuffed him from behind making him trip forward. Suffolk, Norris and the King all laughed to see George try to right his balance like a tumbler. To his credit, my brother also laughed once he had regained his balance and made another bow to Henry.
He laughed at George’s stumble. “We are glad you are lighter with your tongue than with your feet, George,” Henry said, taking their arms in his and leading them deftly away from the courtyard where I was hidden, my flaming face cooling in the shadow of the arbour.
“Are pretty girls all that the two of you can think on?” Henry asked as he led them out of the garden. Then, almost imperceptibly, he looked back at my shadowed figure, hiding in the alcove.
I watched them leave and then fled in the other direction for the Queen’s quarters. My heart was in my mouth, and my soul in a riot of confusion.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Richmond Palace
1525
A few days later, Mary returned to court from another of her trips home to Beaulieu to watch over the progress of her daughter. I could hardly confide my encounter with the King to my sister, and yet there was a part of me that longed to ask her of it and hear her frank words on what it may mean. I wished I could talk to her of it, for I had no one else I felt I could speak to. Perhaps I could have spoken to George, but there was a part of me that felt strange in confiding such an intimate moment to my brother. I could have confided in Margaret, but knowing her brother’s love for me, I hesitated. Bridget was absent from court with her new husband. I felt a little alone…
I thought over what had happened in the gardens, sometimes with chagrin, and sometimes with excitement. Perhaps to Henry, it was but a light fancy with another maid who was all too willing, apparently, to succumb to him. I blushed to remember the effect he had had on me. I imagined he thought now that I should be easy prey, as easy as my sister? The thought of him comparing us made me want to curl up and disappear, like a frail leaf crumbling in the autumn wind.
And what of my own feelings? In truth I knew not what they were. I had long known that I carried something for Henry Tudor in my heart, and yet I had also long thought it was but a youthful fancy, a feeling that came from a child’s heart. The feelings that had arisen when I first saw him at his coronation and in Burgundy had left echoes of love upon my heart. And yet… I had to admit to myself that I had admired him since that time. I had been jealous of my sister. I had wanted to be noticed by this King, wanted him to touch me, to want me…
But my resolutions were unchanged. I did not want to become mistress to any man. Did not want to be a plaything to be used and cast aside. To become mistress to the King… The King, who was my sister’s present lover? Never! I swore to myself that it would never happen. And God only knew what my father and mother would say if they heard aught of this! But I could not help myself in questioning Mary on her relationship with Henry, could not help wanting to hear of him… wanting to know if he was well and what he was doing. I was a mass of confusion and feeling. I knew not what I wanted, for all my feelings took me in different directions. Mary noticed nothing of this confusion, however, and confided in me that she was somewhat confused by Henry’s behaviour of late.
“Tell not our father,” she said as we walked together in the beautiful knot gardens at Richmond. “But I fear His Majesty’s affections towards me are somewhat weaning, although I know not why. Two nights ago he sent for me in such a passion; it was as it was in the first days of our relationship when he could not keep his hands off me. And yet afterwards… He seemed un-sated, as though I could not satisfy him, although I did nothing different from all the other times we have encountered each other.”
She looked ahead, her face puckered and thoughtful. “I think there may be another,” she mused. “He is distracted; he talks to me less…” she sighed a little sadly. “But I have had a long reign with him; perhaps it is now the time for another to take my place. I would not be sorry to return to Will and be his wife in truth rather than being shared. But I wonder at what our father shall say; he will not be happy that I have lost such favour for the family.”
I knew not what to say. Was it possible, after all, that I was the “other” she spoke of? I knew not what to do or say, an event unusual in my life, where words had always come so readily to me.
Two days later, a parcel wrapped in velvet arrived at my chamber door, carried by a discreet servant. A bundle of precious, costly jewels sent to me, from the King. I opened the velvet bundle and gasped. Sitting in a row were a large diamond set with pearls, a stunning emerald in a bed of gold and a dazzling, huge pearl set on a rope of smaller pearls that glistened in the light of the sun as I held it in my hands.
There was also a polite note, asking me to attend on Henry at his pleasure. I stared at the jewels and at the note in my hand. It was a bribe. I was being bought with shiny trinkets.
I looked at the jewels again and felt a shiver, both of excitement and fear, pass through my blood. For I knew, as sure as I knew my own name, that these fabulous jewels were payment for my virginity; Henry intended to buy me into his bed. I heard Marguerite’s voice in my head as an echo of the past floated back to me. “Virtue is our most precious gift and cannot ever be returned.” For a moment, I thought I could hear also a deep, throaty laugh from a sensual mouth. In my mind’s eye, I could see Françoise shaking her head at me, her hands on her hips. “Men… they are hunters. They want to chase and capture. But the quick and easy chase will not satisfy them… They will tire, they will wander, they will stray, and then what are we women left with but an empty bed and a name all speak whilst laughing?”
“I cannot accept them,” I blurted out at the man whose face fell from a gloating and rather unpleasant grin to a look of pure shock. In a rush of panic, I asked the bearer to send the jewels back to the King with a message; I was not worthy to receive such gifts of His Majesty and, as an honest maid, could only take such gifts from the man who would be my husband. These gifts were to be sent back with humble thanks. The man looked amazed, and, rather terrified, at bringing such an unwelcome message to the King, but he turned and left, leaving me shaking and feeling faint. I went over and over my words thinking on them, wondering if they could bring me into disgrace. Would I be sent from the court? Would Henry inform my father? Would he simply accept my refusal and be done with me? Whatever I said, I had just refused and possibly insulted the King of England. I rather expected to be sent from court immediately, but nothing happened.
There was silence from Henry.
At the next entertainment I was not chosen to sing or perform. I felt Henry’s glowering temper before he even appeared, and, sure enough, when he did, there was such an expression of irritation cast my way that I felt afraid that rather than be sent from court, I should be sent to the Tower.
He ignored me and did not come to socialise with my circle at court. It was noted and remarked upon that the King was in a foul mood, although none knew why. Courtiers started to keep their heads down to avoid trouble. Henry’s temper was frayed. He spent time out hunting from first to last light, and when he was about the court his servants were in no rush to be the one to serve the King that night.
Could all this anger be because I had refused him? It seemed too incredible
to believe. I could not be so important to him, could I? No, there must be another reason.
Mary, however, was happy again. She confided in me after the entertainment that her fears of His Majesty’s waning affections had been perhaps premature. He was once again affectionate with her, had presented her with many presents and given a generous grant to Carey for another year. Her place as royal mistress was, it seemed, still assured.
I was somewhat relieved for Mary and our family, yet somewhat grieved at the apparent ease with which Henry replaced one woman with another, one desire with another. But it seemed that his offer to me had just been a passing fancy. There must have been another reason that he was so angry for those days about court where it seemed that his temper could affect the very skies and stars over England. My fears had been unwarranted. He had forgotten me, perhaps. All that had been between us was simply a moment’s desire, nothing more. I had refused him and he had replaced me with another, with his existing mistress. That was the way he was. I was no more important to him than was any other girl at court.
