To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

by Byrd, Sandra

  Walter. Dead. Dear, sweet Walter. The heir.

  I purposed in my heart to approach Rose that evening with my condolences. Her card table was full, but I found an open spot at one nearby so that I could approach her with my sympathy at the right moment. She caught my eye but didn’t wave me over. It did seem to me that she spoke more loudly, though. Mayhap so I could hear?

  Lady Lisle offered pity and comfort and then asked Rose, “Will your father recall your brother Will home, then? He’s your father’s heir now, is that not right?”

  Rose spoke up. “Thank you for your gentle wishes, my lady. My brother Will has already returned home and performed Walter’s funeral, a private family matter. As he is a priest, and told my father only last year that he was called to remain a priest, I shan’t expect him to be named my father’s heir. That honor will go to my eldest son, Philip.” She caught my eye, smiled, and turned back to her table.

  It grew clear to me that she did not want my good wishes, so I finished my game of trump, thinking that Rose had already trumped me and we were not even at the same table, and took my leave.

  Walter was dead. Philip, a spoilt little man given to fits of temper any time I’d seen him and overindulged by Rose’s unmanned husband, now heir to two great estates. But even more startling, Will was here.

  The next evening, our last afore moving on, I attended to Anne’s needs in an unusual haste. As I brushed out her hair I tugged at a knot.

  “Have a care!” She quickly put her hand to her head. “If I didn’t know better, madam, I would say you were in an unseemly hurry to dress yourself at risk of service to your queen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but then I caught the gleam in her eye. She knew Will was here, mayhap had known all along.

  “You may be sorry but ’tis clear you cannot focus on the task.” She waved me away. “I’d prefer the patient hands of Nan Zouche tonight. Be gone!”

  I hurried to my own chambers and dressed myself in the garnet gown that shimmered like deep flames when it caught the light, threads of gold running through it like an unspoken promise. I knew how much the fabric had cost—I’d procured it on the queen’s behalf. If all the earnings from each person in the village surrounding Allington Castle were pooled together for one year, ’twould be enough to commission the dress. I masqued myself with a gold and black feather headdress.

  The great hall at Templeman was magnificent. Rose’s husband was bound as ivy and oak with Cromwell, who had appointed him to several lucrative positions. Indeed, Cromwell himself had joined us on progress. My brother Edmund was there with his new bride, an untested girl who spoke little and seemed to be currently avoiding Katherine Willoughby, the Duke of Suffolk’s young wife, who had a lively spirit and quick tongue. I’d had several words with Edmund’s wife during the weeks she’d been on progress with us, tried to befriend her, but it soon became clear that Edmund had poisoned the air between us and she was reluctant to offer anything but the most proper and perfunctory greetings. I’d not seen her smile since their smallish wedding. I suspected he’d kept it low-key because it was rushed after Charlotte had married Simon.

  “Are you enjoying the progress, Tilda?” I asked her.

  “’Tis fine. And you, Margaret?” she offered meekly.

  “Do not call her Margaret, ’twas my mother’s name. My sister’s name,” Edmund spat out, “is Meg.”

  I bade them good evening and, sighing, took my leave. I should have to ask Alice, also present, if she’d had better luck with our sister-in-law.

  Of course Baron Blackston was there. His wife, Charlotte, was an especial favorite of Rose’s. Simon asked me to dance and I had little choice but to agree.

  “How are you, Meg?” His voice clearly showed that he couldn’t be less interested in my well-being.

  “I do well,” I answered. “I see that your wife is with child. Congratulations.”

  He smiled and steeled his gaze before the thrust. “You know young ladies. So often with child so quick after a wedding. And many times thereafter. Like your friend, the Countess of Blenheim, our hostess.”

  Yes, Simon, I am aware of my age and lack of fecundity. “I wish you goodwill with your child,” I said, and then added a little barb from which he could draw his own meaning. “I shall certainly keep your child in my prayers.” Simon looked ready to say something further when someone tapped on his shoulder.

  “May I?” he asked. It was Will. His being near family with Simon made it difficult for Simon to do anything other than graciously agree.

  “From the arms of a fallen angel into the arms of a priest,” I teased. I noticed Will did not wear vestments but was dressed in typical courtly attire. Mayhap it was because it was a masque.

  Though he was masqued, as was I, it was still possible to lock eyes and we did, he showing more open interest in me than he had the last time, which confused me. The music seemed far away, as did all others. I was only aware of one person.

  “I may not be a priest for long,” he said, and I nearly pulled away from him at the shock of that.

  Beatissima!

  He held me close to keep things looking normal all round. “I will find you to speak of that in a short while.” He kept his tone even and quiet and disturbingly unemotional following that kind of revelation. “For now, I must tell you something of great import, and quickly. Our friend may be in trouble.”

  I leaned in and whispered, “Anne?”

  He nodded. “I must speak quickly as I am promised elsewhere shortly. The smith’s son,” he said, “whom our friend considers as one of her own, may not be so trustworthy after all.”

  Cromwell! Cromwell was a smith’s son; in fact, there had long been petty murmurs among nobility about his being raised too high from the floors of the smithy. “There must be a certain danger if you are reluctant to name the man,” I said.

  Will nodded. “He’s said that he has a goal in mind—reform, for certes, and the wealth of the realm, and his own coffer. Like any smith he will pick up or cast aside tools as required for the task.”

  “Our friend?”

  “Maybe,” Will said. “The king’s eye wanders, his interest wanders. Carewe and other courtiers unfavorable to the queen comment time and again on her bewildering inability to bring forth a son from such a virile man as the king. ’Twas a time he would not have listened. But Rose’s husband, thick with Cromwell, says the king listens now. I understand that he may be asking Cromwell to investigate Anne.”

  “To find?”

  “Whatever he may.”

  The song drew to an end. “I will be wary and do what I can,” I promised. “And…. your other news?”

  “I shall seek you tonight. Soon,” he promised, but his air seemed reserved. He let me go and then slipped into the crowd of hundreds.

  In spite of the attention my dress, and my nearness to the queen, drew to me that night I left early so Will could speak with me at his pleasure.

  I dismissed Edithe early—her husband had accompanied the Boleyns—and remained in my rooms alone. Shortly a knock came at my door. I opened it with great expectation only to be let down.

  “Oh. Come in,” I said to my sister, Alice. She stooped down and picked up a slip of paper that I’d left peeping out from under the door so Will could find my chamber in the hallway where Anne’s women were housed.

  “This was in the hallway,” she said. I took it in hand and closed the door behind her. “May I have a seat?” she asked after a moment went by without my offering.

  “Oh yes, yes of course.” I indicated a plumply cushioned chair next to the window and pulled one alongside her. As it were the height of summer it was not yet black outside.

  “I was concerned when I saw you leave,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded and grinned. “Perfectly. I, ah, well, had been going to share my condolences with Will, at the loss of his brother. Later.”

  Alice drew near me and took my hands in her own. “I knew he’d be here ton
ight, but only just. My son John told me that Walter had passed on and that Will’s father had recalled him from Antwerp. John arrived just ahead of Will. John also shared with me that, well, that Earl Asquith has named Will as his heir.”

  “His heir? But Rose felt that her son Philip would be named heir.”

  “I suppose that may have been true had Will chosen to remain in the priesthood. But it seems he has not. His father is, even now, searching for an heiress to marry him to, to increase both their holdings and status and…. family members. John believes the earl may have found such a young woman and, indeed, has already spoken to Will of the matter.”

  It didn’t need to be said that I was not a great heiress, had, in fact, no dowry at all, no great title to offer, and at this age, even my ability to add to a family was in doubt. He would have been a suitable match for me as a second son. But not as an heir.

  “I’m sorry,” Alice said. “’Tis better to hear it from me, though I suspect he will tell you on his own as well.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Sister,” I said. Then I stood. “Would you mind if I had some time on my own to pray?”

  “Of course not.” She drew me to her, kissed my cheeks, and squeezed my hands before taking her leave. I would not replace the paper under the door.

  As she left, I spied Will coming down the hall. I had no time to shut the door; he’d seen me.

  ’Twas a pity that I’d not had time to pray, as I’d indicated I would, ere Will reached me. I stood in the doorway.

  “Meg, can we speak together?” he asked.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Year of Our Lord 1535

  Wolf Hall

  Hampton Court Palace

  Whitehall Palace

  Windsor Castle

  Greenwich Palace

  Though I desperately wanted to take him into my arms, I shook my head no. ’Twas useless now. I recalled how, as a girl, I’d noticed a robin in a nest outside of my bedchamber window. When the light shone upon the window the robin could not see that it was a plate of glass; instead, it kept flying into the window over and over again, uselessly banging its head trying to get somewhere it would never be allowed entrance. I’d had one of my father’s menservants relocate the nest so that the bird might, though unhappily, live.

  I unbridled my tongue. “’Tis clear to me that when your father bade you become a priest you obeyed, though you said it was because you were called, and I believed you. And now, now when he wants you for an heir, and when a dowry is out of my reach, as it had not been when we last met and you reaffirmed your call, he summons you forth out of the priesthood and you obey.”

  I stepped back inside my door. “Your call is subject to your father’s will, but not to the desires of my own heart, nor your own, and never has been. I will pray for you, Will, and for your marriage and for your heir. I bid you good evening.”

  I shut the door and slid to the floor. He stood on the other side of the door for a long while but did not knock nor call my name, though I silently willed him to. After some time I heard his footsteps retreat and then I let myself cry.

  In September we made our last stop on progress before returning to Hampton Court Palace and picking up the king’s, and Cromwell’s, business of state. His Majesty’s courtiers had, unusually, chosen Wolf Hall, the estate of the Seymour family, to cap off the summer’s journey.

  Our first night there found us enjoying a musical performance. “Sir John has commissioned the musicians to play an evening of music that was composed by, or inspired by the compositions of, His Majesty,” Anne explained, admiration for her husband clear in her eyes. “There is no sovereign in the world who could have an evening of musical entertainment claimed to his talents other than His Grace.”

  It was true, the king had composed many songs in his younger days, and, even now, would pick up a lute or stringed instrument and play with a deft hand.

  As I’d told my sister I would, I partnered a dance with Thomas Seymour, as did nearly every other lady present, but he was most interested in the pretty young daughter of a nearby nobleman and it was fine with me. I had resigned myself to a monastic life serving my God and my queen. Madge Shelton, cast off by the king, had not devised a like plan for her life.

  “Why does Henry Norris partner the queen at dance, again?” she complained. “I have danced with him once, but he has now thrice danced with the queen, and that after having twice danced with Lady Lisle. And now, look,” she said. “Thomas Seymour is besotted with young Lady Latimer though she be twice married herself.”

  “Mayhap they prefer to dance with married women who see them as friends and not as men in desperate need of wives, as some are wont to see them,” Nan Zouche replied tartly. Madge turned up her lip, but I agreed. Anne’s cousin Madge had been the favorite of many men but the wife of none, and others, of course, had taken note. Men were reluctant to take to wife a woman who had already been taken to bed many times over.

  Though the evening was led by a song that the king had composed in honor of Anne, ’twas clear early on that Mistress Jane Seymour, Sir John’s daughter, was the night’s real presentation.

  Jane had served in Anne’s household off and on, of course, as had most every girl and woman of gentle birth. So she was not a stranger to us, but she had spoken rarely, offered few opinions, had not played cards or enjoyed the lighthearted banter about learning or religion or anything else so often discussed in Anne’s rooms. I’d oft thought it was not so much that she was unwilling as unable. So ’twas hard to know wherein Henry found her charm, unless it be in her constant downcast gaze or prudently folded hands. His eye and his conversation were oft drawn in her direction. And when they didn’t turn there naturally, her brother Edward or Sir Nicolas Carewe gently steered her back into his path. Soon enough she guided herself there.

  “I like not the looks of that,” I told Anne, remembering Will’s warning.

  Anne made no comment, of course. But I knew she was paying attention and recognized a new level of danger. Mistress Seymour had, of the king’s accord, rejoined Anne’s ladies. In early October, one night after we’d returned to court, I was halfway through reassembling the queen’s gowns and putting away her Scriptures and prayer books when Jane Rochford entered the room.

  “My lady,” Jane said. “I have some information for you.” She looked in my direction and then back at Anne.

  “That will be all for this evening, Meg,” Anne said, not unkindly, but it was a definite dismissal. I curtseyed coolly and took my leave.

  Within the hour Anne sent her lady maid to recall me back to her chambers. When I arrived I was shocked to find her dressed plainly, in garb of lower quality than even her lady maid would wear.

  “What is this?” I asked. She’d already dismissed the rest of her maids and her rooms were eerily empty.

  “Sit with me.” She indicated the gilded chairs near the fireplace, which was already roaring on this cold autumn night. I did as I was bade.

  “Jane had approached me with…. concern…. over my lack of a child.”

  “Jane has concern for you?” I asked with incredulity. “As of which date? I remember not.”

  Anne smiled wanly. “’Tis hard to believe, but then recall to mind that as my fortunes go, so do George’s, and therefore Jane’s. She asked me if there were a problem with my, ah, ability to hold on to a child. I replied that I knew not, but that sometimes, well, the king were tired and had trouble doing the man’s part in the matter, which is understandable, for certes, when you consider his responsibilitie to the kingdom.” She looked down at her rough boots at that and didn’t look me in the eye. No woman wanted to divulge difficulties with her husband’s manliness. But this was not a problem to remain between man and wife. It was a crisis for the realm.

  “And how does Jane Rochford propose she help in this delicate matter?”

  “She knows a woman…. an herbalist…. in nearby Aldwych. She mixes draughts and ointments and concoctions that can assist a man in this mat
ter, and some which, when the mother drinks of them, help her retain a child.”

  “A witch?!”

  Anne shook her head. “No, ’tis not a witch. ’Tis an herbalist. But many confuse the two just as you do. Which is why I am thusly garbed to ride out and fetch these potions. I cannot risk sending someone for them and mayhap gossiping that I frequent a witch. Jane Rochford says she is too frightened to go herself.”

  I took her hands in my own. “No, dearest, you cannot go. There must be another way. And your bleeding has not started this month, so it may be that you are already with child. Can you risk that with a nighttime ride into Aldwych? Can you risk being seen visiting a woman who some may, mistakenly, claim as a witch? Surely there is no one in the land who will not know your face.”

  She stood up and raised her voice. “Can I risk losing another child when the king visits me irregularly and even then may not be able to consummate? Can I risk having the stone-stupid Jane Seymour insinuate herself into my bed and onto my throne?”

  Again, I recalled Will’s warning. He was not a man given to intemperate speculation, so the risk to Anne was real.

  “Then I shall go in your stead,” I said. “Tell me where to go.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  I reached over and took off her humble cloak. “Yes, lady. We made a vow, in Hever garden, friends to the end, never leaving one another’s side, loyalty firmly pledged, come what may. I shall serve you in this matter.”

  “I do not deserve your friendship, Meg,” she said.

  “No, you do not. But alas, there it lies,” I teased her as she let me unbutton her. I noticed a twitch near her left eye and her hands trembled. I believe it was the first time I had actually seen anxiety overcome her to any degree.

  I helped her undress and then I put the servant’s clothing on myself. It was a harsh fabric and irritated my skin. I suspected fleas nested in the cloak as I felt the pinprick of bites on my arms and the nape of my neck and Anne scratched an irritation on her own collarbone.