“May I speak plainly, Majesty? My Sister Mary not so long ago shared your bed,” then whispered, “bore your child. For me to do the same it seems… incestuous.”
Relieved and gathering his wits he said, “You are far too bold, Mistress Anne. You speak here to your King.”
“And you to a virtuous maiden who full intends to stay one, Sire.” Then I curtsied low, looked up at him and smiled most gracefully. “But I do enjoy your sweet attention.”
He grasped my hand — by luck the five digit one — and kissed it, lingering with his lips to my fingers. Then without my leave he pluck’d my garnet ring from me and placed it on the smallest joint of his smallest finger.
“If I cannot have your heart, I’ll have this instead,” he said and turned to disappear amongst the forest shadows like a ghostly stag.
Tho hours remained of May Day Revels I was lost amidst such reveries and possibilities, that time flew and I’d returned to bed not knowing how I’d come. I lay in darkness hearing all round me waiting ladies whispering gossip of the evening past, but I had one thought only. One thought which left me trembling and sleepless till the morning came — the King of England was pursuing Anne Boleyn.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
17 July 1526
Diary,
In my vast confusion this day I find myself at once bereft and joyful. Good friend Thomas Wyatt’s fled to exile in Rome, self imposed but necessary. And Henry King of England’s wooing me. The two facts intertwine like thorny brambles twisting round my self. That it has come to this I am amazed.
‘Twas not so long ago Wyatt filled my head with courdy politicks and I, grateful, made a gift to him of a small keepsake — a jewelled tablet on a lace. And soon thereafter Henry at the May Day feast stole my ring and placed it on his little finger. ‘Tis hard believing that these two gentlemen have almost come to blows for these small trinkets sake. The story goes like this.
Henry and his favorites, Wyatt among them, played a game of bowles the other day. The two were on opposing teams when Henry claimed a good cast — someone else’s •— as his own. Wyatt, with his Grace’s leave, objected. Then, it’s said, the King quite pointedly pointed with his little finger, the very one on which my ring was worn and said, his eyes on Thomas, “Wyatt, I tell thee it is mine. I tell thee it is miner The King, though certain in his words, did have a smile upon his face and Wyatt thought his humor good and so replied, “And if you give me leave to measure it, Your Majesty, I hope it will be mine.” Then just as pointedly he took from his neck the lace with my jewelled tablet, stooped and made to measure up the cast. Henry, seeing my token in Wyatt’s hands, took the action as a challenge o’er my affections. Like some petulant child the King then kicked the bowl and said, “It may be so but then I am deceived!” and angrily departed from the game.
Before I’d even heard the tale and ignorant of my role within it, I was summoned to the King to speak in private. Though since the May Day Revels he had made it clear he fancied me with sidelong glances, partnered dances, and singing harmonies, we’d been most public. Now I entered his apartments which were more grand and glorious than I’d ever seen or dreamed. Great bowed and mullioned windows caught the sun from three sides setting the room in a blaze of light, chests and tables carven and gilt, the monstrous overmantel lined with two dozen silver jugs, a silken tapestry magnificent in size and brilliant color stitched of St. George slaying a green dragon, a great canopied chair and in a corner several musical instruments. The King all in white velvet and silver thread was, too, illuminated by the sun and some internal fire which shone out thro his eyes. My heart was pounding neath my bosom which I do admit I carefully displayed. But on this day a vast expanse of creamy par-fumed skin did little to repell the anger blowing off the King like some scalding summer wind.
“Do you take me for a fool!” he cried. A vein throbbed his scarlet forehead and I could not pull my eyes away from it. I did not know my crime but he was there for telling me. “You dare play with your King’s affections on the same court with Thomas Wyatt?! Have I not raised your father into high position…?”
My limbs grew numb with my Father’s name spoken so. “Have I not helped to pay your brother’s bride’s dowry, honoring your family once again? Is this the way I am repaid?”
My arms and legs were ice, my heart set beating like a drum, but my mind was racing fast and clear and I could see the King was courting me, not capriciously but in most earnest fashion. What was his game? He’d had my Sister. Some said he’d had my Mother, too. Father and Brother were in his thrall. Was he on a dare to conquer all Boleyns? I wondered when it’d started and I suddenly saw my love for Percy as a bone in Henrys throat. Should I grovel as was done by all, or should I play the game? Was I most desirable as Wyatt painted me in verse, a fleeing deer in some enchanted forest? I thought then, Yes, be elusive as the wind and he will seek but never hold me.
“Wyatt stole the trinket from me,” I lied, then boldly said, “just as you took my garnet ring. You both are acting like my heart was stolen, too. It isn’t so in either case, tho I do love Your Majesty as loyal subjects love their King.”
“I want you, Anne.” His voice was a passionate growl. I knew he was deadly serious, so I laughed gaily as I was able.
“If this is how the King treats with a woman he wants, then I should hate to see how he treats with his enemies.”
“Well I, I…” he stammered, stricken dumb at my impertinence.
“By your leave, Majesty,” said I, wishing no further discourse — and curtsying low, quickly left him standing there, a look of great surprise decorating his handsome face.
I fled back to the Queen’s apartments, shaking in my soul. What am I to do? I had spoken the truth. I do not love the King the way a woman loves a man. But if I know him, he will not finish till he’s caught the wind and held it in his hands.
I asked my Mother’s counsel, but she looked sad and only murmured, “He is the King, he is the King.”
My Sister offered this advice. “Take him, let him have his time with you. He’ll give you pretty dresses, many jewels, a bastard if you’re lucky. You’ll be the King of England’s mistress, Anne, a proud title for an untitled, skinny girl.” It made me cross, this brainless answer from a brainless whore.
Then I went to see my Father who’d called me to his room. He looked very grand, his satin doublet gleaming black and regal gold, stylish French cap laid flat against his silver hair.
“You’re favored by the King,” said he, “so it seems.” He put his arm round me, something he’d not done since I was small, and smiled. ‘Twas nothing loving in the gesture, tho. I was not fooled.
“Play him, Anne,” he whispered low, so low you’d think the Devil at his back was listening in. “Did you hear me?” I had not yet answered him.
“Yes, Father, your advice is very clear.”
“Will you do it, then?” He gripped my shoulder with his bony fingers, squeezed it tight. My Father’d long been my lord and only master, but now within my mind I saw my Father and my self, on some timeless future path. But where he always seemed to take the lead he stumbled now and fell behind.
“I’ll do as I will, Father,” said I.
His eyes flashed with fury, but this I ignored with some new and dangerous courage. Then I removed from the vise of his fingers and left the room without a backward glance.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
24 August 1526
Diary,
His Majesty pursues me still and I resist. He is a man in love, he says, giddy with it. It seems so. His dark mood is gone, reborn to manly vigor. In his Kingly role he moves aggressively again, his brilliant statesmanship restored. He speaks to me of family, his children and their marrying. His bastard son by Bessie Blount he sometimes thinks of wedding to his lawful daughter Mary. Anything, he says, is better than a woman ruling England. Women are not strong enough to keep the peace.
Thomas Wyatt, my
tutor in such politicks, is gone from here, his exile and discomfiture on my behalf known to all. I wish that I could see my friend again, making him my teacher in this circumstance of Henry’s appetite for me. I do not know why such a desperate passion’s roused in him. This man, a King, has made himself my slave. He thirsts for the very sight of me, moans like a heartsick calf that he’s enchanted and bewitched and begs me day and night to be his own. He brings me tokens, flowers, bits of gilded ribbon, writes me songs and sings them in a trembling voice.
Mayhaps I know this feeling after all. Was it not thus with my own love for Henry Percy? If it is so, if the King truly loves me, what am I to do? I do not love him, have no wish to follow in my Sister’s path. But my family — there’s the misery. If I hold myself aloof, reject the King’s advances, invoke his wrath, what of my Father’s hard won high position? My Brother George is newly made cup bearer to His Majesty. Will my Mother languish once again in distant country houses?
But if I declare more affection than a subject loves her King, I’ll find myself his mistress and for that I do not have the stomach. I must find a way to hold the King at arm’s length or bring disaster down upon my head. O let me think! Here at Court there is so little time for solitary thoughts. No place for peaceful contemplation. Always chattering ladies, entertainments, meals and duties to the Queen. And this golden haired giant who seethes with love pursuing me both night and day. I will, I must find a way.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
13 October 1526
Diary,
I am saved for at least a time. The answer to my quandary came within a dream. In the night I dreamt of olden times, a lady in a tower — a wife — and the Knight who loved her, not her spouse. The lady’s face was sometimes strange, sometimes my own. She spoke in rhymes I wish I could remember, but they were gone when I awoke. More important was the scene the lady and her admirer played, watched even by her husband who nearby sat upon a cushioned chair. It was the game of Courtly Love. The young man, her servant in all things professed his passion, sung her songs, paid her compliments, gave her tiny tokens, expressed his soul’s obedience to her. She teased, flirted, swooned to hear his amorous verse. That was all. They never bed. A kiss upon her hand, his head laid upon her knee, a fond caress, ‘twas all that was required. Courtly Love.
When I awoke I pondered on the dream and saw its possibilities. ‘Twas a dangerous game to play upon a King, I knew, but I had little choice. And so it began with Henry making his advance. I boldly joined the dance with laughter, smiles, allowed a brief caress, matched him wit for wit, pun for pun. I teased him, confounded him, roused him to a pitch and frenzy, then retreated and, feigning modesty, told him virtue did forbid me to continue or to love a married man. The King was like a tripped horse. He blustered, fumed … then laughed delightedly. He liked the game! So I sent him on his way and when next he came to me we played again but differently — new verses, duels of wit, a kiss I let him steal. But my evasion was the final act, and when the curtain fell I’d managed once again to keep the King at bay. Let us see how long it lasts.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
12 November 1526
Diary,
I am much exhausted by this Sunday’s adventures and the odd games I’m forced to play to keep the King at arm’s length. It began in early morning when all of Court had gone to Mass. There I knelt beside the Queen whose loud fervent prayers drowned out all others. Her eyes were bound upon her rosary, but Henry’s eyes — he knelt across the chapel in the King’s Pew — were fastened hard on me. I chanced a smile cross the crowded room and he returned it, beaming broadly, most unfit behavior for a King engaged in Gods prayers. I shot a fierce and stern expression, scolding him. He laughed aloud! All heads turned to him and he covered his laugh with a fit of coughing which surely no one believed.
Later as we filed out of chapel he sought to walk beside me and whispered, “‘Twas a harsh face you made me, Lady.”
“I was but practicing. ‘Tis the one I’ll use, a mother, for my naughty son.”
“Son? Do you plan to have a son?”
“Many sons,” said I. “One for each day of the week.” My smile was pretty as I dutifully followed my Queen and her women to their breakfast, Henry watching as I went.
Late morning, crisp and cold found the King playing with his lords at the newest manly game called Barriers. In this contest each combatant, wearing special breast plate and helmet, does mock but furious battle on foot, carrying two headed swords and seven foot lances. I and several ladies — tho not the Queen for she was once again in chapel — watched the competition, clapping at the derring-do, gasping at its violence. Henry, as in all such endeavors, ruled the field. ‘Twas not that he was King and his men deferred to let him win. He truly was the best. He fought the boldest fight, vanquished most enemies.
Between bouts he came to field’s edge where I stood shivering amongst the ladies. Heat rose in a mist from his body. I could see his breath which came hard from exertion. His eyes were shining and he asked me wordlessly for my favor. All the other ladies watched this exchange with some interest, but no one dared speak or even whisper. I handed him a lace handkerchief which he put to his nose and sniffed the fine French par-fum. He beamed happily, then strode back into the field my champion, and thrashed his men soundly in my name.
Game finished, ladies left and I found him following after me, armor clanking.
“Mistress Anne!”
I turned, smiled. “You played well, Your Majesty. You may keep my handkerchief.”
“I would have kept it, had you never offered.” “What a knave you are!” I cried.
“I deserve a trophy for my efforts. I beat them all.” He pulled off his breast plate and I fought to keep myself from staring at that impressive chest.
“But can you beat me?” I asked.
“Beat you!” The King laughed so heartily that his belly shook.
“I don’t mean at Barriers, silly fool.”
“What is the challenge then?”
“Chess,” said I.
“Ah, chess. A woman’s game. But one I play as well as any other. I accept your challenge. The gaming room one hour after dinner’s done.”
“I will be there.”
And so I was. I’d changed my gown to one I knew he liked, for he had paid me several compliments of its color — deep russet red — and how it set my eyes to their greatest advantage. ‘Twas cut low at the bodice. I knew I would be bending o’er the table as I made my moves, and hoped the sight of my pert duckies might confuse that razor mind to my advantage. My hair I wore long and flowing down my back. I’d lightly touched my lips and cheeks with some vermillion creme. And finally with a thin lace, fastened carefully the pointed flap of my sleeve round my fifth finger, hiding that sixth finger from his sight.
The King arrived not in his usual manner — all bluff and blustery, arrayed in gaudy layers of fur and jewels and finery. He came quietly in soft voice and subtle smiles. He wore pale hose and a flowing linen shirt under a doeskin doublet. No cap. He was freshly bathed and there was no sign of his morning’s exertions. His hair gleamed gold in the afternoon sun. All in all a fine picture of a man.
We set comfortably down at the board and with few words began the game. I moved at first boldly and he, surprised at this tactic, did the same. We played in earnest silence. I took his knight. He took my bishop. Pawns were lost on both sides. Then I hesitated. Pretended confusion. Covered that confusion with bravado. The ploy worked well. Thoughtful and intense he took steps to trap my queen. I sighed loudly, bit my lip. So convinced was he that I had faltered, and overconfident in his position, he never saw my feint and when I whispered “checkmate” he froze.
“Checkmate” I said louder this time. I tried to make him meet my eyes but they were glued to the board, trying to make sense of his defeat.
“This cannot be,” he mumbled.
“But it is. I have beaten you, Your Majesty
.”
“No!” He shouted and pushed back his bench so hard it fell on the floor.
“O, don’t act the spoilt child, Henry. ‘Tis only a game.” “And you’re only a woman!”
“A woman who has beaten you.” I laughed hoping not to sound cruel, but to dispel his fury. “Come, I must have a reward for my victory.”
“A reward! You should be thrown in the Tower of London for treason against the King.”
“Majesty!”
“All right. What do you want?” he asked with a petulant sneer.
“A kiss …” said I. “A kiss from the loser.” His eyes flashed dangerously, for I was pushing the barriers of his good humor. But his anger melted against the strange heat of my unusual demand. He moved to embrace me, but I held his arms.
“No, Henry. I mean to kiss you!’
O, he was a man inflamed when I pressed myself against him, found his lips with my lips and used my tongue in the French fashion to search his mouth for all its intimate sweetness.
Sometime during that kiss his arms did go round me and so ‘twas not an easy thing to break the embrace. But once it had been accomplished and we stood again in two separate places, our breath coming hard, he smiled.
“The winner of this round,” he said and bowed low to me. “Mistress Anne Boleyn.”
For all my taunting words and clever teasing I swear I feel no winner, but just a girl in deep water closing o’er my head. But I remain.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
THE GREAT LIVING SNAKE was three miles in length and made of a thousand clanking, rumbling pieces which sent a long, thick cloud of dust into the sultry July afternoon. In its escape from the heat and filth and pestilence of London, the royal summer progress into the Kentish countryside — Elizabeth’s first as queen — had been underway for less than a week, but already the heavy and overladen carts and wagons, herds of livestock, and multitudes of pack horses carrying the baggage, goods, and furnishings of the entire court, had torn up the highway and wrought havoc — albeit a welcome one — on tiny farm communities along the route.
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 7
