Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  On an afternoon in mid-September, I returned home from a visit to the neighbouring estate to find the kitchen in an uproar. My mother caught up with me as I sought the cook to find out what had caused all the excitement.

  “Anne, a royal messenger arrived earlier this afternoon,” eagerly she handed me a beautiful cream-coloured document made heavy by a crimson waxen seal. Pretending to be mystified I inspected the seal, even though I knew it must be the King’s.

  “And what’s more,” Mother finished triumphantly, “the accompanying servants delivered a magnificent buck to our kitchen!”

  I took the envelope from her, saying, “Mother, will you excuse me please?” even as I hurried upstairs to my chamber to open it privily.

  Once in my room, I cracked the wax seal imprinted with the King’s standard and slid from its covering a parchment, delicate and of high quality. The writing was carefully penned, the letters small and neat, though the precise lines of script began to slant upwards by mid-page. The message was written in French. My heart beat rapidly against my chest.

  I read aloud in English:

  Although, my Mistress, it has not pleased you to remember the promise you made me when I was last with you – that is, to hear good news from you, and to have an answer to my last letter; yet it seems to me that it belongs to a true servant (seeing that otherwise he can know nothing) to inquire the health of his mistress, and to acquit myself of the duty of a true servant, I send you this letter, beseeching you to apprise me of your welfare, which I pray to God may continue as long as I desire mine own. And to cause you yet oftener to remember me, I send you, by the bearer of this, a buck killed late last night by my own hand, hoping that when you eat of it you may think of the hunter; and thus, for want of room, I must end my letter, written by the hand of your servant, who very often wishes for you instead of your brother.

  H.R.

  A peal of laughter escaped me on reading the last sentence. Then I was stabbed by a mite of remorse. I had neglected to reply to the message Henry had sent me just after my arrival at Hever, asking if my travel had been safe. At the time, I had felt it unnecessary to answer. After all, what was I to say – ‘Yes, thank you, Your Grace, I am indeed alive and well?’ It seemed trite. Now, however, I must respond, for how rude it would be to ignore such a generous gift. I determined to compose an appropriate acknowledgement the very next day. In the meantime, I emptied a small but sturdy coffer, and carefully placed the letter within before locking it and hiding the key.

  My reply to the King was brief. It was well thought through, however, and I made sure I fully expressed my gratitude for such a lavish gift: one that my family all found quite delicious at dinner earlier in the day. I added that I was enjoying my summer at Hever, but indeed did miss being at court, then ended by saying I looked forward to seeing him again once I returned to court - as his most loyal servant.

  I felt the message sufficient. I sealed it and had the courier take it to Windsor, which was where the King and his company were lodged.

  A scant two days later, a messenger from the King arrived with an enormous, brilliantly coloured bouquet of summer flowers, the stems bound in a swath of purple silk. The courier refused to leave the flowers and the message with the house steward, instead insisting upon delivering them to me personally. He bowed low, and presented me with the posy as well as a further letter, with the information that both were from the King’s Grace, and that the King looked forward to my reply with great anticipation. He then asked if he might remain until I had crafted my return letter, but I courteously declined. I took note of the slight nervous tic the poor man assumed when I told him there would be no reply for him to deliver just then. Hesitantly he bid me good day, and then bravely set off to break the news to the King that the eagerly awaited response would not be forthcoming, after all. I couldn’t help but giggle devilishly at the thought.

  After I had sent the flowers inside to be placed in an urn, I hastened to my favourite spot under a spreading pear tree in the orchard and unfolded the parchment. Its length and tone implied that Henry had been disappointed by my previous, rather impersonal letter. He wrote that he considered me his lady, but if it would make me less uneasy, he would reluctantly grant me the place of ‘servaunt’. He also added, somewhat dryly, that he was at least glad of the mere fact I remembered him!

  Remembered him, indeed! Over the next days, as I went about my business, the King was rarely far from my thoughts. Finally, admitting to myself that my mind was constantly preoccupied with images of him, I decided to spend some time alone in my chamber attempting to sift through my sentiments for the truth.

  I sat quietly, looking out the window at the lovely landscape below. Suppressing my tumultuous emotions, I pictured Henry and instead willed myself to allow logic to direct my thoughts. I determined that I was extremely attracted to him - in a way I had never experienced with any man. And there was no denying the mysterious feeling I had when I was near to him: that of knowing him so familiarly, which, especially, haunted me. I felt almost certain the King’s interest in me was his sophisticated version of courtly romance, and in that game, I played the role of his beloved. Even though it was apparent Henry was no longer in love with Katherine as he once had been, still she was his wife, the mother of his child, and the crowned Queen of England - a princess of the blood - and that was unalterable fact. So, knowing that, we must either continue a chaste game of courtly romance, or if his suit was of a more serious nature, I would be pressed to become his mistress, exactly as my sister had done. Contemplating the latter choice prompted a visceral, negative reaction. I was instantly certain that no good – no good at all – could come from my acquiescence. I resolved never to give in. The consequences of my refusal would not matter to me. No, I had not come to this point in my life merely to become someone’s mistress, even if it were to be that of the King of England! I also sensed that somehow, such a relationship would sully the deep esteem in which I held the King.

  I vowed never to allow that to happen.

  I would remain his friend, servant, admirer - his chivalric lady - but his mistress? Never.

  The leaves were delicately traced with russet, and the air fresh and crisp on a late September Tuesday when two liveried equerries clattered across the drawbridge and into the courtyard of our manor house. I peered, unseen, through the open casement window overlooking the scene, and from above, listened intently to their conversation with my mother in which they announced an impending visit from the King. We were informed His Grace would very much like to visit the manor of Hever on Thursday.

  Mother sent the gracious reply that His Majesty would be warmly welcomed at Hever, and please to inform His Grace that his visit was eagerly anticipated.

  I well knew that my mother was aware the King had been paying me particular attention but had so far, unlike Father, been too discreet to pry. She thanked the gentlemen messengers and escorted them to the gate to see them off, then headed back toward the house, and while doing so, caught me eavesdropping from the window above. When our glances met, she subtly raised a single eyebrow in my direction. I returned the look with a secretive smile, removed myself from the open window, and went about the business of readying for our illustrious visitor.

  As I discussed with the gardener which flowers would be cut and brought into the house for decoration and planned my attire for the visit, I mulled over how I should present myself when I met Henry. After some thought, I made my decision and felt confident that I had the situation well to hand.

  Thursday arrived, and the house and kitchen staff and my mother and father were prepared for the visit. In the early afternoon, a lone herald rode in and informed us that the King and several of his courtiers would arrive in two hours’ time. Those hours seemed to me longer than any others I can remember. Finally, though, the castle yard was filled with horses and men as the party arrived. From my vantage point at the mullioned window
above, I watched Lord Suffolk and Sir Henry Norreys doff their caps to my mother and thank her for her offer of hospitality. My heart skipped when I saw Henry. He leaped easily from his horse and went straightaway to my mother, kissed her hand and bowed in a chivalrous gesture of appreciation.

  I paused for a moment to gather myself, then, tucking a loose tendril of hair under my hood, descended the staircase to greet our guests. The King and the others were gathering in the hall below. Henry’s attention was caught by my footfalls, and I stopped on the landing as we beheld each other. I was intensely aware of his strength and virility, and he appeared to me more attractive every time I saw him. I felt the resolve I had so carefully planned slipping from my grasp.

  “Mistress Anne! How very delightful to see you again,” the King called out with a jaunty lilt to his deep voice.

  “And I you, Your Majesty,” I replied as I approached him and slipped into a deep curtsey.

  Henry looked meaningfully at Norreys, then Suffolk. “You gentlemen have pressing business to discuss with Lord Rochford, do you not?”

  “Indeed we have, Your Grace,” Norreys replied. He nodded solemnly and followed my father and Lord Suffolk to a small office chamber.

  Turning to my mother, the King said, “Madame, would it be acceptable for your daughter to show me about your beautiful gardens before the light fades?”

  “Why, of course, Your Majesty. I do hope you enjoy them!” she curtsied, then, before departing to oversee the preparations for supper.

  I saw her cast a collusive glance in my direction.

  Henry took my arm, and we strolled through the courtyard, across the bridge spanning the moat and into the walled rose garden. Once concealed from prying eyes by a turn in the path, we took a seat on a stone bench with a view of the lavender and roses. Henry sat unsettlingly close to me. We were closer than we had been at any time, save that evening after the banquet at Greenwich when he had followed me into the watching chamber and wished me good night. As I remembered vividly from that evening, I was once again acutely aware of his scent. Not merely the scent of musk or ambergris. Not a fragrance or expensive perfume, it was his personal scent which drew me. It was very male and pleasing to me in a way I cannot describe. He searched my face, and I felt myself flush. I knew he was aware of it, and he warmed in response.

  “Mademoiselle, I see your blush. It is incredibly becoming on you. In fact, I can see that the summer has enhanced your beauty greatly, though I have no idea how that could be possible. You look enchanting.” His voice was deep and resonant, and the way he formed his words cultured and so appealing.

  “Your Grace is far too kind,” I replied, but my expression gave away my pleasure at his comments. “How has your summer been? How was the hunting? Exciting, I hope, and fruitful?”

  “In fact, Milady, exciting it has certainly been. François has recently given us a gift. He sent us a shipload of the most ferocious wild boar this country has seen in many years. He recalled my complaint to him that boars were now scarce in the English countryside, and to continue to foster our good relations, sent us a sounder to repopulate our forests. They are mighty foes on the hunting field, with fearsome tusks.”

  “I’m sure they must be, Your Grace. I imagine boar hunting has provided you with great entertainment. You probably have very little to interest you in returning to court, with such excellent sport available in your forests,” I replied. I confess that I played the hunter in our discourse, baiting him just a little bit.

  “Mistress, I hope you know that is quite to the contrary,” he said and moved even closer to me with his arm tightly about me and his eyes locked on mine. We were so close that our noses almost touched and I could see the green and amber flecks in his eyes. “I have missed you beyond my expectations, and want nothing more than for us to be near to one another again.”

  I didn’t move, or try to pull away. I couldn’t! I was captivated.

  “Did you, by any chance at all, miss me?” he murmured, and that tender, inquiring look of a young boy transformed his face. My intention to maintain an appropriate distance was well-nigh forgotten; I could not resist him when he appeared this way. The contrast between his strength, his power, and magnificence, and that almost plaintive vulnerability affected me too greatly. “In truth, I did, indeed, Your Grace,” I replied quietly, and as I lowered my eyelids slightly, he kissed me.

  It was a gentle, heartfelt kiss. His lips were as soft and sensual as they appeared, and I melted into him. We gazed into each other’s faces, and I felt deeply the connection between us. The look he returned to me was unmistakably a look of love. I have seen that look before, yet on the King, it was complete, mature.

  With some difficulty, I roused myself and stood up. “Your Majesty, we must return to the house. I would prefer if no undue suspicion were raised.”

  “Of course, Mistress, but first you must promise me you will return to court as soon as you possibly can. I would wish that you never be such a distance from me again.”

  “I will do so, Your Grace. Just as soon as I am able,” I said, and we walked back to the house to join the others for supper.

  My mother allowed almost a week to pass without asking me anything at all about the King’s visit. Only eventually, while we were in the herb garden one afternoon gathering plants to be hung and dried for the winter, did she break from adding rosemary to her basket, rise and, with hand on hip, look directly at me.

  “So, Anne, are you going to tell me nothing at all about what is going on between you and the King?”

  “Well …”

  I stumbled in momentary confusion. Once set on course, the maternal inquisitions of Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, were not ones to be evaded lightly by her offspring – and of a sudden I became a little girl again.

  “I am sorry, Mother,” I rejoined somewhat awkwardly. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or want to share information with you. But I have been so accustomed to maintaining my privacy from my time spent in France that it’s become a habit. I didn’t mean to exclude you. Anyway, there is nothing much to tell.”

  She afforded me that penetrating look that only passes between mothers and daughters.

  “Nan, I know you too well to believe that to be completely true.”

  I resigned myself to the inevitable.

  “Alright, then. I would, in fact, welcome your advice. I find that I have developed an affinity for the King. It is clearly not love. At least I do not interpret it that way - but I am powerfully attracted to him, and it is plain that he is to me, as well, yet I have absolutely no idea of what to do about it.”

  There! I had shared my burden. Her response was direct and unequivocal.

  “Anne, do you intend to become his mistress?”

  “Never, Mother - that is not at all what I want! Hence my great dilemma. I do not wish to be a mistress and never a wife. I am fearful I will be asked – even commanded – to consent, and become Henry’s short-lived chatelaine just as Mary was. I am so unlike Mary, and it would kill me.”

  Her response was softer than expected. “I understand, Nan. I really do. But you are in a precarious situation.”

  I could sense her concern as she looked out across the umber fields of waving grass. After a minute, she added, “You might consider remaining away from him for a time. At least until you have had a chance to determine your course of action.”

  I agreed. After that lingering kiss in the rose garden, I wondered if I could trust myself in the King’s proximity. I had not expected to be so unable to resist his advances. There was no question about it; I needed to remain at Hever although I realised I would still have to write to him, at least to offer some excuse.

  “Mother, please explain to Father why I will not be returning to court for a while. I cannot think clearly with the pressure he places on me!”

  “I will, Anne, but I am certain
your father will want you back at court for Christmas. So you will need to prepare yourself to see the King again by December.”

  “I know, Mother. I hope I will be of a more decided mind by then.

  I wrote what I thought was a perfectly lovely letter to the King, thanking him profusely for his visit to our manor, and politely inquiring after his health, as well as that of the Queen, his son Richmond and the Princess Mary. I told him I planned to keep company with my mother during the autumn, at Hever, while my father and brother were at court. I wrote that although I still went out riding most days, I missed the excitement of following the royal hunt. I did not give any indication of when I might return but kept the tone of the letter warm yet not too familiar. With satisfaction, I sealed and sent the letter off with the courier. A week elapsed, then a messenger arrived at the portcullis gate one morning, with a gift of oranges and dates in a beautiful basket, and the request, as sent directly by His Grace, that I return to court. With an expression of thanks I accepted the gift and asked the messenger to return on the morrow as I intended to have a reply ready by then.

  Once again I composed a letter full of appreciation for the delicious gift of exotic fruit. I expressed my concern for his health and well-being and informed him that, much as I missed being at court and desired to see him, which was true, I simply must stay with my mother, who was suffering from a chest cold. I wished him well but offered no indication of when I would return. As I sealed this latest letter, I considered how much I yearned for the excitement of court, and with some surprise, how very much I missed Henry.

  The weather became progressively raw and the landscape ever bleaker as December moved into its second week. There had been no further communication from the King. My perspective on his silence varied wildly. At times I felt, surely, his annoyance with my failure to return to court must have dampened any affection he held for me. In fact, I rationalised, certainly he must have found a pretty dalliance to occupy him. At other moments, I replayed that exquisite kiss in my mind and yearned to be near to him, and was altogether convinced he felt likewise. My emotions ran chaotic, and I had all but decided to resolve the situation by avoiding the Christmas celebrations at court entirely when another messenger from Greenwich arrived.