Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  “Mother, these gifts are remarkable – gorgeous… and certainly much too costly.”

  “I want you to have them and to wear them in good health and fortune, darling Anne. A gown made in those colours will flatter you such that everyone will take notice of the extraordinarily beautiful woman you are. And the necklace…treasure it, Nan, and remember me always by it. Let us hope that perhaps, someday, you will be blessed by having a beautiful, accomplished daughter who will wear this very necklace with pride in her Boleyn heritage.”

  She fastened the piece behind my neck, and we both gazed at its reflection in her mirror.

  Oh, I just loved her so.

  Greenwich

  Winter 1526

  By early in January I was back in residence at Greenwich where the entire palace, it seemed, was caught up in the preparations for a masque and banquet to celebrate a belated New Year and the King’s and Queen’s return from their self-imposed isolation at Eltham. I looked forward to the entertainments which were planned, especially anticipating the banquet to be held in the Great Hall.

  Much to my delight I located a dressmaker in London with the ability to transform the fabric my mother gave me into a splendid gown, in short order. The finished piece had been delivered, and it was perfectly fitted. In addition to its unusual design, its colour would be, I was sure, unlike any of the other ladies’ attire on that evening.

  Maggie Wyatt and I strolled through the Great Hall on the way to our chambers in the afternoon before the celebration. It was a sight to behold as yeomen stewards balanced precariously on scaffolds to hang heavy tapestries while others carried tall silver urns filled with branches that had been dipped in silver and gold to be placed about the room and on the dais where the King and Queen would sit. The fireplace was being laid with massive logs: the tables already spread with gleaming white damask cloths.

  Maggie nudged my arm as we gaped at the preparations underway. “Well, are you going to wear your brand new gown to the envy of all, Anne? It is a bit unfair to those of us who have no idea what you might unveil tonight.”

  Maggie Wyatt was my lifelong friend. Her family lived at Allington in Maidstone, just a short distance from the Manor of Hever. Her brothers were George’s friends, and her sister a friend of Mary’s as we all grew up together. She had always been ‘Maggie’ to me, although her Christian name was Margaret. Maggie was a few years younger than I, but she had attached herself to me from an early age, following me about across the fields and lawns which joined Hever and Allington. A plucky child, she kept up with me till the difference in our ages no longer mattered, and we became fast friends. It was because of her dedication over the many years that I so valued her company when she came to court. I hope she did mine, as well, because it was a relief to have a friend one could trust and confide in at close hand.

  While she was at Greenwich, we’d spent many an hour chattering and laughing about nearly everything under the sun, including our childhood together. But there were two subjects I dared not broach. The first was the fact that her brother, Thomas, had quietly yet consistently been paying me attention. A poet growing in renown, he had composed two very beautiful sonnets and sent them to me. I found his attentions charming – even a bit intoxicating, true – but I was uncertain of how I felt about Thomas Wyatt, and thus had not given him any indication of reciprocal interest. Had I been even somewhat inclined to provide him with a favourable response, the situation would have been further complicated by the fact of his marriage to a girl called Elizabeth Brooke. While I’d heard their marriage was not a happy one, made notable by Mistress Brooke’s habit of coquetry with men who were not her husband, I was not sure if it had been dissolved. Maggie had not mentioned Thomas’s interest in me, and I wondered if she was even aware of it.

  The other subject I carefully refrained from mentioning was my encounter with the King this November past.

  Some things one must keep to oneself, no matter how deep a friendship.

  “Yes, Maggie, I intend to wear the new gown,” I replied, “and while it’s kind of you to imply that mine will be special, you know as well as I that there will be many stunning women adorned in magnificent attire in attendance tonight - you not least among them.”

  I took her elbow and steered her purposefully toward our chambers. “We should tarry no longer, or neither of us will have any hope of being ready in time.”

  My preparation for such a special evening would be painstaking in its detail, and I was especially glad to have Charity assist me. Charity had been assigned as my personal chambermaid by Sir John Gage, who was presently the Vice-Chamberlain of the King’s household. She was new to court, and a bit nervous, but she was a sweet girl, and as it turned out, most talented in styling hair.

  She had laid out for me my petticoat and bodice, kirtle, and sleeves. The sleeves had been tailored in my favourite style, narrow at the top, widening below and ending in long, trailing points. I’d created a unique design in which the shortest part of the sleeve ended just above my knuckles. This exposed my fingers, which allowed me to feature rings to complement the gown, and I thought it made my hands look very graceful. The flowing, trailing sleeves were beautiful, falling to just above floor-length when my arms hung straight at my sides. Not only did they waft as I moved, but their linings were exposed, which I’d specified should be made from the same burgundy satin as my petticoat. I also had the dressmaker lower the neckline just a little, and create a tighter bodice. Often I intercepted wry glances being exchanged between the master tailor and his apprentices as I informed them of the modifications I desired in my particular designs. When the garments were finished, however, and I’d tried them on, they looked well: so well that the master tailor beamed with satisfaction at having taken part in a creation of le style nouveau. On a less pleasing note, once clad in my finery, my ability to draw a breath would be compromised. It would not be the first, nor the last, time that a lady of the court’s comfort was to be sacrificed on the altar of image!

  After Charity had cleared away the remnants of my bath, I sat, folded into a deliciously thick robe, before the chest which held my personal items. Between two lanterns, my mirror had been ready placed at an angle which allowed me to see my face clearly enough to complete my toilette. I was indebted to my education at the court of François I. The noble Frenchwomen were so very clever about the rituals of beauty and how to create its illusory magic. As a matter of course, the young women of high rank at court were taught to appreciate what looked best on them and how to contrive their own personal style. I had learned most assiduously and, for this evening’s celebration, intended to exploit that invaluable knowledge to its fullest.

  While Charity brushed out my hair, I lifted from the chest the beautiful enamelled porcelain powder jar I’d received as a departure gift on leaving Paris. In it, I kept a special blend of powder with a soft puff of lamb’s wool. I applied it to my face, neck, and décolletage. A soft brush blended the powder until it made my skin glow, with a faultless finish. I then removed from a wooden case a very fine painter’s brush and a small ivory cask of black kohl powder. Dipping the brush into a tiny amount of egg white, then carefully into the kohl, I drew the finest line above my eyelashes. I had become quite steady-handed at this, though my initial efforts had been comical. Once the lines had been traced, I selected another short but, this time, wider brush. Dipping it into the egg white, then the kohl, I brushed it upwards against the underside of my lashes, adding an extra dimension to their thickness. For the next few minutes, I sat wide-eyed, desperately trying not to blink until the egg white had set, or the kohl would end up on my cheeks. Next, out came a silver jar which, when opened, revealed ochre powder pressed into a cake. Using another exquisitely soft lamb’s wool puff, I applied just a touch of the ochre to each cheek, carefully blending it in with my fingers. Most English women used a pale crimson rouge made of cochineal, but I had learned that ochre was just the right sh
ade for my skin, which already had a golden cast to it. It lent my cheeks the colour of rose brick. I used the same pigment on my lips, blended with a bit of an ointment the apothecary had made for me. Finally, from a dainty perfume bottle, I dabbed the scantest amount of fragrant oil about my neck and chest. That evening, I wore a special mixture of patchouli with an essence of apothecary’s rose.

  My hair had now been brushed, with just a touch of oil applied to the bristles, till it gleamed, silken and flowing in the candlelight. While it appeared very dark - almost black - in the evenings by candle or firelight, in fact, it was shot with auburn and ginger tones which were visible when the illumination was right. I chose to wear it loose under the short veil attached to the back of my hood. I did this often, even though I knew it drew disapproving looks from some of the older women of court … or, perhaps, because of such pettish disapproval. To their disfavour, I gave little regard: unmarried girls were permitted to wear their hair unbound, and I was, after all, unmarried. The fact that I was no longer considered a girl was a minor detail I steadfastly overlooked. I was not one to let an advantage like my long, glossy hair be hidden.

  Cosmetics complete, it came time to dress. Charity first helped me on with my chemise, and then the successive components of my gown. She laced the petticoat, stomacher and bodice tightly at my back, not without some tight-lipped discomfort on my part. Carefully she lifted the kirtle over my head and settled it in place, arranging the folds and the opening in the front to expose the burgundy satin of the petticoat. Finally, she attached the sleeves with lacings and pins while I studied my reflection with, I confess, a self-satisfied smile. The dressmaker had done excellent work. But it was the colours which pleased me so much. The mellow golden green velvet was beautiful against my skin and hair. The rich golden edging applied to the neckline matched the gold embroidery on the bodice as well as the small French hood Charity had pinned to my hair, while the facing satin of the deep wine hue afforded just the right counterpoint.

  From my small jewellery casket, I selected a ring of gold set with a small, deep red ruby and placed it on the middle finger of my left hand. It glimmered and winked, just exposed by the sleeve as I’d intended. Finally, I held my hair forward as Charity clasped the necklace that my mother had given me around my neck, arranging the ‘B’ so that it hung in just the right spot before tucking the longer string of pearls into the bodice.

  I was well pleased with the overall result.

  I slipped just inside the entrance to the Great Hall and gazed about in wonder at the room’s marvellous transformation. The imposing space glittered as if with an alchemist’s magic touch. Aware of someone approaching, I turned to see Maggie, who looked striking in an embellished, tawny-velvet gown with silver and gold embroidery accenting her kirtle and gable hood. For a brief moment, we observed in silent awe as the resplendent lords and ladies of the court assembled to celebrate the beginning of that year, 1526.

  Maggie and I wandered through the crowd, having selected a goblet each of French wine from a liveried servant’s silver tray. As I raised the cup to my lips, I felt a penetrating stare from my left. Seeking its source, I caught the King, eyes focused directly on me from across the room, while he conversed with Lord Suffolk. The moment my gaze met his, he quickly drew away and continued his conversation. The company as a whole approached our respective places at the table, and when the King and Queen were in seated in place on the dais, the rest of the court and guests sat as well. A parade of servants in their finest Tudor green and white livery entered the hall and began serving the guests while, at the King’s and Queen’s table, their personal ushers were placing platters of steaming and fragrant roasted veal, mutton, and venison before them. Only after they had taken their first bite did we begin the feast.

  The meal was well underway; the wine was poured ever more abundantly and the noise level in the room increased as merriment ensued. In between courses I was acutely aware of the King, even though I was not seated in his direct line of vision. I tried to snatch covert glimpses of him without his noticing. When I succeeded, I was taken with the comeliness of his appearance. His attire was, of course, magnificent; all gold and black velvet which provided a backdrop to the glitter of his richly coloured jewels. But far more captivating was his expression. He fairly beamed with pleasure and imparted the fresh-faced radiance of a boy. His red-gold hair shone in the light of the candelabra and the broad smile and ebullient laugh revealed even white teeth.

  As I watched - furtively, I thought - he looked up and caught me out. Our eyes met, and instantly I was drawn to him, consumed by our mutual gaze; unaware of anything or anyone else. For that moment, there was only the King and me. At last, I looked away, lightheaded, and managed to excuse myself to escape the crowded hall. I needed to hide my stunned confusion and take some much-needed air.

  Standing by a window in the watching chamber, I looked through the open casement to the courtyard below, gratefully inhaling the cooling night air. What was that extraordinary communion we had just shared? I had no experience with which to compare it. There was no denying the feeling stirring in me, yet it took me by complete surprise. I had been at the English court for almost four years and had often been in the company of the King over that time. Indeed, I admired him and most surely thought of him as handsome, but never had I been subject to such a state of excitation in his company. I turned away from the window to return to the hall - and there he was. We stood inches apart. He leaned down to speak in my ear. He was so close that his scent surrounded me, and I found it to be profoundly alluring.

  Quietly, he murmured in my ear, “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Anne. Vous êtes magnifique ce soir. I wish you and your family great happiness in the new year.” And then he was gone.

  I returned to the hall as soon as the pounding of my heart had subsided, laughing at myself shakily. I concluded that my reaction must surely be the beginnings of a galloping infatuation; of the sort I had experienced in France as a girl of thirteen or fourteen years of age.

  I was not alone for long. Within moments, a smiling Thomas Wyatt appeared at my side and led me forward as his dance partner. He steered me to the very front of the room; in fact, we were directly before the King and Queen, who sat in their chairs of estate to enjoy the dancing. As luck would have it, the next piece played by the musicians was suitable for the Volt, a dance in which partners held each other closely. Couples assembled on the dance floor; Thomas put his arm around me as we began. I enjoyed dancing with him: there was no doubt that Thomas was exceptionally attractive. He had matured into a strong, physically handsome man, but with an appealing sensitivity about him. And because of that, I knew he loved me. His feelings were plain when we were in each other’s company. But I could not escape the fact that we had practically grown up together. Perhaps that was why I seemed unable to turn the deepest affection I held for him as a lifelong friend into the romantic love I so desired in a suitor or husband. So while I danced closely with him, I could not fully return the pressing warmth of his embrace. And, as we twirled and spun around the candlelit room to the sounds of music and laughter, there were two additional pairs of eyes which never left me: King Henry’s, from the front of the room, and Henry Percy’s, aft.

  The following week was one long entertainment as the King and his comrades enjoyed being together again. The masques were clever, with fabulous costumes and sets. The dancing was very gay, as everyone tried to master a new version of the saltarello, a lively folk dance which had been refined at the Neapolitan Court. It was quite challenging, because the music was played in a fast triple meter, and it featured a difficult leaping step for which it was named, from the Italian word saltare - ‘to jump’. There were musical interludes, with instruments played by members of the court, and I ventured to play several pieces on my lute. And throughout the festivities, I frequently encountered the King, who always smiled directly into my eyes with a familiar warmth which never failed to induce a blush
in return.

  I noticed, as did almost everyone else, that the King kept company with Queen Katherine less and less frequently. When the occasion called for them to be near each other, I watched the way his eyes narrowed and his face stiffened, which I read as his effort to maintain an air of nonchalance. Meanwhile, I could not help but wonder why Katherine insisted on spending so much time in her private chapel, and away from most all the events she and the King had always enjoyed in the past. Her ladies and I all knew she passed many hours on her knees praying in supplication to the Blessed Virgin that God might grant her a son, even in this, the late autumn of her childbearing years. But would not some of that time be best spent in the companionship of her husband? I thought it highly unlikely that God would give her a son if she and her husband were never together! And I privately thought how unappealing Katherine had allowed herself to become. Her gown colour of choice was almost always black, and on her, served only to accentuate the deep folds which had formed from her nose to her mouth, and between her eyebrows. Her now constant expression was one of long suffering, as I suppose it might well be after having endured so many pregnancies which ended tragically. So in total, along with the greying of her hair, her appearance spoke of advancing age. In contrast, Henry’s masculinity radiated in a glowing aura. It was clear to all observers that he was at the peak of manhood while poor Queen Katherine had lost all the lustre of her vivacious youth.