Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  I did not feed the gossip. I kept my observations to myself as I watched them grow more and more distant from each other. This knowledge, along with the continuance of Henry’s piercing gaze and most warmly spoken pleasantries, compelled me to wonder what might lie ahead for the three of us.

  February 1526 was surprisingly mild, with day following day of fair weather. Enough so that the lists were quickly being readied for a jousting tournament, and we all spent time outside, wandering the lawns and enjoying the wintergreen gardens in the pale sunshine. I longed to hunt, but the grass season would not start for some weeks yet. Instead, I took frequent walks to the stable to visit my lovely chestnut mare, Cannelle. I was even able to ride out a few times, and there was no question that this was when I was happiest. I adored the freedom of being on horseback, the physical effort and strength it required, the always present sense of risk, and the glory of wind and sun against my face and hair. And how I loved horses! Strong and powerful; graceful beyond measure, yet with the softest brown eyes and even softer muzzles.

  One afternoon, my brother George rode with me as we crossed the fields in Greenwich Park skirting the Duke Humphrey Tower.

  “So tell me, Anne, what exactly was going on last evening during our game of Prime in the Queen’s Chamber, when I saw the King scrutinizing your every move? At first, I felt sure he was trying to gain a glimpse of your cards, but then I realized that you were the object of his close inspection.”

  I sighed. George’s adorable, dimpled face always belied his penchant for pestering. With a glance, I saw that he had adopted the wry smirk which I had come to know so well when my younger brother wanted to cause mischief. Especially when the irritating beast added, “… might you have become his mistress without my knowing?”

  “Absolutely not!” I sniffed with a little too much indignation. “Why would you think it any of your personal concern, George? But, for your information, your suggestion is simply implausible. I would never permit it.”

  “Well, Sister,” he chortled unrepentantly, “you may not have the luxury of choice in the matter. And methinks you well know it; that is, when it comes to our King and his, ah … interests.”

  “You are being absurd. It was abundantly clear that his interest was in my cards, and nothing more. I did win the first three hands if you recall. What I do well know is how he hates to lose – and, did I not, by the way, beat you as well as the King?”

  Forcing a laugh I pressed Cannelle’s sides with my boots to canter off back toward the palace stableyard so George couldn’t see my burning face.

  It was Shrovetide, and a joust was about to take place in the tiltyard at Greenwich. I believe the entire court planned to be present since everyone was appreciative of having a rousing outdoor activity to attend. We looked forward to the excitement of the tournament, especially since on the morrow we would commence the sacrifices and solemnity of the Lenten season.

  I shifted about in my seat in anticipation of the start of the competition. I was positioned in the very front row of the berfrois between Maggie Wyatt and Honor Grenville. We chatted animatedly while the competitors lined up to parade before the spectators and pay homage to the ladies of the nobility. First into the arena rode Nicholas Carew, followed by Charles Brandon; next came Henry Guildford, and then the King. Not yet having donned their armour, all wore jousting costumes which were elegant by design and decoration. I smiled a pleasant acknowledgment to the King, and he returned the greeting with a nod and a saucy grin. It took me a few moments before I became aware that on his tunic was a motto in brilliant red and gold. It said ‘Declare Je Nos,’ while, embroidered above the words was a scarlet heart streaming with flames. As he approached the spectators, and everyone read his device: Declare I Dare Not, there arose a perceptible ripple of curiosity among the crowd. But there was more to come.

  As his horse passed in front of me, he doffed his cap and made it quite plain he had eyes for one person only - his pointed, smiling gaze never left my face. Whereupon the lords and ladies of the court looked open-mouthed from the King to me, then back again while I, for my part, felt I couldn’t breathe at all. My composure was further tested seeing both Honor and Maggie wearing expressions of slowly dawning realization.

  I lowered my eyes and acknowledged that the previous few months had not, indeed, been the figment of my overly active imagination.

  His Majesty, King Henry VIII, had quite openly revealed himself to all as my courtly suitor.

  As the damp chill of early spring slowly warmed toward the full, luxurious flourish of May, I thus found myself engaging in a thrilling new game of romance. The King never failed to pay me special attention when we were in each other’s company. He greeted me with a charming nod and always asked after me and my family’s welfare in beautifully spoken French, complimenting me on my costume of the day, or the jewelry I was wearing. With every encounter, I felt a charge of excitement. It was delicious – and dangerous. Oh, but I had been well schooled in the behaviours of chivalric romance in the court of François. It was naught but this training which prompted me to reply with gracious appreciation, yet never permitting my suitor to come too close or become overly familiar.

  More and more, though, did I find that I wanted him close - very close.

  Richmond

  May 1526

  The May Day festival was in full measure, and Anne Saville and I crossed the brilliant green gardens of Richmond Palace to join the court for a picnic, which would be followed by sporting competitions, dancing, an abundance of wine, and a masque later in the evening. It was warm - a perfect day, really - with bright sunlight washing the fields and riotously blooming flowers; the velvet lawns gently sloping toward the river. It was an excellent day for the flirtatious abandon which was always a feature of the spring fête. We had barely arrived amongst the picnic guests when we were approached by Thomas Wyatt.

  “May I join you exquisite ladies?” he bowed.

  I could see Anne was quietly thrilled to have Thomas be a part of our group. She had told me recently that she was completely enamoured with his poetry, and with him. We sat on rugs laid on the grass for the afternoon, and I watched Anne fix her eyes on his handsome face as we laughed, joked and nibbled at the delicacies provided us. I knew Thomas had not yet given up on the prospect of winning me, however. I could feel his attention on me while he sat just a little too close. Idly, I reached for my silver pomander and brought it to my face. I did love the scent of lavender and had stuffed it full of fresh flowers that very morning. The amber stone embedded in the silver glowed warmly, and my initials engraved on its surface glinted in the sun. I took a deep breath of the delicate, powdery fragrance. I looked up when Thomas said, “Milady, if you will give me, or merely lend me, your jewel, it will provide me with just the inspiration I need to write my next verse. My ability to create has been so stifled lately; now I realize that what I need is a beautiful token from an even more beautiful lady, combined with her heady scent to stimulate my mind and my pen.”

  I shifted uncomfortably and was unprepared with an adept reply. He had caught me totally unawares, and thus did I give him the pomander without much protest. Anne appeared crestfallen. I felt terrible and dearly wished it had been Anne he had asked, so, glancing over at her apologetically, I jumped to my feet to leave them together and made my way over to join the game of boules just getting underway near the hilltop.

  Of course, the King was at the centre of the teams being selected. As I joined the group, he took my arm to guide me to where his team stood. Wyatt and Anne had followed me, so Suffolk, who captained the opposing team, selected Wyatt next. There was much ribbing amongst the competitors and laughter as the rest of the teams assembled, and then the jack was set in place, and the competition began. At my turn, I heartily propelled my ball forward, and to my delight, had great success in hitting the jack. Next was Henry’s chance, and he expertly rolled the ball, his knocking mine ou
t of the way before coming to rest perfectly nestled against the jack. Throughout the competition, which was great fun, Henry and I played as if all England depended on our individual successes. I would have been very happy to have had a better end score than the King’s, but I did not, even though our team won. As we walked back over the lawn to the palace at the conclusion of the game, the King accompanied me, and slipped his arm about my waist, smiling down at me with the most winsome eyes.

  “You are quite the competitor, Mistress Anne. I had no idea you were of such an athletic nature. I admire your dedication to winning and I was fortunate to have you on my team.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I was, in fact, born with an exceptionally competitive spirit. I know that it is an uncommon trait for a woman, perhaps a not entirely attractive one, and I suspect I should be better advised to hide it. I find myself not a little embarrassed …”

  “Not at all, Milady,” he said, with a perceptible squeeze of his arm about me. “I admire the quality greatly, being, as it is, a huge part of my essential nature also.”

  He smiled then: an impish grin. “I seem to recall that you are also an avid huntswoman, am I not correct?”

  I flushed and dipped my head, recalling his introduction to my hunting skills, but said, “It is true, Your Majesty. I love riding and hunting more than anything else in life.”

  “More than anything in life, indeed?” His amusement was noted by that irresistible crinkle at the outer corners of his eyes. “Then why not join me tomorrow morning in the stableyard for the opening hunt of the grass season? I would have you ride with me at the head of the field.”

  “I should be delighted to, Your Grace,” I curtsied. “I will see you tomorrow morning, then.”

  With that, we parted ways, and once alone, I skipped back to my chamber, beaming to myself.

  After I sent Charity to give the stable boys instructions to have Cannelle groomed, braided, saddled and ready for me to ride in the morning, I sat at a small wooden table, propped the mirror against the wall, and, resting my chin in hand, studied my reflection thoughtfully. While my looks appeared at odds with mostly all the girls and women at court, they were not so different from many of the Frenchwomen I had known, or even some of those at Mechelen, at the Margaret of Austria’s court. In England, however, the women selected to serve were almost all blonde, fair complected, and blue eyed. Even the Queen, herself, had been a honey blonde in her youth, with blue eyes. I, on the other hand, was distinctly brunette. I do not know from whence those looks came, because my mother had been fair-haired, and my father’s locks had been light brown before they turned grey in early manhood.

  I knew that I was attractive to men. This had become evident to me when I was no more than 15 or 16 years of age in France. But I often wondered how I appeared to others.

  I carefully assessed my features in the mirror. I was happy with, and felt grateful for, my abundant hair of deep brown which glinted red and gold when touched by the sun. I sometimes liked to allow its natural curl to be seen, peeking from beneath veils or hoods. But with brushing, and the sparing application of a drop or two of perfumed hair oil, it could equally become sleek and straight, with a burnished gloss. I felt it to be my one of my greatest physical assets. My eyes were middling brown, with both darker and golden flecks throughout, if studied closely. They tilted up just the slightest bit at the outer corners, and my lashes were thick, long and dark, and curled up at the ends. This was why I had learned to enhance them with the egg white and kohl mixture. When augmented with carefully applied cosmetics, I knew them to be a great attraction. I had learned to express myself with my eyes when I wished to be noticed, leaving speech for the more mundane. My nose was a strong one: no tiny upturned button on me. Beneath that nose were ample lips, with the top lip as full as the bottom. They were usually a nice rosy colour unless I became very chilled, and then they became quickly tinged with blue. With great good fortune, my teeth were even, and pale ivory coloured. I took exacting care of them, brushing, wiping, and picking them every day, imagining how terrible it must be to suffer the scourge of revealing bad teeth. My skin might best have been described as fawn-colour, with a pleasing satiny sheen. My complexion, also, I looked after as taught by the beautiful women in France. I washed frequently and used a specially concocted oil to smooth and soften the skin of my face and hands, and also the rest of my body. Not for me, the alabaster-fair hue flaunted as the height of beauty at the English court. The activities I loved - hunting, riding, hawking, playing with my dogs in the garden - all had the tendency to imbue my cheeks with a russet tone. I even had some freckles across my nose and cheeks. My cheekbones were set high on my face, and I was blessed with a strong, if somewhat pointed chin: the overall shape of my face thus presenting a slender oval, which I felt was pleasing. My build was slight, yet I was quite strong from so much riding and walking. I was not very tall; in fact, the King towered more than a head above me.

  My second favourite feature was my hands. They were narrow and graceful: my fingers long and slim. I did my best to protect them when I was outdoors at sport, and almost always wore kidskin gloves. My nails were well shaped; I kept them buffed and groomed, and had learned to use my hands expressively when I spoke. This was why I took such pleasure in designing the sleeves to my gowns. I had not many rings, but the few I possessed were indeed beautiful, I considered, and accented my hands nicely. Good fortune had endowed me with a long, slender neck and a smallish but adequate bosom, and both looked fine in deep, square necklines. All in all, while I did not consider myself a great beauty, I did have confidence in my appearance once a selection of gowns, jewelry, and hood or hat was made to accentuate my best features.

  I hoped for fair weather on the morrow and was determined to show off my abilities riding to the hounds. Charity helped gather my riding ensemble, sending my boots out for a polish while making certain that my deep green velvet riding jacket was brushed and immaculate. I wondered if Queen Katherine would accompany the King. She used to enjoy hunting, although she was not a very skilled rider and usually remained timidly at the back of the field. Recently, though, I had not seen her ride out at all.

  Daybreak revealed a soft, peach-coloured sky with a cool breeze which promised to warm as the sun rose. As dew evaporated, the soft smell of honeysuckle and roses, clambering on the stable walls, suffused the yard. The cobbled stable yard was alive with sound and brilliant colour as some twenty riders arrived assembling for the hunt, and to my relief, I noticed that the Queen was not amongst the company. I spied the King; he was at the centre of a throng of riders awaiting the arrival of Master Rainsford with his greyhounds. Henry was taller than all the rest, and was mounted on his big gelding, Governatore, who had been groomed and brushed to a gleaming bright bay, his black mane and tail neatly braided. His Grace looked compellingly handsome in his hunting attire, topped by pheasant feathers which adorned a stylish green cap. I watched him from afar, and once again, liked very much what I saw. He was distracted by the assemblage, which fluttered and hovered about him like hummingbirds drawn to a gorgeous flower. Soon, though, he noticed me and called me to him, whereupon the other riders reluctantly moved aside to allow me to ride up next to him. Their glances of envy were plain, but I was afforded little time to concern myself with them because Henry blew a sharp blast on his heavy silver hunting whistle and the entire pack of greyhounds, Highland deerhounds, and riders moved as one, out of the yard and toward the open fields.

  We were but minutes into the King’s private hunting grounds when the huntmaster cast the hounds in search of quarry. I situated Cannelle closely behind the King as the hounds gave voice, and the field was off in pursuit of a large hart. We tore over the countryside after the hounds. Loose strands of hair whipped against my face, and I sat in my saddle as tightly as I could while the King and the huntmaster flew across hills, scrabbled down rocky paths and splashed, spray flying, through streams. My determination to stay
at the front never ebbed, and I kept pace with the best of a field of men. More than once Henry turned to see if I had fallen back, then grinned and shouted out to me in encouragement when he saw I remained close behind.

  We approached a stream so wide and deep that I knew the horses would jump rather than cross, and my heart pounded as Cannelle made a mighty effort and jumped ably enough to well clear the banks. I clung on, and gasped in relief, not having wanted to end up unseated in the stream, awkwardly soaked to the skin. I was proud of myself and my mare and hoped Henry would notice my performance this outing, and that it would trump my seeming lack of horsemanship during our last hunting encounter. Finally, the hounds, bellowing wildly, circled the hart and brought it to bay. The huntmaster leapt from his horse. Using a spear, he quickly inserted it between the hart’s ribs to dispatch the thrashing animal. Henry jumped down from Governatore, and using a shorter hunting knife, also stabbed it into the hart’s body. Quickly, the huntsmen lashed the feet of the carcass to poles brought for that purpose, and the field turned toward home, with the hart as our prize.

  Henry and Governatore fell in step beside my mare and me.

  “Please, have some refreshment,” the King said while handing me a silver hunt cup of ale. Gratefully I took a deep draught while he watched with shining eyes and a face flushed with exercise.

  “Mistress Anne, my admiration for you grows steadily. You are an accomplished hunter, and fearless at that. Do please ride along with me on our return to the stables. What an impressive young woman you are! Where did you learn to ride so well?”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” I replied with a respectful nod. “My father and brother taught me when I was just a girl growing up in Kent. I rode often, and then while I was away in France I did have some chance to hunt, though more often I just rode out on my own or with friends whenever I could. I have a passion for horses.”