Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  If you remember me according to my love in your prayers I shall scarcely be forgotten, since I am your Henry Rex forever.

  I studied his inscription for a long moment, then gathered the book to my chest and held it against my beating heart. This man – this marvellous man - for all his size, power, intellect and majesty, was the embodiment of the ardent romantic! I felt blessed for being loved so well.

  It was evident, by the care he had given to his writing and the selection of the page which he annotated, that he had given much thought to this gift. I loved it especially because it was such a personal expression of Henry, the man.

  I decided I would write a reply in the book, and slip it into his chamber where he would be sure to find it. But I needed to give my reply some consideration, so I could feel confident that it was worthy of such a precious gift. I put the book aside, this time very well hidden in my room, to inspect later.

  On a fine balmy evening several days later, I sat by the open casement window of my receiving chamber conversing with Mistress Margery Horsman. Since she had joined my household, I had become fond of Margery. Especially since she proved to be a young woman who enjoyed, and was good at sport. As we talked, we thoroughly relished munching on fresh cherries, the earliest of the season, generously sent to me as a gift from Sir Thomas Pargeter, the Mayor of London.

  “Then I will see you tomorrow, Anne, at the shooting range for some practice?” Margery inquired, rising and heading for the door.

  “Yes! Let’s hope the lovely weather continues so that we can enjoy a good afternoon for archery. William Brereton said he would accompany us and help by critiquing our form.”

  Margery shot me a cheeky look. “Yes indeed, I am certain he will do just that. My Lord Brereton is a man, and what man can resist an opportunity to ‘critique’ a woman’s form?”

  I doubled with laughter. “You are deadly quick, Miss Margery!” as she departed with a flippant goodbye wave. I fancied her shrewd humour. No one outwitted Mistress Horsman!

  Once she was gone, I retired to my bedchamber. My maid had lit a fire in the hearth, and several lanterns were burning brightly. I went to a sturdy wooden chest and unlocked it with a key I invariably kept close to me. From it, I withdrew a smaller coffer and unlocked that as well. In the coffer was Henry’s Book of Hours, along with his recent letters and some of the more controversial theological writings I had been given. Having learned the cruellest of lessons, I was exceedingly careful now about where and how I kept my most personal things.

  I took the Book of Hours and sat at the table with the candle flame accenting the gold on the creamy binding, and flickering on the illustrations within. Again I slowly paged through, stopping to marvel at many of the renderings. I came to an illumination I particularly loved: that of the Virgin Mary sitting at a table by a window, wearing a glorious blue and gold gown. Leaning over her shoulder, the Angel Gabriel strove to gain Mary’s attention since she, too, was absorbed in a book before her. He wished to tell her she was to have a son, the Son of God. Mary’s face was radiant – peaceful, gentle and kind. A white dove, the Holy Spirit, blessed the scene from above. This beautiful work depicted a moment of great joy and wonder in the Scripture.

  Then it occurred to me. This was the page on which I would reply to Henry!

  From my writing desk, I removed a quill and a bottle of soft grey ink. The nib was cut broadly and would make a bold stroke, yet I thought it perfect for the brevity of my message. After scratching some ideas on a shred of parchment, at the foot of the page underscoring the Annunciation scene I wrote:

  Be daly prove you shall me fynde

  To be to you bothe lovynge and kynde

  Anne Boleyn

  I sat back in my chair and studied my inscription. The prominent letters jumped off the page, and Henry could not fail to find the message. I wondered what he would think when he came upon it. I wanted him to know how much I wished to make him happy by my dedication and love. And with the grace of the Holy Spirit, to make him the proud father of a healthy royal son.

  There was no question. The positioning of my reply made a daring declaration.

  I went in search of George Talbot, the Lord Steward, who was preparing Henry’s suite for his visit to York. I explained to Sir George that I had borrowed the book and wanted to return it before Henry’s arrival next day. He escorted me to Henry’s privy study, unlocked the door, and I entered. Having a look about the room, so empty without his essence, my eyes came to rest on the corner where he conducted his personal devotions. There, I placed the Book of Hours carefully on his prie-dieu where he could not miss seeing it, then returned to my chambers with a gratified smile. I hoped Henry would find my reply pleasing; I hoped too that he would return the book to keep, for I would cherish it all the more with our inscriptions preserved within.

  My newest fascination was archery. Henry had taught me how to hold a bow and arrow, and because my arms and shoulders were strong from riding, I was able to draw the bow well back and hold it steadily as I took aim. To my great delight I discovered I had a good eye, and when the arrow flew, it was well positioned. I could not help but let out a whoop of excitement every time my arrow hit its mark at the centre of the target while Henry guffawed loudly in chorus. To encourage my new interest, darling Henry provided me with an entire shooting ensemble including several beautifully made bows, arrow shafts with broadheads to fit them, decorative quivers for the arrows, and leather archery gloves.

  I kept busy. So determinedly busy that I scarce found time to mull and fret over the resounding silence from Paris. The political intrigue in Europe was elaborate, and all the many distinctions impacted the delivery of a response. My father and Seigneur de Langey, who represented François, were both stretched to use every shred of diplomatic ingenuity they possessed to coax an affirmative reply from the learned doctors of the Sorbonne, and I worried that they would not succeed. This testament was exactly what Henry needed to bolster his growing conviction to relinquish his dependence on the Pope.

  On a warm morning in July, Henry and I were at the archery butts at Greenwich, when across the lawn hurried a page with a small scroll for Henry. The young man deferentially announced that the message had come from the Earl of Wiltshire, with greater detail to follow soon. Henry broke the seal, unfurled the parchment and quickly read the contents. A jubilant grin spread from ear to ear, and he came to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, picked me up as if I were a child’s toy and swung me about. The poor young page looked at the ground, uncomfortable and bewildered, until Henry dismissed him.

  “Anne, look. Just look!” and he shoved the scroll under my nose. On it was Father’s writing:

  Your Royal Highness

  Today was received the common seal of the university of Paris

  Wiltshire

  2 July

  With an overwhelming wave of exhilaration, I blurted, “Henry, let us thank God! He favours our intentions. Now you are legitimately free of having to succumb to the commands of the Pope, and his accomplice, Charles. Oh come, do come. Let us hurry back and share the good news with our friends and supporters over dinner!”

  Windsor

  August 1530

  That August there was to be no question – it was I who would accompany Henry on progress. We were ensconced at the royal hunting lodge at Easthampstead in Windsor Forest. Frequented by Henry’s father, I was told it was here that Henry VII decided to offer his son Arthur in marriage to the Infanta Catalina of Spain as a part of the Treaty of Medina del Campo, so many years ago. I was not comfortable in that house; it smelt old and had an eerie, ghostly feel to it.

  Gloomy house notwithstanding, the hunting was exceptional, and at this time of year, both game and the bounty of the gardens were plentiful. We dined on savoury dishes - fat partridge, sweets made from ripe, delicious pears and damsons, pies filled with fruits and filberts.

  My father
had returned home from his crushing travels on the Continent, and we celebrated at a feast in his, and Ambassador du Bellay’s, honour. Though we rejoiced in the approvals from so many prestigious universities, we were nevertheless conscious of one shadow which hung over the proceedings. Upon Henry’s demand for full disclosure, it was reported to him that there were, in fact, dissenting voters at the Sorbonne, the University of Paris. His disappointment at this news was obvious, having initially thought that the consent was unanimous.

  After the banquet had ended, Henry and I were in his chamber.

  “My darling,” I said soothingly, “it matters not that some of those men voted against you. There were enough who agreed. Success was achieved. We are so close, Henry: I can feel it!”

  He stroked my hair, sighed heavily, and said, “Oh Anne, what I have put you through. I often wonder that you have not departed me for a younger man, one with whom you might be married by now, and be expecting a child.”

  ‘Henry, never think that. Never utter such a thought! If I were to be burnt at the stake - if I were to be subject to death a thousand times - my love for you would not lessen one speck. I am yours, darling, and will be right beside you, always.”

  I said these words with a clear conviction, for I knew them to be true.

  After my father had provided a complete discourse on the trip, Henry called on his closest councillors to join him at Hampton Court on 11 August. He wished to conduct a series of meetings to evaluate the results achieved in Europe. Katherine remained at Windsor, and Henry told me to be ready to travel with him and to stay at Hampton Court for a fortnight or more.

  I sensed something momentous was about to take place. Henry’s attitude was buoyant, yet resolute. I saw him little as we both readied for our move. He was busy preparing for the conference by reviewing documents and books brought to him from his libraries at Greenwich and Windsor. I believed I knew what he was intending, but kept to myself as he went about his business.

  Hampton Court

  Autumn 1530

  We arrived at lovely Hampton Court and settled in the residences which had been, and were still, under construction. There were few palaces frequented by Henry which were not being renovated. The man had a passion for architectural improvement! It did not bother me at all since I was used to the sounds and confusion of palace upheavals, York Place being a work in progress.

  The newly constructed Bayne Tower, as Henry chose to call his new residential building because of his delight with the new luxurious bayne adjacent to his bedchamber, was simply beautiful. A three-storey structure, it was small, but a jewel of design. It was a perfectly private suite of rooms for Henry to live in and enjoy. My accommodations, which were connected to Henry’s privy gallery and thereby to the Bayne Tower, were still being renovated, though my bedchamber, bayne, and presence chamber were near completion. The meetings were to take place in Henry’s library on the third floor of the Bayne Tower.

  Not only was I to remain at Hampton Court with Henry and his privy council, but I had been asked to attend the meetings as a delegate. I well understood that the matter pertained to the King, and only to me in an indirect sense, and so I was privately thrilled to be included in business of such importance, especially knowing I would be the only woman in attendance.

  I took my seat at the long table in the library. Outwardly, I attempted to appear a study in composure. But my thoughts raced, and I will admit I was nervous. The other distinguished attendees took their seats: Henry at the head of the table with me to his right; my father, the Earl of Wiltshire, at the opposite end, with the Dukes Norfolk and Suffolk across from one another, Suffolk to my right. The erudite Drs Stephen Gardiner and Thomas Cranmer were across from each other, and the ageing Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, seated adjacent to Father.

  While Henry spoke privately with the Archbishop, I seized the opportunity to scan the room - the handsomest library I had ever entered. Walls lined with dark, satiny wooden panelling which was beautifully carved but not overly ornate, furnishings of the highest calibre, many imported desks, comfortable chairs, and the magnificent long table under which were uniquely and cleverly constructed shelves holding stacks of books. All about the room were freestanding shelves with lecterns attached so one could easily support a book being read. The books lining the shelves were grouped by colour, which proved exceptionally pleasing to the eye. The top shelf held books with bindings of various shades of red: leather, velvet, even of embroidered satin; books on the second ledge were bound in black; the third in white; then there were those of tawny leather - all with lavish gold scrolling. Covering one entire wall hung a stunning tapestry in which a hunting scene was beautifully woven. The room enveloped one in a feeling of scholarly elegance.

  As Henry called the delegates to order, I experienced a moment in which I felt as if I were observing the proceedings from outside of myself. It was a strange sensation to be sure, almost as if it were a moment frozen in time. I realized then, with a lump in my throat, one of the great wishes I had expressed to my mother – that of my inclusion in the coveted circle of those who make significant decisions concerning the Realm – had come true. That I, Anne Boleyn, sat at the right hand of the mighty King of England, preparing to discuss a matter which would have radical consequences now and long into the hereafter.

  I pinched myself beneath the table and prepared to have my voice be heard: a female voice amongst those of powerful men.

  For the next five days, Henry’s most trusted advisors sat in council with him - and me - to debate the requirement of the King’s assured allegiance to the Pope, and thereby the Church, in a country which considered itself Catholic. We discussed circumstances of law, of religion, of moral conscience. I contributed my views and held to my arguments when challenged. I knew how proud Henry was of me. He told me that these meetings were ample proving ground to convince all those present that I was well suited to be Queen.

  Finally, we reached a consensus based on writings by French scholars who asserted that a King is equivalent to an Emperor in his realm, and no one can supersede him on any decisions which pertain to his realm. It was notably agreed in principle, though not without the evident unease of some delegates, that within his dominion Henry reigned supreme.

  Henry had fallen in love with Hampton Court. His enthusiasm for updating the beautiful structure knew no bounds.

  “Sweetheart, let us remain here through the autumn. Perhaps keep Christmas here as well!”

  “You know that would please me greatly, Henry,” I replied. “But what do you plan to do with Katherine all the while? Keep her confined to Richmond - and Mary at Windsor? If so, then I will remain with you. If, on the other hand, Katherine comes to Hampton Court, then I will make my departure. She and I can’t live under the same roof any longer.”

  Henry hesitated. While he did not wish to be in Katherine’s company, I could tell he was still not ready to banish her altogether, thereby invoking the further displeasure of those who supported her.

  “We can spend the time we have together pleasurably, at least, my love,” he offered tentatively, avoiding the question.

  I took his hand, turned it palm up, and kissed it. His eyes glowed, watching me. “Let us go out for the hunt this afternoon, as we had planned,” I suggested. “And then let us, you and I, share some of that pleasure this evening, shall we?”

  I was certain all worries about Katherine would be banished from his mind as he looked forward to the evening to come. Hunting in the parklands surrounding Hampton Court provided good sport. On that afternoon, we were joined by the brothers William and Urian Brereton, Nicholas Carew, and Thomas Heneage. I had allowed Jolie to hunt with us several times over the summer, and though she was a bit unruly in the field, she seemed to love keeping pace with Master Rainsford’s pack of hunting hounds. She had formed a close bond with a hound called Ghost, which belonged to Urian Brereton, and they often ran
together.

  The chase carried on for miles, as we tracked a fleet-footed buck. I began to tire, and was thankful when at last the hounds cornered the buck and held it to bay, and the huntsmen impaled it with their long knives. Henry ceremoniously stabbed it with his silver and gilt dagger, and we turned for home while the huntsmen dressed the carcass in preparation for carrying it back to the estate.

  The hounds were whistled in by Rainsford, and, well trained, they moved as a collective pack across the countryside. Jolie and Ghost, on the other hand, ran about playing and chasing each other, frequently returning to check if we riders were still in their vicinity.

  Henry and I rode together, talking. Our conversation halted in mid-sentence when from over the next hill we heard the unmistakable bellowing of an animal in agony. I looked about and did not see Jolie, and in alarm, I spurred my horse to a gallop and crested the hill. Laid out before me was a grisly scene, and at the centre were Jolie and Ghost. They had come upon a stray cow, and in their overexcitement had mauled it. Its pained bellowing was pitiful to hear. Thankfully Henry, Urian, and Rainsford arrived at the scene whereupon Rainsford leapt down from his horse, went to the cow and inserted his knife through its eye socket, instantly putting the animal out of its misery.