When he awoke again Anne was gone and a pale light shone through the window. It promised to be a fine day. Now that Jane was nearby, all his days would be sunny.
# # #
Anne sat her restive bay, the checking of the creature’s exuberant spirits coming as second nature to her. Her gazed roved over the company that would join the hunt that day. For her there would be no exhilarating chase. Not with a fresh deposit of the king’s seed in her in belly, taking root, she hoped, to produce her savior. There must be no accidents this time. She would walk her horse, take the air, but she would not hunt that day, nor any other day, until the gilded cradle, waiting so long idle at Richmond Palace, felt the weight of a son.
She did not at first recognize Jane on her cream-colored mare (how like the girl to choose a white horse!). Could this be the same shadowy, silent, unobtrusive mouse of a girl who attended her at court? Jane Seymour barely spoke, never laughed; thinking back, Anne could not even recall ever having seen the girl smile.
But look at her now! Perhaps here, in her home, at the edge of the mighty forest where she had played with her brothers as a child, she felt free. Certainly here was a different wench altogether, her chestnut hair streaming down her back, as befitted a maid, catching the light of the morning sun and glinting gold. Here was a girl whose hazel eyes sparkled and danced, tantalizingly tip-tilted. Suddenly Jane laughed a deep-throated laughter at something that was said, and when her lips parted, they revealed two rows of tiny, milk-white teeth.
Jane, in an age that admired a white skin, was sometimes called too pale for beauty; but this morning she had the most becoming roses in her cheeks. Although the day was fine at last, the sudden onset of autumn had brought a nip and a chill to the air that served to colour La Seymour’s usually pasty face.
“The transformation is quite startling, is it not?”
Anne turned in her saddle to see Lady Lee beside her. “I admit myself astounded,” said Anne. “If she demonstrated such animation at court, she would be married by now.”
For a moment Lady Lee did not respond, and then she said, “Yes, it has been a long time in coming. Do you not hunt this day, Anne?”
Anne shook her head. “No,” she said, with a half-smile. “One must have a care not to jostle the royal seed in its vessel.”
“I am relieved for you,” said Margaret. There was little more to be said. The horns sounded their clarion call, and with a pat on Anne’s sleeve, she turned and trotted off to join the hunt.
Anne headed for a different path into the forest. She walked her horse at a calm pace, its hooves making no sound as they trod the fallen leaves of a thousand autumns. A slight breeze wafted through ancient red oaks and salmon-colored beeches tossing the branches this way and that, and causing a shower of jewel-toned leaves to drift down in lazy spirals. The sunlight glinted a million diamonds on the dewdrops of the emerald green leaves that had not yet turned color. The effect was dazzling.
Off in the distance, the hounds bayed and the horns blew. The sound seemed to get farther and farther away. The trees and the thickets played tricks on her ears; amongst the calls of a thousand birds, Anne thought she heard voices. Silently she picked her way through the bracken, the voices drawing her nearer.
Through the leaves she saw a clearing. The sunlight shone brighter there, throwing her own position into deep shadow. A great tree had fallen in some long ago storm, and it lay across the open space, its roots at one end almost as tall as a man. As the tree tapered, its rounded trunk was accessible and upon it sat two figures. The man’s back was to her, but there no mistaking the king; no man, with the possible exception of Brandon, came close to him in size, and none dressed as he did. She could not hear his words, but the sound of his voice had a pleading quality about it. The other voice she could barely hear at all. But it was a woman’s voice.
The figure that Henry’s bulk obscured from her sight moved suddenly, arose, stood; Henry turned, extended both his hands, and clasped the woman’s. Only one person had been wearing a velvet riding habit as deeply ruby red as the colour of burgundy wine. It was Jane. The different Jane of this morning. The Jane who smiled and simpered, the one who had abandoned the nun-like hoods and headpieces that revealed neither lock nor curl.
Henry stayed seated upon the bole of the fallen tree. Jane stood before him, but barely looked down at him. She was very small of stature, almost doll-like in her tininess. Anne, who was tall for a woman, suddenly felt awkward and ungainly. Her eyes narrowed. Nonsense! she thought. Anne, who was known in England and on the Continent for her keen fashion sense; she, who had graced two royal courts, three, if one counted her time with Margaret of Austria; she, who had been copied and envied by others for her elusive charm, would not stoop to jealousy of one of her own non-descript waiting women. Let Henry find out how far his lechery would get him with the prim Jane!
And then a thought struck her. Jane was prim. Far too prim and virginal (remember that white horse!) to yield, even to the king. And who knew better than Anne what could happen when the king’s quarry failed to yield?
Anne backed away on silent feet and prayed that her horse would not give her away with an untimely knicker.
When she rode into the courtyard, the hunters were inspecting the venison. Lady Lee turned and seeing Anne’s stricken face, hastened to her side. The cousins’ eyes met in a long, searching look.
At last Anne said, in barely a whisper, “How long have you known?”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to the group of merry hunters and back again. “A few weeks,” she replied.
“Who else knows?” Lady Lee hesitated. “Who else?” hissed Anne.
“The entire court knows,” she said miserably. “I…I had hoped to spare you…these things can blow over so quickly. You know His Grace.”
Anne snorted inelegantly. “Yes,” she replied sarcastically. “Indeed I do. Meg, this one is different. Mark my words.” Anne nibbled a cuticle. “At least now I know what I am doing at Wolf Hall! Make ready, Meg, and arrange a small escort. We ride within the hour.” She slid from her horse and a waiting groom ran up to take the reins.
“To where?” asked Lady Lee.
“I know not. I will decide that when my horse is beneath me again. I do know that I have no intention of remaining under this roof another moment.” Her eyes flashed.
“Oh Anne,” pleaded Lady Lee. “Is this wise? Running away, I mean. Departing without the king’s leave. Would it not be better…”
“A pox on his permission!” cried Anne. Her outburst caused heads to turn. The servants had trussed the venison and were moving towards the kitchens, leaving the hunting party to their wine flagons. Anne heaved a sigh. “You are right. We will stay.” It was more important now than ever before. If Henry was burning for Jane, and the lady refusing him, he would need to turn somewhere to assuage his lust. And who better to perform that weary duty than a wife in need of a son? And yet…
Anne eyed the sky. It was once again overcast; perhaps there would be more of the interminable rain. There were moments when she still enjoyed toying with Henry, but she was in deadly earnest now. She would not stay.
“Margaret,” she said defiantly. “Make ready.”
Windsor Castle, November 1535
Henry plodded along deep in thought, oblivious to the last vestiges of the autumn beauty around him. When he was younger such a morning would have inspired him to poetry, which he would then have set to music in his head, so that he could bellow out his creation to the blue sky as well as to his startled entourage. Those were the days, he thought. Young, rich, handsome, healthy, powerful, and married to the best princess in Christendom. What had not seemed possible then?
Now, here he was, aching in his bones from the physical exercise he used to take as easily as breathing. Anne was right; he was putting on flesh. His order for new armour was based on more than just the king needing to be seen to have the latest technology, the shiniest metal, the freshest leather.
A
nne! Had he really traded Katharine for Anne? Katharine, twice royal, from a prosperous, powerful, established country, meek, biddable, dignified? But not able to give him the son he needed so desperately. That outweighed everything, and Katharine would never understand. He found that odd; Katharine was usually so pragmatic, notwithstanding the fact that she was also the product of two royal blood lines; if anyone should understand the needs of dynasty, it was Katharine.
But in his heart he thought he knew why Katharine would not let go. Despite all the pragmatic reasons in the world why he needed his freedom at this moment, Katharine still loved him. She still lived off the memories of their good days together, while he had left those memories behind, and rarely thought of them. Never thought of them.
Now it was no longer Katharine-Henry-Anne; Katharine had ceased to matter to him. Now it was Anne-Henry-Jane. No room for Katharine anymore. But how was he to rid himself of Anne? Even Wolsey had not been able to solve that riddle, that of how a king could rid himself of an unwanted queen. Gone were the days when a king could simply compel the woman into a nunnery. And he had great difficulty picturing Anne in a convent.
Anne! She was at Windsor, he knew. Soon now he would face her. What would he say to her? How could he tell her, after all they had been through, that he no longer wanted her and meant to be rid of her? He wanted none of her empty promises now, wanted none of her boys. He wanted Jane’s boys…
He looked around him at the bleak countryside. It was getting colder every day. It had been the worst harvest in memory. Even now, looking at the azure sky above him, he remembered all the rain; and the sky seemed to mock him. He had done his best, but the Hanseatic League would not help by selling England the grain that could have saved thousands from starvation in the coming winter. In the end, he had had to buy grain from France and the Low Countries, a situation that galled his pride.
The party topped a rise and there before him lay, like a jewel in its setting, his castle of Windsor. The feeling of pride he felt at seeing this mighty structure, this symbol of his strength, made the desolation in his heart lift a little. And then he thought of Jane and it grew wings and was borne away on the wind, racing across the deep blue sky until he could see it no more.
# # #
Lady Lee sat by the window, alternatingly stabbing her needle into her embroidery as if she were annoyed with it, and staring at it as though she were looking through it, needle poised in mid-air. Anne strummed idly on her lute. How could Anne possibly be so calm, with an angry king on his way, possibly even entering the castle at this very moment?
Lady Lee knew what was troubling Anne. Even though she had an uneasy feeling of impending doom, she felt bound to try to comfort Anne, and assuage her fears. For despite Anne’s outward placidity, Margaret knew that Anne was anxious about this first meeting with the king since she had left Wolf Hall on her own. Margaret knew that Anne was as brave as a lion, but what she might lack in courage she made up for with that inexplicable ability to charm others that she possessed. But she also guessed that despite her bravado, that Anne was fearful of this meeting with the king. Perhaps, for the first time, fearful of the king himself.
“Anne,” she said. “It will be all right.”
Suddenly they heard the unmistakable clang of spurs on stone; he was coming. The halberdiers’ blades whispered their metallic melody and there he was.
“Your Grace,” whispered Lady Lee, who, after making a very deep curtsey, effected so fast an exit that Anne would have sworn she moved on wheels.
“Well, and what have you to say for yourself, Madam?” said a calm, almost indifferent Henry.
His indifference frightened her; but Anne knew that this time, she held the trump card. But it would sting him all the more if she held it to the end.
Anne carefully laid down her lute and looked up at Henry. “I? What have I to explain?” said Anne in a flat, cold voice. “I rather think the boot is on the other foot, don’t you?”
Henry smiled, but his smile was sardonic. Despite all, he admired her spirit. Especially now, when she was cornered. “I am the King of England, Madam. I am not required to explain anything to anybody.”
“No, I suppose not,” Anne replied. She lifted her lute and began to strum it again. It was twilight, and the fire had dwindled so that the room was very dim.
Henry placed his hands on his hips and leaned towards her. “Is that all you have to say?”
Anne threw the lute down onto the window seat, where it landed on its strings with a jarring twang. “What would have me say, Henry? I see where your heart is now. It is no longer with me.” She walked from the window seat to the table in the middle of the room where some late roses had been gathered and placed in a vase. When she moved the gossamer tissue of her cloth of silver robe wafted with the scent of lavender.
Be rid of her he must, he thought, but the smell of lavender and roses would always recall her to mind. Henry, ever the egoist, attributed the tears standing on Anne’s lower lids, waiting to brim over, to heartbreak rather than fury.
“And do you love her?” asked Anne. She could see it in his eyes; he wanted Jane. How paradoxical, she thought. Henry had, literally, moved heaven and earth to have her, at a staggering cost in lives, in tears and in heartbreak for all concerned, and now it was over. Or so he thought! He thought she was merely sad, when in reality she was trembling with anger. For this Harry had been taken from her! For this both their lives had been ruined! Harry had never consummated his sham marriage with Mary Talbot, and she, Anne, had lost her reputation, her sons, her peace of mind, and now she was apt to lose her life. And all for nothing!
“You villainous swine,” hissed Anne. “You vain, insufferable lout! You took away my love, you ruined my life, and Percy’s, and now you have the gall to tell me you no longer want me? That you want to abandon me and Elizabeth for that insipid little sheep, that mealy-mouthed nobody!”
A slow smile moved across Henry’s face. “You’re jealous,” he said sneeringly.
Anne snorted. “Jealous! Of that bland, colorless, dull little thing? Do not presume, Sir.”
Henry sputtered in his rage. “You, to tell me not to presume! You exceed yourself, Madam! You, who are queen only by my sufferance, and are just as apt to…”
“Do not say that which you will later regret, Henry,” said Anne in barely a whisper.
“The only regret I have, Madam, is in taking you to wife!” Henry’s face was red, but it had not yet achieved the purple hue that she had been hoping for. Lately he had not the stamina to continue for long one of their cut-and-thrust arguments. She had taunted him long enough.
“I am with child,” said Anne, in a firm, clear voice. “The child is due in June. Your son, Henry.” She almost spat the word at him.
Instead of the purple of wrath, all of a sudden Henry’s face lost all color and he was as pale as suet. Anne noticed the spider-web-like veins in his face, so red against the pasty background. He looked as if he had been pole-axed.
“Is it true?” he whispered. Suddenly the fall idyll with Jane went flashing by like contenders at the joust, their colors flying, vivid and bright. Jane in her forest green velvet riding habit; the red of the blood on the leaves of the path when they had tracked together the deer Jane had shot; the blue of the sky and the yellow of the sun of those clear, sparkling, halcyon days. The last picture flew by and took hope with it. But what really stunned him was that instead of being glad, he was infinitely sorry.
Almost to himself, musing and rubbing his beard, he said, “How…?” Then he remembered those half-forgotten battles of the flesh he had fought with Anne in those dim dawns and dusks. Dreams of Jane, desirous, lustful dreams of Jane (and how outraged would she be if she knew!) and Anne being there and wanting him, taking him, forcing him to take her, and all the while it was Jane’s face that he saw, Jane’s chestnut hair falling over creamy breasts, Jane’s mouth half-open, her brow and upper lip moist with sweat…
But he had been con
vinced that Anne would not, could not, would never, give him the son he wanted. He hadn’t meant to… Oh God! How long would he have to wait, then, for Jane? It was too ironic…how long had he and Anne watched the moon, hoping, praying? For the first time in his life, he knew what it was to feel regret for something he had done. But Anne had taken advantage of him (hadn’t she always?), exploiting his weakness, the weakness of the flesh…and now it had cost him his heart’s desire. Jane.
And then he asked the age-old question, spoken by myriads, in every tone of voice and situation known to man: “Are you sure?”
Anne cocked an eyebrow. “As sure as one can be about such things,” she said off-handedly.
Henry’s mind raced. Jane. Perhaps he could persuade her. Perhaps Katharine would die. Mayhap Anne would miscarry, or die; or, God forfend, another girl…thoughts chased each other around Henry’s mind like figures on a Greek vase.
This could be a good thing. If Anne were to finally bear him, and England, a son and heir, it would serve to justify everything he had done, instead of his policies being made mock of by Anne’s stillbirths, miscarriages, and by Elizabeth herself, despite the show he put on making much of her.
“Then let us not quarrel,” he said. “It is not good for the babe.”
Seemingly an innocuous remark, but Anne knew better. Well, she would not miscarry of her savior this time. She would not.
Henry had hitherto avoided looking at his wife, but now he did; and there was no mistaking the look of triumph on Anne’s face.
Kimbolton, January 1536
Katharine eyed the fire burning brightly and crackling in the hearth. Had she been vouchsafed such a blaze since coming to this dreary castle, with its feet in the moat and the resultant damp patches on every wall, perhaps she would not now be at such a pass. But in her heart she knew that the pains she suffered in her chest were not related to the misery of her aching joints. Even the slightest movement was an effort now, but she turned her head ever so slightly in order to look at Maria de Moreto, who sat slumped in a chair between the hearth and the bed. She was snoring slightly, but Katharine knew that her faithful maid was probably not fully asleep. Just then a particularly sharp pain seized Katharine and she cried out.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 15
