Dear Heart, How Like You This

by Wendy J. Dunn

  Anna, who could remember well our childhood acting, gave away with an amused glint in her eyes that she saw through my act. I think she assumed that I was trying to help her by increasing the King’s ardour through the rivalry of competition. To my eyes, Anne became more beautiful every day. It was an absolute torment and agony to pretend something that was not pretence.

  Anne was at this time a Lady in Waiting to Catherine of Aragon. I thought the Queen a very gracious lady, for whom I once was given the pleasure and honour of composing poems. And I, despite all the conflicts the future would bring, always thought most highly of the Queen, believing with all my heart that this saintly woman was great and noble. She did not deserve the terrible, most cruel future the fates held in store for her.

  And what was the King, her husband, like? King Henry was now a man of thirty-five, a man very much in the midst of his prime. He was also a man who had, many years before, fallen out of love with his older wife, a woman rapidly aged by frequent child-bearing and the deep grief of losing all her children, bar one—the nine-year old Princess Mary.

  Yea, I will admit the truth. Our King at thirty-five was a man nobly made. Indeed, Henry of England was a man among men. Taller by far than most men of his court, he was a man exceedingly vain about his presence, and with every reason to be. Red golden hair, bright blue eyes, athletic body, and skin so fair and clear that it was the envy of many a woman. England took great pride in its manly and seemingly courageous King. Almost as much as the King took pride in the image he himself presented to his Kingdom.

  Sometimes I cannot help but thinking that the King’s greatest love affair was with himself. In sooth, so much so that it affected his prowess in the bedchamber. It must be hard to make love to a woman when you are so used to making love to yourself.

  His courtship of Anne was very different to his usual, easy conquests, simply because she rebuffed him. And Anne’s utter indifference to his kingly desires would have, I believe, shocked our poor King right down to his toenails. Never before had a subject—and a woman at that—rebuffed him. Anne was clever enough to realise that her apparent rejection of his advances was like putting a red flag to a bull, and she soon had this particular royal bull charging at that flag.

  And it was not only the King who could not get enough of her company. Since Anne’s return from Hever she had fast become a major influence at court. Many of the ladies at court were trying desperately to follow her lead in everything. Indeed, in so many different directions that George and I could not help sharing our amusement with one another. Certainly, Anne only had to alter her dresses slightly for this alteration to become the latest fashion—very quickly copied by all the women at the court. Even Anna’s favourite colours were seen everywhere.

  However, I also could not help thinking that many of these mature, court ladies made utter fools of themselves when they attempted to copy Anne’s lovely, fluid manner of dance. To watch her dance was to watch something truly unique and marvellous. But then dancing, from the time she was a little child, was always one of Anne’s greatest gifts, and I felt it could never be copied to the soaring level she was able to achieve, and with such apparent, effortless grace.

  Standing alongside George, I felt embarrassed for these older ladies when I watched them try to match and outdo Anne’s movements upon the dance floor.

  I turned and whispered to George.

  “Can one expect a duck to be as graceful in the water as a swan? Nay, I say, and more: Anne has more grace in one fingertip than those women have in their entire bodies.”

  George’s eyes shone his amusement and he gave a brief laugh.

  George knew, as did I, that Anna had made good use of her time away from court. ’Twas during this time when she was “exiled” at Hever that she had found the time to experiment with her style of dance and dress. Indeed, it was now, when she re-emerged at the English court, that her father’s decision to send her to France was showing its greatest benefits. For it was during this time abroad that Anne had absorbed her knowledge regarding fashion, and how it could be used to add to her attractions and hide what she wished not to show.

  In all honesty, my cousin Anna, from the time she was a little girl, had been very self-conscious about her body’s imperfections, especially that of a mole upon her neck and a tiny growth upon her right hand’s fifth finger. Yea, she was very aware of these two defects. Aware, because whenever Uncle Boleyn was angry with her as a little child, he always brought up those minor blemishes, saying that no man would ever have her for his wife if he realised her body hid two marks of the devil. For certes, I remember to this very day one occasion when the little girl that Anne once was went completely white and sick-looking after her father had told her that the lump on her finger reminded him of a devil’s teat. Something possessed by one of his followers so the Prince of Evil could come and suckle at their person.

  Thus, by the time she returned to court Anna had thought of two ways to hide these physical flaws. Around her slender, beauteous neck—to cover up her pretty mole—she now took to wearing some sort of collar, whether it be simply of cloth or ribbon, or something that was made of precious metals and jewels.

  And I discovered, only days after she returned to court, how Anna conspired to hide her misshapen finger. I entered her chamber to find Anna sitting in the window seat, her back to the afternoon sun, sewing together pieces of fabric. Seeing a stool next to the window seat, I went over to sit beside her.

  Concentrating hard at her task, Anne gave me a fleeting glance and a brief but welcoming smile. For a few minutes, the only sound I could hear was the needle pushing its way through dense fabric. At length, I felt a need for Anna to do more than just momentarily acknowledge my presence.

  “What are you sewing?” I asked.

  Anna bit off the strand of cotton, and spread the black material out on her lap.

  “Do you not see, Tom? I am making new sleeves for my gowns. Simonette told me of this old design—remembering a gown of her mother’s. Let me show you.”

  Anne pulled the long and wide sleeve up her left arm; the material, cut in a point, draped over her fingers.

  “See, Tom, does it not look elegant?”

  “It suits you,” I said, thinking that Anne’s good taste ensured all her gowns suited her. But I could not help watching her as she lowered her arm. She bit her lower lip, her face tight in concentration, as she moved her hand backward and forth, and looked at it from all possible angles. I knew at that exact moment the reason why she had chosen to seize hold of this past fashion for the sleeves of her gowns.

  But then Anna knew too well that the wooing of a king, such as Henry of England, meant always thinking hard on her strategy to do so—though for a reason I could but shudder at. Revenge had become the only reason for her life.

  It so maddened me to watch this drama being enacted before my eyes. To see what Anne was doing and was determined to do.

  Aye, within weeks of her return from Hever, Anne had the whole court buzzing around her. Alas, it was not only the court. It was too easy to see that the King was completely captivated by her, and could not get enough of her presence. I grew more uneasy hour by hour.

  Nonetheless, if anyone understood what was really going on inside of her, it was I. Anna had not been stable in her actions since that dreadful day when she first left the court. Knowing that, and believing Anna was taking herself deeper and deeper beyond the point of saving, I could not help trying to make the King lose his interest in my cousin and my beloved. Indeed, I think I was in a temper to attempt anything.

  An opportunity to do so came about one day when the King, the Duke of Suffolk and my friend Francis Bryan were playing bowls together. An argument began about who had been the most recent victor. The King pointed with his hand bearing a ring—taken as a token from Anne recently—saying that it was his victory. It was completely clear to me that, when he looked me directly in the eye, he was speaking of other than the game we were playing. I gla
nced at the King, realising he was hinting about his wooing of Anne. I thought in a hurry, and remembered a locket I had taken recently from Anna as a jest. Taking it off from my neck, I bowed and then said to the King: “And if it may please your Grace, to give me leave to measure it, I hope the victory will be mine.”

  I then began to measure how far it was between the bowls and jack. The atmosphere was suddenly charged all around me. It was like the threat of a dark storm had come to foreshadow the bright day. The King plainly realised that the locket belonged to Anne—his face reddened with rage.

  “I am deceived,” the King shouted, in his high voice, heading off in the direction where we had only recently left Anna. Hurrying after the King, the Duke and Bryan strode away too.

  I stood, now altogether alone, watching them march off into the distance—and as I watched I reflected I had doubtless ruined any chance I had to further advance myself at court. I sighed, thinking I would doubtless now be sent far away from these blessed shores of England. But if what I had done had achieved its purpose, if the King’s interest in Anne was now destroyed, well then, I thought, my banishment would be well worth it.

  Anne and I had arranged to meet at a certain hour in the gardens after dinner. In due course, it became time to meet her, and I strolled towards our designated meeting place.

  Anne was already there, walking up and down as she often did when she was upset or angry. I sauntered over casually, sat on a nearby bench, crossed a leg over a knee, glanced around at the beautiful gardens surrounding me, and prepared myself to listen to her recriminations.

  At length, she stopped her stalking and stared hard at me. Her eyes were brightly dark, almost like glittering jewels.

  “How could you, Tom?” she snapped.

  I jerked back—she sounded so angry. I was so unused to having her anger directed towards me that I felt like I had been suddenly slapped. I felt angry in turn, and spoke with bitterness in reply.

  “How could I, Anne? Why ask that of me, when it should be me asking, how can you continue playing this cat and mouse game with the King? Yea, I know that you wish to make him to fall in love with you so you can hurt him as he hurt you. But ’tis a mad, mad plan and you should stop—stop before you become any more hurt than what you’ve been already.”

  I arose from the bench, and went as to embrace her, but Anne backed away from my reaching grasp. Thus, putting down my hands and staying where I stood, I tried my hardest to make her see reason.

  “Believe me, Anne, the King knows nothing of love, except the love of himself. Anna… Anna… I do not know what is happening to you. And I do not believe that you know what is happening to yourself. This is so unlike the girl I grew up with! Anna, how can you be so untrue to yourself?”

  She moved closer to me and gestured angrily to her breast.

  “I, Tom? Untrue to myself, cousin? You know, as George knows, that for the last three years I have been promising myself revenge. I could only be untrue to myself if I did any other than what I planned.”

  I stared at her. Surely Anna could not have changed so completely from the carefree and compassionate spirit I had come to love so early in our lives. I shook my head slowly, saying with utter solemnity: “Anna, I promise you will rue the day you decided on this course.”

  “Cousin, if I do, I do. I am willing to take the consequences for any action of mine. What I am not willing to do is to forgive or forget what Wolsey and the King did to Hal and I. All the dreams they so heartlessly destroyed. They deserve to suffer for what they did. And I promise you, cousin, I will not rest until they hurt as I am hurting. As I will always hurt!”

  Anne stood white-faced before me, visibly trembling. I wanted so much to take her in my arms and kiss away everything afflicting her so. But I also knew, with a sudden sense of helplessness, that I had little power to help her.

  I could only hope and pray she would heed my words.

  “Anna! Anna! Can you not see you are on a road where you could destroy yourself?”

  “And what if I am, cousin? I feel like Wolsey and the King have already destroyed everything that made my life worth living…”

  She again looked hard at me, as if any affection she had for me had instantly been dealt a deathblow. Blinking away tears, my heart began to ache within my chest. I wished simply to disappear.

  “Are you my keeper, Tom, that you worry so much about my concerns? You have told me much about your own problems at home. Look first to solving them, Tom, before you meddle again in my affairs.”

  With those final words still vibrating through the air, Anne spun away and ran from the garden, leaving me absolutely desolated and wretched.

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  “That now are wild and do not remember.”

  Day swiftly followed day, and I soon found myself appointed to the company of Sir Thomas Cheney, a short and stocky man who was a long time friend and neighbour of my father. By the command of the King, Sir Thomas was being sent with a group of young courtiers to François, King of France. The reason for his mission was to congratulate the King on his recent release from the captivity of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, as well as to offer the support and protection of England to a league formed to combat the actions of the Emperor.

  I had expected this “exile”—though no one claimed it as such—from the time I had watched King Henry stalk from the bowling courts, his tall body pulsating with barely compressed anger. I felt very thankful (for my father’s sake—if not my own) the King had seen fit to close his eyes to my insult, choosing to content himself with his decision to send me, for a time, away from his court and presence.

  Perchance the King unknowingly did me a great service. It was spring—the weather simply as glorious as it could be in this season, the Channel crossing as smooth as one could wish it. The short voyage across such gentle seas was good for my lowered spirits. I felt almost happy again as I stood on the deck watching the sapphire coloured water lap and splash against the ship’s bow, while behind us the churned up sea slithered like a snake in its death throes.

  This was my first voyage upon the seas. I felt somewhat astonished to find myself little affected by the movement of our small craft, especially since many of my companions had turned pale and ill looking at the first rock and sway of the ship.

  Thus, by the time we disembarked on the sixth of April at Bordeaux, my faith in life had begun to return somewhat. At twenty-two, I was still young enough to take joy in the feel of the sea-kissed wind blowing against my face, the smell of the salt air, and the sight of sea birds spiralling up, higher and higher into the blue and often unclouded sky.

  Most of the company forming our embassy were young men I had known since early youth; friends like Francis Bryan and Francis Weston. It began to feel to us all as if we had been suddenly freed from the strict dominion of our English court. While on our journey towards Cognac, we would often sing and jest to one another. Aye, on many an occasion Sir Thomas had to speak firmly to his young companions for instantaneously breaking loose from the group and racing their horses until they reached the next bend in the road before us.

  Spring had begun its magic when we had left England; in France the spell appeared completed. It was so utterly enchanting—very, very green, with wildflowers everywhere. I remember that we would often stop our horses so to discreetly watch the peasants tending to their fields and livestock. The scenes we saw could easily be described as peaceful and homelike, except that when we were noticed, the peasants would act as if stricken with great panic, running fast to the nearest shelter. Many a place we noticed had the obvious signs that battle had been engaged there in recent times. In our journey, we were often confronted by the ruined remains of a homestead or village—clearly once full of human life, but now being reclaimed by nature.

  The weather stayed warm, with sunlight making our fair skins tingle and glow. Without doubt, this lovely weather helped us to make good time and, thus,
our very happy journey soon came to an end. Within two weeks of arriving at the south-western seaport of Bordeaux we made our entry into the city of Cognac, where we knew King François resided.

  As I have said, this was my first time abroad and my first experience of the French court. I remember when Anna first returned from France how enthusiastic she often was about her years at Queen Claude’s court. Now I began to understand why. The French court was very different from the court I had left behind. During the days I was there, I felt so overwhelmed by each and every impression.

  The strongest impression made on me, however, was the impact made by François of France. In England, at court, I had seen many French charters, charters that would often include an image of the French King. Meeting him in the flesh was a different matter entirely. Several years younger than our King Henry, François was similar to the English King in some ways, and very dissimilar in others. They were both men of comparable height, but our King was proud, and rightfully so, of his athletic, muscle-bound thighs. The French King’s legs were skinny—in sooth, almost stick-like. I remembered a story that the previous King had gained the nickname of “Spider” for his ability to tangle unwary foes in his web. But I could not help wondering if another reason he was so named was because of this physical defect of terribly thin legs, a defect clearly passed down to his kinsman.

  The King of France also had a very strange face: an extremely long nose, dark, beady eyes set too close together, and a very full, sensual mouth. Sometimes, I thought, his facial expressions could only be described as leering—especially if an attractive, young woman stood near.

  Nevertheless, when I met the King of France that spring, I met a man very much embittered by his imprisonment by Charles V, telling all and everyone how badly he was treated by the Holy Roman Emperor and how little stock had been taken for his Royal blood. King François had given up his own young sons as hostages to the Emperor to ensure his good behaviour and release. Condemning his two sons to live their young years as bleakly as he had lived since his defeat at Pavia. Sometimes the reasoning of kings defies all my attempts of understanding.