Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  Jolie and Ghost, furiously called to by Urian, skulked back to us looking very miserable indeed once they had been loudly berated for their behaviour. As horrible as the scene was, I did have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing to see Jolie, mere minutes later, filthy dirty and smeared with blood, blithely trotting beside us, head held high as if she was the best dog in the world. She was a wild thing, my girl.

  One of the huntsmen went to seek the owner of the cow to pay him for his loss, with the regards of his King.

  I was more than ready to return to the house, have a bath, and prepare for a romantic evening with Henry.

  I was not at all surprised as rumours and various dispatches reached court about the suspect activities of the supposedly banished Wolsey during the summer and early autumn. I had believed for some time that the man would eventually incriminate himself beyond pardon. It was said that he still conferred regularly both with Charles V and with Katherine. I knew he would attempt to use empathy for Katherine’s cause to try and manipulate his way back into a position of power. Henry had been informed that Wolsey was trespassing yet again in affairs of state in which he had no place. It was reported that a series of letters had been intercepted which pointed directly toward Wolsey’s treasonous communications with France and Rome.

  Surely, now, the wretched man had undone himself, even in his Monarch’s too-tolerant eyes.

  I awaited news of Wolsey’s arrest at the King’s command. When it did not come, I simmered. The year 1530 was in its last months, and still I remained a maiden. Unmarried and a maiden at 29 years of age, while Wolsey, who had done nothing but damage in progressing the King’s case, was permitted to conduct himself with great audacity, feigning piety, yet countermanding the King in the political arena. My resentment festered.

  We walked in the gardens, and as Henry talked, I could not listen - I had no idea what he was saying. All at once it became too much to bear. Without warning I stopped, gripped his arm and turned him to face me.

  “Henry – by God’s blood! What will you do with Wolsey?” My voice sounded shrill; my throat constricted with tension.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. He had encountered the look I gave him several times before, and he was forewarned.

  ‘What mean you, Anne?’ he said slowly.

  ‘Why have you not arrested him? He is traitorous - malicious! He does you damage at home and abroad. What are you waiting for? If that be the concession for us to marry, it seems you will be waiting a long, long time. Oh, I see what lies ahead - you and Katherine still wedded; Wolsey reinstated to a position of power; and me - banished to a convent, childless, husbandless, and alone!” I started to weep. My tenuously held grip on the raw emotion I felt over our situation was in jeopardy of crumbling completely, in open view.

  With tears flowing, I choked, “I just do not know, Henry, really I do not. I now think this must be a fruitless conquest. I think we should call an end to it. It is tearing me apart. I now have enemies! Never did I see myself as a person who would have sworn enemies! Your idea of us as ‘second selves’ is a delusion. Either Aristotle is wrong, or we are just not matched in that way. This clearly was not ever meant to be.”

  I slumped to a nearby stone bench and hung my head, tears dropping to my lap, glistening in the late afternoon sun.

  Panicked by the tone of my voice and the fatality of the message, he came to the bench to sit close beside me. “Anne, darling Anne, you cannot mean that? Please do not say such things! It breaks my heart. Look at me Anne.”

  When I heard his voice crack, I glanced up to see tears streaming from Henry’s eyes too. He took my hands in a crushing grip. “Do you not see that your pain is my pain? That I share your emotion as if we were one? This proves we are but one self! Please – never leave me or I should die, Anne. I cannot live without you.”

  With a long, rasping sigh of uncertainty, I allowed myself to be held by him.

  On the morning of 5 November, I stood by a window in the Watching Chamber at Hampton Court, staring at the rain falling steadily from the leaden skies. George found me and led me to a more private location. This time, he dared not risk engaging in brotherly sparring.

  “I have come to inform you, my sister,” he said gravely, “that Thomas Wolsey was arrested yesterday, accused of high treason.”

  I stared at him for a long minute, hardly daring to believe what I had just heard. I grabbed his arm and steered him to a table set about with chairs. Even as we sat, I blurted, “George! Tell me what you know!”

  “The Earl of Northumberland and Sir Walter Walsh were dispatched by the King to locate and arrest Wolsey. Since his eviction from York Place, he had been living at Cawood Castle in the north of Yorkshire. It was Northumberland who was instructed to inform Wolsey of his arrest.”

  I reflected on the irony of this royal command. Northumberland was, of course, Henry Percy; the young man who had loved me, and had been so publicly excoriated by Wolsey for his decision to do so. Upon his father’s death three years ago, Percy had become the sixth Earl of Northumberland. I had not seen him in some time and wondered how satisfying it may have felt for Percy to be granted such a unique opportunity for revenge.

  “How did it unfold, George? Do you know?” I asked.

  Only then did George permit himself a smile of satisfaction.

  “When Northumberland told Wolsey that he was there to arrest him, Wolsey replied with disdain, ‘Arrest me? You have no such right! I am still a Cardinal and a Legate of Rome. No one with mere temporal power can arrest me!’ Then the Earl showed him the commandment, signed by the King, and announced, ‘By the King’s commandment I urge you to obey!’”

  Wolsey had no choice but to concede. He was ordered by royal guardsmen to gather his things, as he was to be escorted into the keeping of the Earl of Shrewsbury until the King should decide his fate.

  I listened in wonder. “And what will that fate be, do you think, George?”

  “I imagine he will be sent to the Tower. Whether he will be able to survive that ordeal will remain to be seen.”

  On the 22nd of the month, a brigade of Yeomen of the Guard, headed by Sir William Kingston, arrived at Sheffield to fetch the Cardinal and, to his great shock and dismay, transport him to the Tower. Despite Wolsey having taken ill before their arrival, either from poison or from food which was bad, he nonetheless commenced his journey with the detachment of guards. They arrived at Leicester Abbey on Friday 27 November where they stayed due to Wolsey’s inability to travel any further. There he grew ever weaker.

  On Sunday, two days later, he died at the Abbey.

  Henry was circumspect about the former Chancellor’s passing. I did not know how I should feel about it. On one hand, I was relieved that his demise represented the removal of a significant threat to my prospective marriage with Henry; on the other, it was a death after all. I was unsure of how Henry truly felt about the loss of someone who had been so close to him for much of his adult life. I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

  Wolsey was gone.

  Now only Katherine remained in our way.

  In answer to my speculation, Henry decided to leave Hampton Court and return to Greenwich to observe a suitably solemn Christmastide with Katherine in residence.

  On 14 December, we parted: Henry bound for Greenwich and me for York.

  York Place – Whitehall

  January 1531

  I remained at York Place through Christmas, surrounded by my family and close friends. It was not as I would have wished. I should have been celebrating the season with Henry, and I resented his absence, placing the blame squarely on the self- righteous Katherine.

  Henry promised to return to York following the Twelfth Night festivities, and by the second week in January, I eagerly awaited his arrival. I planned a special supper just for the two of us. Earlier in the day, Lady Guildford had brought one of th
e King’s favourite dishes, baked lampreys, for his enjoyment upon arrival. I was so anxious to see him; our separation had felt like an age.

  He swept me into his arms as soon as he entered the chamber. My passion for him was unabated, and, as ever, when he embraced me in that bold way I felt a weakening of my resolve to remain maiden till we married. I covered his face in kisses and pressed myself to him. I confess it was only the timely entrance of the yeoman ushers delivering our supper which saved me.

  Later, as we sat at the table, talked and ate, Henry signalled one of the ushers. The young man left the room but returned quickly with a silver tray piled with gorgeously wrapped parcels and packages. Henry had the tray placed before me, saying, “My sweetheart – your New Years’ gifts. Please open them.”

  I still was not accustomed to Henry’s incredible generosity and began to open a profusion of riches. In one box lay a stunning, intricately wrought and weighty gold chain of Italian design. The next revealed a large, blood red ruby surrounded by pearls, all set in a brooch. A third contained yards of beautiful crimson tissue, of the finest weave, enough for a gown with a flowing train. Finally, I opened the largest package to discover the softest, most beautiful pure white ermine fur. Henry beamed, and cast me a significant look. Clearly he intended the ermine to be worn soon, upon our marriage. I was quite certain that Henry had never treated Katherine so well, not in all their years of wedlock.

  “Henry, you are so kind to me and much too generous.” I leaned closer, indulging in the scent of him. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “I do my best to imagine, sweetheart. But I suspect I shall never really know until we are in each other’s arms with no impediments. I pray that will be soon.”

  “So do I, Henry, every single day,” I said, thinking about how much I wanted and needed it to be very soon.

  Again suppressing my desire, I offered, “While you were at Greenwich, darling, I had an idea. What if we were to host a grand party here at York, celebrating the new palace? What say you to that?”

  “I would reply with a resounding yes, my love!” Henry chuckled delightedly. “The timing is perfect. We can christen the palace by its new name, Whitehall. It will no longer be known as York. The new structure, as it evolves, will be called the Palace of Whitehall.”

  “How wonderful!” I was excited to have again something creative to work on, to take my mind off of the interminable worry. “May I begin planning?”

  “Indeed, you may, my sweet Anne. Let us show court and the world what you can accomplish as mistress of a household - on a grand scale.”

  I could not wait to begin.

  I threw myself into the preparation for the banquet and ball. In addition to revealing the palace’s new name, we decided to fête a new ambassador from France, Seigneur de la Guîche. This was the first event Henry and I planned together, and I loved it. It made me feel as if we were truly husband and wife, planning a great event for guests who would join us in our home. It would also afford me the opportunity to show Henry and everyone else what Anne Boleyn, England’s next Queen, was capable of. I determined to bring a degree of discerning detail to this celebration never before witnessed at court.

  With the help of my ladies, I decided on the theme of a magical winter garden. We worked with Master Lovell, the renowned head gardener from Richmond to create the fantasy.

  Employing Master Lovell had been the brilliant idea of Honor Lisle. Honor Grenville had married Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, over a year ago. Lisle, a tall, handsome man, extremely capable and refined, was Henry’s Vice Admiral, and he had found a worthy wife in Honor. She and I had become great friends. I’d known her for ages and had always liked her, but with more time together, we found we were very similar in many ways. She was beautiful; small in stature, but with a soft roundness to her figure and face. She dressed well and was lively and witty with a great sense of humour. There were times when we melted into fits of laughter together, and I loved her for that. And when it came to running her husband’s household and affairs while he was away on assignment – well, no one was her equal.

  “Let us see what suggestions Lovell makes, Anne. We do know that we will need yards and yards and yards of gorgeous tissue fabric to make it appear as if a great white blanket of snow had fallen.” Honor always used embellishments when she spoke – both in her words and her gestures.

  “Do you think we will be able to fool the guests into thinking they are outside?” I wondered, hurriedly adding, “But of course the difference being they will be warm.”

  “With absolute certainty, we will. With you and me designing the decorations for the Hall, this ball will be magnificent … fantastic! Unlike any the court has ever seen.”

  The day before the ball, the palace was in chaos. Construction on the King’s apartments was rapidly progressing, and dusty masons, carpenters, painters, and plasterers swarmed the chambers and corridors.In sharp contrast, the palace’s impeccably uniformed house stewards and yeomen had no alternative but to work around the labourers, and they dashed hither and thither carting supplies for the banquet, all the while displaying their haughty irritation at the interference.

  Master Lovell had proved to be invaluable in envisioning how we would bring our white winter garden theme to life. His assistants brought in cartloads of saplings, large and small tree branches of all types, and vast swaths of evergreens which he and his crew set up around the room to make it appear as if it were a forest clearing. Many branches had been brushed with white or silver paint to simulate a coating of snow and ice. Master Copeland, one of the royal mercers, brought us miles of gossamer silver and white silk tissue, which was artfully draped from the rafters and walls. As the men worked, with our guidance, my ladies and I looked about the hall with barely contained glee. It was being transformed from a room supported by carved wooden beams to an enchanted forest which lay serenely under a coating of freshly fallen, sparkling white snow.

  My ladies’ attire was as carefully planned as the rest of the setting. They were gowned in shades of silvery grey, from the palest shimmer to deep, lustrous pewter. The colour I chose for myself was an ice blue satin, very wintry, with a petticoat of cloth of silver. The trim on our gowns and hoods was done with silver thread, braided and embroidered to look like the tracings of frost on an icy morning windowpane. My jewellery was diamond: necklace, rings, bracelet, and the edging on the billiment of my hood. The design of all my French hoods now resembled a small crown, with the hind edge standing up from my head to feature the jewels which adorned them. I had taken especial, creative care with my toilette, wearing a new, opulent French scent which was a combination of jasmine and iris. I had accented my eyes with a silver powder mixed for me by the master painter at York. It looked exotic and fantastical, and I used extra kohl on my lashes, and then drew a thin line of kohl on the lower inner rim, a trick I had learned which lent an extra gleam to the eye. It being January, my complexion was as fair as ever it got, which for me was still the colour of honey and cream. I used a rose coloured powder to tint my cheeks, as well as to dust the swell of my breasts above my bodice.

  Honor and Anne Gainsford came to my chamber once they were ready. They both looked exceedingly comely in their pearl velvet gowns. I was so proud of the ladies and friends who surrounded me! They stood behind me as we excitedly observed our reflections in the tall silvered mirror in my dressing chamber. The appearance we had achieved was ravishing, in truth. I hoped Henry would be captivated.

  Even our entrée at the ball was theatrical. Just late enough to be certain most guests had arrived, we arranged ourselves outside the entrance to the great hall. The first to be announced was Honor. Next came Anne and Maggie Wyatt, both in gowns of luminous grey, a shade deeper than Honor’s. Finally, entering the hall before me were Bessie Holland, Margery Horsman, and Elizabeth Harlestone, all wearing gowns of a rich smoke grey.

  At last, the herald crie
d ‘Mistress Anne Boleyn, Lady Rochford!’

  I hesitated for the briefest moment, pulled my shoulders back, lifted my head high, and glided into the great hall. The guests had grown quiet enough to hear the soft swish of my satin gown as I slowly approached the dais where Henry and Ambassador de la Guîche sat. Even from across the room I felt the intensity of Henry’s stare. I know I flushed in response but willed myself to remain composed as I passed through the enthralled crowd to assume my place at Henry’s right. In an unprecedented gesture, he stood as I approached. Once I reached him, with grace and grandeur worthy of the theatre, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it in full view of all present.

  Only when seated at last did I have the opportunity to view the room and appraise how the hall had been transposed into a place of perfect enchantment. Silver and white tissue floated from the ceiling and billowed from the walls. With only the slightest imagination, one had the sense of being in a frosty landscape. Candlelight glimmered from behind tissue, affording the room an ethereal light. Everywhere, hundreds of white candles in clear and blue glass cups shimmered and sparkled. Saplings which lined the room were draped with the palest tissue and candles floated magically about in the trees, hung by invisibly thin wire. Lofty silver and white branches stretched skyward from silver urns on every table. At each turn, pine boughs appeared snow-covered, lightly swept with white and silver. The air was redolent with pine and rosemary incense burning in silver censers. The tables were swathed in pure white. I felt as if I were about to dine on a magical forest floor which had been cloaked in season’s first snowfall.