Copyright © 2004 by Wendy J. Dunn
First published 2002.
This ebook edition revised and published 2011.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Reviews
Dedications
Acknowledgments
Book One – “I could gladly yield to be tied forever with the knot of her love.”
Prologue – “How strongly my love’s fire did blaze.”
Chapter 1 – “Therewith all sweetly did me kiss.”
Chapter 2 – “I have seen them gentle, tame and meek.”
Chapter 3 – “And I have leave to go of her goodness.”
Book Two – 1520–1528 — The joy so short, alas, the pain so near.
Chapter 1 – “But since that I so kindly am served”
Chapter 2 – “They flee from me that sometime did me seek”
Chapter 3 – “That sometimes they put themselves in danger”
Chapter 4 – “That now are wild and do not remember”
Book Three – Sad was the Holy Father / Filled with anguished and pain
Chapter 1 – “I would fain to know to what she has deserved”
Chapter 2 – “I was unhappy, and that I prove, To love above my poor degree”
Chapter 3 – “And she me caught in her arms long and small”
Book Four – July 1528–1532 — “The chances most unhappy / That me betide in May!”
Chapter 1 – “…when her loose gown from shoulders did fall”
Chapter 2 – “She wept and wrung her hands withal. The tears fell in my neck.”
Chapter 3 – “Patience, though I have not”
Book Five – 1532–1533 — Some tyme I fled the fyre that me brent
Chapter 1 – “And she also to use newfangleness.”
Chapter 2 – “How like you this?”
Chapter 3 – “But all is turned … into a strange fashion of forsaking.”
Chapter 4 – “Busily seeking continual change.”
Chapter 5 – “Thanked be fortune, it hath be otherwise.”
Chapter 6 – “It was no dream, I lay broad waking.”
Book Six – Your grace’s displeasure, and my imprisonment…
Chapter 1 – “Commend me to his Majesty.”
Chapter 2 – “Oh death, rock me asleep.”
Epilogue “What death is worse than this?”
References
Author’s Note
The Age of Anne Boleyn
Bibliography
Suggested reading group questions
“This book is absolutely enchanting.” —Sandra Worth, author of The Rose of York series
“A tender story that dares to ask the question: What does it mean to love?” —Christopher Gortner, author of The Secret Lion and The Last Queen
“An evocative recreation of one of history’s most famous love affairs.” —Marilee Mongello, webmaster of www.Englishhistory.net
“The knife-edge between power and helplessness catches the reader and draws the mind’s eye into the past… Wendy J. Dunn focuses on the personal and the individual and brings a fresh approach to the very difficult tale that is Anne’s life.” —Dr. Gillian Polack, historian and author of Illuminations and The Art of Effective Dreaming
“A tale of tragedy that cannot fail to strike at the heart of the soul.” —Elizabeth Batt, history columnist and reviewer
“I would recommend Dear Heart to anyone who enjoys a love story or who has even a passing interest in English history. It is a beautifully written novel of love and betrayal. In fact, I’m off to read it again, just as soon as I dry my eyes.” —Debra Stang, author of Visiting Grandma
“Seriously one of the best novels ever written about Anne Boleyn’s life.” —Jennifer Lodine-Chaffey
“Dear Heart, How Like You This? superbly blends fact with fiction.” —Cindy Vallar, author of The Scottish Thistle
“Dear Heart, How Like You This? is a great book.” —Glenice Whitting, author of Pickle to Pie
“A soft elegy about a murderous king, a lost poet and an unforgettable woman who, surprisingly in the end, loved them both.” —Lyndal White, reader
“A vivid book, beautifully researched—it just flows from scene to scene, and is the perfect antidote to Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl. Thank you so much for writing such a wonderful, enchanting novel… It is going to be a favourite of mine.” —Lynne Lewis, writer
“When they make the film version of Dear Heart, How Like You This? every leading lady in the world will fight tooth and nail for the role of Anne.” —Paul Staff, television producer.
“Sir Thomas Wyatt is my blood kin. I have always had a history of my family with pictures of Allington Castle and stories of Sir Thomas. I had this image of Sir Thomas, larger than life, possessing no human frailties. After reading Dear Heart, I realized he laughed when he was happy and cried when his heart was broken, as it often was. While I read, I had to keep reminding myself that it is a work of fiction, but it did not feel like fiction to me. The characters and events are not fiction. It is not fiction that Sir Thomas loved Anne Boleyn for most of his life. Tom’s grandson, George Wyatt, speaking of Thomas and Anne, said Sir Thomas “could gladly yield to be tied forever with the knot of her love.” This book deeply touched me. I do not know what else to say except, Thank you, Wendy.” —T. D. Wyatt, descendant of Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
“Many things do not happen as they
ought; most things do not happen at all.
It is for the conscientious historian to
correct these defects.” —Herodotus
Inspired by a poem of Sir Thomas Wyatt, this
novel is a work of fiction. Historical
characters, incidents and locations are either
used fictitiously or conjured purely from the
writer’s imagination.
Dedicated to the man who made possibilities
possible: my beloved husband, Peter.
Written in the memory of Anne Boleyn, Queen of
England, murdered from this world May, 1536.
Defiled is my name full sore
Through cruel spite and false report,
That I may say for evermore,
Farewell to joy, adieu comfort.
For wrongfully you judge of me
Unto my fame a mortal wound,
Say what ye list, it may not be,
Ye seek for that shall not be found.
—Anne Boleyn
Such a strange thing—here I am, writing another acknowledgement for Dear Heart. In the last acknowledgement page, I mentioned Virginia Woolf and her quote about the challenges presented to a woman writer. I am thinking of her again—one of the few writers I can name that actually got to revisit one of her novels after its publication. Now I am revisiting mine—as I said, a strange thing.
I’ve decided it is only right to leave my acknowledgements mostly as I wrote it when Dear Heart was first became published, in 2002. However, the list of people I wish to express my gratitude to has grown over the years…
This book resulted from a daydream stalking my imagination for years—from the moment I first thought that
I would like to use Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poem as basis for a novel, until I finally put my nose down and did something about it. On this score, I thank my friend Paul Staff who gave so much encouragement during the initial stages of the book.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my brother-in-law Stephen Corneille and dear friend Christina for being willing, and brave enough, to proofread this “novel child” as it took its final shape.
I also gratefully acknowledge another treasured friend, Cindy Vallar, author of The Scottish Thistle, who took time out from her own, important historical writing to critique the book from first page to last, writing a minor thesis of notes in the process. Dear Cindy, you have a noble and generous heart. Thank you!
In my life, I have been truly blessed. Not only do I have a precious family (my husband, Peter, and children, James, Timothy, Elisabeth and David—the rest know who they are!) but also supportive friends. The support and encouragement of Glenice, Sandra Worth, Christopher Gortner, Beth, Ingrid and Vikki—my sister in-law—I must mention especially.
I must express my gratitude to Marilee (webmaster of www.englishhistory.net) and T.D. Wyatt for their friendship and support, as well as all my good friends at two e-lists: “Tudor Talk” and Anne Boleyn, Regina. I also wish to thank so many of the readers of the first edition of Dear Heart, How Like You This? for their encouragement and praise.
I also owe such an immeasurable debt to Kurt Florman, Partner and Editorial Manager of End Table Books and Metropolis Ink. Thank you so much for having faith in this novel!
There is one final acknowledgement. Throughout my novel, I have made use of the wonderful poetry of Sir Thomas Wyatt. I wish here to gratefully acknowledge the book used for this purpose: Sir Thomas Wyatt, the complete Poems; General Editor: Christopher Ricks.
Lastly, I will say dreams do come true, but often their realisation takes a lot of hard work and perseverance. But the harder the work, the greater the perseverance, then the more joy there is when you hold the dream—tangible—in your hands. I know! Thank God for small miracles!
—Wendy J. Dunn
Book One
“I could gladly yield to be tied forever with the knot of her love.”
CONTENTS
* * *
Prologue
“How strongly my love’s fire did blaze.”
Written at Allington, May, 1536
My Anna was dark and lovely—full of life’s burning light. How strongly my love’s fire did blaze. Too strong, yea, too strong for this world. For her bright, burning light has forever been put out; aye, put out, and my life is eternally dark. Too dark tout de suite for me to ever see the end of my despair.
I knew my Anna and loved her from the beginning of my life. We grew up together as children, for we were also blood kin—being cousins—and lived our early lives as close neighbours. Then a day came when almost every moment of my childhood became a time to be shared with her. Gentle and sweet my Anna was in those early days, overflowing with laughter and the joy of living life.
I learnt to love her as I learnt to live, and loving Anna made her as much a part of me as the blood flowing in my veins. Anna grew to love me too. Not as much as I wanted her to love me. Not as I desired her to love me. But, for me, enough with to make do and take all my life’s joy.
Only once were we true lovers. If our merciful and gentle King Harry finally decides to allow me to live, then the memory of that one wet, summer’s day, those few short hours of bliss when she at last led my burning desires to a brief fulfilment, will be all which remain of joy. No more. Nothing. All is so empty.
What is now my future but a stark, dark void in which to fall?
Oh, Anna! My burning light. My lovely girl. Dearest of hearts. My only beloved. To know that you lie dead. Oh, how dark has become my world! I cannot help but feel that the best of me is gone. It vanished instantly when your life was taken.
I curse the fates, cursing all the disappointments that caused you to first set your feet upon the road leading to such a terrible, bloody end. But most of all I curse the despot we call King. He so willingly and selfishly defiled your name and honour so to destroy all that was precious to me.
The King never knew you as I did. How could he? He never saw you as I did: growing up untouched by the world at Hever. So innocent. So in love with life. So believing in all life’s goodness.
From almost the beginning of our lives, you were always my good and constant playmate, even though more than three years separated our births. Aye—how I remember us: lying on our bellies in the meadows of your Kentish home, breathing in the sweet aurora of the wet spring grass, trying, with so much pure enjoyment, to outdo the other’s childish poetry. I think it was with you, my Anna, that I first became aware of the beauty one can create with words. I know it was with you, dearest of hearts, that I first became aware of all that love could mean: its joys that had you ascending near to Heaven, and its heartbreaks that left you sore and bleeding, but yet painfully and utterly alive.
How could we have known then what life held in store for us? Never could we have imagined that the English Caesar would one day desire you. Indeed, desire you so much that he would cause the breakup of your first youthful love—when you gave your heart to Hal Percy—with the result that you, angry and torn apart, would plan to use the King’s lust as a way to gain revenge.
Oh, my lovely Anna! If only you could have known then the danger your scheme would lead you to. If only you had listened to me that dark day (when the cloudless sky served only to mock) so long ago, when we fought in the gardens!
I wish I could wake to find I have been dreaming all these desolate, hateful happenings. Even more, I wish I could wake and find that we could go back. Yea, go back to Hever and the green, rolling meadows of our childhoods, and begin our lives yet again. Oh, dear God—please, dear God—can we not begin our lives again? Aye, begin our lives again but this time, aye, this time fulfil the sunshine that once was?
Of all the thoughts which keep me company in this lonely room in my father’s castle, as much my dark dungeon as the cell in the Tower, the ones haunting me most are: If only your father had not seen fit to send you to France. If only he had seen his children as other than chattels to add to his worldly wealth. If only he could have seen that we two were soul mates and thus, in the best of loving wisdom, suited to be betrothed to one another.
If only! It would have saved both of us so much grief and agony. It would have saved you from dying on a scaffold. And I believe—yea, I believe with all my heart—that you could have grown to love me as I have always loved you. Even now, when your earthly, headless body lies rotting in a disused box meant only for arrow shafts, do I profess my love; I will love you until my last breath is drawn.
More unending tears roll down my cheeks. Grief imprisons my heart just as my love for you once did. How can my heart still thud in my chest when I am forced to live my life without you?
Yet you are such a part of me that I need but close my eyes to see you at almost every stage of your life. As a child you were a slight and tiny girl who loved to run and ride, but especially you loved to dance. Even when there was no music but what you alone could hear—music vibrating with every beat of your heart. I close my eyes and still see you, my Anna. A fairy child with long, loose ebony hair, wearing a heavy golden dress, spinning this way, spinning that way, always, always spinning. That is how I first became truly aware of you. One day I, a child of five, saw you, a child of two, with eyes shut tight and arms outstretched, dancing to your private and silent melody in a sun-drenched corridor. Full grown you were of middling height—so slight and graceful, with a swan-like neck, made even more bewitching and sensual by an upraised, brownish mole placed where one could feel the echo of your heartbeat. Hair so black it shone with vivid blue lights. Hair that, when loosened, flowed past your tiny waist. Hair that felt like silk. Bewitching brown eyes, beautiful eyes—drawing me into deep inside of you. Oh, Anna, how many, many times I thought I would drown int
o your eyes.
Aye—’tis true—many people said you had little true beauty, except for your eyes and wide, sensual mouth. (A mouth made for kisses. My kisses! Your mouth once so moist and soft, so hot and eager for my hungry lips.) Yea, so many people said that you had little of true beauty—rather there was something about your whole being that captivated. An aura surrounded you making you unforgettable; an aura that led you to such a dreadful death.
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