To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

by Byrd, Sandra

  “Roger, the husband to your maid Edithe, and one lady from Hever will ride with you to the street of the physic but not beyond, and wait for you there. I trust them to ride, but not, mayhap, to keep a secret if pressed by someone highborn,” Anne said. I recalled how Simon had intimidated Edithe and agreed with her. “I told Jane Rochford that I would ride a lowly steed so as not to call attention to myself.” Anne handed me a pouch of coins. “For the draughts and poultice.”

  I pulled the cloak around me as I slunk down the hall. I passed by several who knew me and none looked my way nor nodded; rather, they kept a distance. Fear of the fleas, I suspected, glad that I went unrecognized.

  I pulled the hood even closer as I crept through the servants’ quarters, where no guards were posted, and out toward the stable. A light rain fell but the tight wool kept me dry. I arrived at the stable and, as Anne had promised, Roger and a lady servant were there. Roger caught my eye, recognized me, but said nothing. He called for three horses to be brought. When my steed was brought I sent him back. “I prefer that mount,” I said, pointing out my own horse. If I were going to be riding through the night into London, I did not want to be bedeviled by a horse I was unfamiliar with. As my horse was not caparisoned with royal garb it should not matter.

  We rode out of the stables and through the courtyards; through the gate, which Roger had arranged with the gate servant to be opened; and into the city. It was not so far up the beat-dirt roads to Aldwych, where my lady said the physic practiced. “Remain here,” I said to Roger and the lady, and they idled in the dark outside of an alehouse, holding my steed, whilst I made my way up the dark street. I arrived at the small building with stars painted across the door and knocked.

  The door was opened not by a haggard old crone, as I’d expected, but by a beautiful young woman. “How can I help you?” she asked, her accent indicating that she were not lowborn.

  “I’ve come for some potions to help my mistress hold her baby,” I said. “And, mayhap, give her husband…. strength to make another child…. if he needs it.”

  She nodded warily, looked behind me, then indicated I could come in. I was as wary, or perhaps more wary, than she, but there was no turning back now. “Sit here,” she told me. She went into another room and I could hear bottles clanking. There were physic jars on a small shelf in the next room. Several of them looked suspiciously like Simon’s sleeping draughts. I wondered where Jane Roch-ford had got her herbalist information. The maiden came back into the room and handed me two pouches. I paid her and, before I left, tied the pouches inside of my kirtle as Anne had told me to do.

  I walked back up the street. I knew the woman wasn’t a witch, but I prayed as I left because I felt unclean after the visit, filled with foreboding of some kind. Should I simply throw the potions away and tell Anne I was unable to get them? And yet, mayhap, like burn ointment or herbs to ward off a fever, they could help.

  Roger led us back to the castle, and just afore we reached the gates to enter I heard a swoosh of air and then a scream. ’Twas Anne’s lady servant. Her horse had been shot with an arrow, and then, shockingly, one hit her clear through the temple. Her eyes registered surprise and then locked with mine in a mute cry for help.

  “I come!” I reined in my horse to turn to help the woman but was prevented from doing so by the manservant.

  “Go on, my lady, ride on!” Roger urged me forward as I saw a dark figure rearm a bow. Roger leaned over and slapped the side of my horse, which then took off and headed directly for the stable. Roger galloped alongside me to urge my horse on. We left the serving woman in the street, though Roger said he would send a guard to assist her after I was safely inside. I knew he said it to comfort me and force me forward. There was no assistance that could be offered that would help.

  I ran down the hallway, seedy cloak pulled around me, and into my empty rooms. Once on my bed I began to shake. I quickly undressed myself and crawled under the linens, shivering and praying that Anne’s serving girl might live.

  But she did not. Anne told me the next day that the girl had died, as had the lowly steed that Anne had been expected to ride. My fine horse had most likely saved me. It could not have been an accident—who besides Jane Rochford and her collaborators had known of Anne’s mission on an ignoble mount?

  “Methinks that arrow was intended for me, and mayhap that they would expect to see herbs on me when the body was found, and charge me with witchcraft,” Anne said. She pulled me close. “I pity the girl who died, but selfishly, I am glad it was not you.”

  I pitied us all: Anne, me, and the poor woman who had died. Would this be the end of the danger?

  Jane Rochford did not let her surprise show, indeed, never again brought the topic up. All noticed that she took a special care to tutor Jane Seymour in the ways of the ladies-in-waiting. Anne never drew her near again.

  She did drink the draught, though, and her bleeding did not come. By the first of November she was able to announce to the king that she carried his son. His joy in her restored, he drew her near and chose no favorite; they sparred and read aloud and flirted in chapel. All was well.

  For now.

  Christmas court in 1535 was held, as usual, at Greenwich Palace. ’Twas the favorite of the king, and the queen, too, and as she was with child the mood had been merry. Every reformer in the land prayed for the safe delivery of a son. Surely God would smile down this time and rest the realm in the womb of a woman who had done so much to establish the Church in the land. Anne herself had given me an overgenerous present of gold and jewels as a Christmas gift.

  A new lady had joined the chamber, placed there at the request of Master Cromwell. “Her name is Lady Jamison,” Rose, Lady Blenheim, said, introducing her to the other ladies-in-waiting. “My father is even now conducting negotiations for her marriage with my brother here at court over Christmas, and both parties are eager for them to conclude.” She turned toward me. “I hadn’t expected him to marry, but as he will, I am glad it is to Lady Jamison. Mayhap you could help her find her place at court, Baroness.”

  I restrained a comment about the place I’d like to find for Rose Ogilvy and instead graciously held out my hand to the young woman intended for Will. “How do you do?” I asked her. She curtseyed prettily and politely and when her gaze met mine I saw that she had not yet earned a single furrow on her brow nor crinkle in her smile. Her fine blond hair was modestly set off by a light blue French hood.

  In his epistle unto the Galatians, Saint Paul had written that envying was a deed of the flesh. I regret to admit that deed of the flesh manifested itself at that moment till it near overcame me. I made some kindly small talk and took my leave, praying on my way down the hall back to my chamber. When I arrived, I was met at the door by Edithe.

  “I have made it up to you, lady,” she said, thrusting a scroll in my hand.

  It was inked in Will’s hand. “Have made what up to me?” I asked.

  “I lost your other letters from Master Will. But his manservant delivered this some hours ago, and I guarded it till you arrived.”

  “Thank you, dear Edithe,” I said. “But you have nothing to make up to me. You have always served me honorably and well and I wish that I could pay you more for your services to me.”

  She blushed. “’Tis my honor. I shall take my leave now.” She got her wrap and linens and left the room.

  I slid my finger under the seal and undid the scroll.

  I should like to meet with you and talk in private, about myself, and about our friend. I am not sure if I am welcome, after our last meeting. Please return your sentiments via your lady servant.

  Yours, Will.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Year of Our Lord 1536

  Greenwich Palace

  Hampton Court Palace

  I wrote him a note telling him that I repented of my hasty words and if he’d forgive me I would be glad to speak with him whenever he would. I was then sorry that I had dismissed Edithe for the evening, for I
was eager to return the letter to him and set things right between us.

  The visitors to court would be leaving anon, I knew, as the Christmas celebrations concluded in early January and all but the customary courtiers returned to their homes and properties. I expected Will to find me soon. And he did.

  At Greenwich he was familiar with which were my rooms—well-appointed apartments close to Anne’s, because we often cloaked ourselves and went between our rooms late at night to talk over the day’s events. Will knocked on the door and I opened it, preparing to offer a friendly greeting of welcome. Instead, he pushed the door closed behind him, took me firmly into his arms, and kissed me for nigh on a minute. My shock turned quickly to response. After a moment he held me far enough out to hold my gaze.

  Libido.

  “I have wanted to do that since Hever gardens and I gave myself leave to do so now. I’d like to do it again.”

  I sat in a chair and he joined me nearby. “I too. But…. I’d told you I did not want you to kiss me thusly until you could make good on the promise behind it. Which would require marriage.”

  “I can marry you,” he said. “I am no longer a priest. And”—he held his hand up—“’tis not for the reason you’ve accused me.”

  I opened my mouth to repent, in person, of my tongue-lashing but he stilled me with a look.

  “When we last talked I told you that I felt called, nay, required, to help Master Coverdale with his translation of the Old Testament, to complete what Tyndale had begun, and therefore present the entire Scripture in the English language. Late in the summer we completed the task. ’Tis done, Meg! The whole counsel of Scripture. In English!”

  His eyes shone as they had when he were a boy and I was transported to that time with him. I grinned back.

  “Thus my task was completed, and when my father approached me after Walter’s death I prayed and did feel a release of my call. Many reformed priests are marrying now anyway—did you know that Archbishop Cranmer has a secret wife?”

  My astonishment must have shown. He grinned at me.

  “And your nephew John Rogers is soon to marry, though he will remain a priest. Scripture does not enjoin a priest to remain unmarried. As for me, I am called to something else now—I know not what, as He has not disclosed it to me, but I am released from priesthood.”

  I had longed for those words. Yearned for them. And now that they had come, I felt an unwelcome hesitancy. “In your note you mentioned Anne,” I said.

  His face turned somber. “Yes. While here at the Christmas court Rose’s husband heard Cromwell speaking with the king. The king asked Cromwell if it should be necessary for him to remarry Katherine of Aragon if anything should…. happen…. to Anne.”

  “Happen?” I pressed for more. “If she dies in childbirth?”

  “Or any other way, I suspect,” Will said. “It was not made clear nor specific. Cromwell told him no, he would not be required to remarry Katherine—in fact, ’twould further free him. The king is not fearful of making whatever changes he requires to meet his desires. I would not be surprised if he set Cromwell’s fine legal mind to figuring out how to disentangle himself from Anne. His love for her seems to have run its course.”

  More’s head on a pike appeared in my mind.

  “Is she in danger?” I asked.

  Will inhaled deeply but didn’t flinch. “Not if a prince is born. Then she’ll be safe no matter what his feelings. In fact, I suspect his feelings for her will turn on the birth of a prince. Or not. But if a prince is not born….”

  I grimaced. Neither of us needed to finish the sentence.

  “And as for you…. what of Lady Jamison?” I asked. “It was only a few weeks ago that Rose introduced her to me. Said your father was negotiating your marriage with her. Rose implied that it was a marriage you wanted as well.”

  He kissed me again, lightly this time. “There is only one woman I have ever wanted to marry, Meg. That is you.”

  “But your father may not be amenable to that,” I said.

  “You are right,” Will said. “And the negotiations with Lady Jamison continue apace. So I am here to ask you—can you leave court immediately if I were able to convince him?”

  “I have no dowry,” I said. “Not even a small one.”

  “I recall. It is a forbidding obstacle, that is true. I do not know a way round that.”

  I saw one small flicker of hope. “If things go well for Anne and she births a son, Henry will give me a small dowry for her sake. He knows that we are like sisters. The birth of a prince is all that can save her now. I fear that if the child is not a boy, Henry will put her away, mayhap in an abbey. I have heard rumors of his infatuation with Lady Jane and seen his roving affections.”

  “And if things go poorly for her?” Will asked.

  “Then it would be best for you not to be associated with me at all. I am the closest to her and all know it. It may taint you and your house with the king. Your father would never allow shame to fall upon your house and likely would not even accept a small dowry. Mayhap it would be best for us to put aside the passions of youth and face the responsibilities of adulthood with cold resolve.”

  Will remained silent for a moment before answering. “What if the passions of youth continued into adulthood? And still grow?”

  Mine did too.

  He knew it. “Could you leave now before Anne’s future is decided one way or another? She’s had her life, she’s made her choices. Now—before my father finalizes the arrangements with Lady Jamison. Which will be soon. Maybe your father—or Edmund—will pay a dowry.”

  Lord Jesus, is he right? Am I released from my service to Anne? Have I served her well and now, the very last chance I have for a life, and a man, and a child of my own, may I take it?

  The answer came immediately to my heart. No.

  I didn’t pull my hands from his but shook my head. “Neither Edmund nor my father will help me and Thomas is in no position to help though I know he’d like to. And, my love, I have made a promise to Anne. I, too, have a call, to serve. I believe in his first epistle to the Corinthians, Saint Paul exhorts those of us who have been entrusted with a service to be found faithful.”

  He sighed. “I regret handing Tyndale’s book to you.”

  “No, you do not,” I said. “And besides the call to serve, she is my dearest, closest friend. I will not leave her in her hour of need.”

  “No,” he said. “I knew you would not.”

  “I love you, Will Ogilvy, soon to be Baron Ogilvy. You are the only man I have ever loved and I declare that I will ever love. If I were free, I would give you my oath now. But when my lady was being crowned queen in Westminster Abbey I felt drawn to the buttresses—yes, the buttresses—in that great building. And I know now why. The building is grand and majestic and able to appear thusly because of the buttresses, which remove weight from the load-bearing beams. I have been given a call to serve. ’Tis my duty.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “I know that.” I let my tears flow and he did too.

  “I will ever only love you,” he said.

  “I know that too.” For the first time I took the initiative to kiss him. “To remember me by.”

  “Nihilo quo tui meminerim mihi opus est,” he whispered before bowing, courteously, and left my chambers.

  I need nothing to remember you by.

  The first death came days after my conversation with Will and looked, at first, like something that Anne’s friends should rejoice over. Katherine of Aragon had taken ill just after Christmas. With her so near to death, Anne felt compelled to have Lady Shelton, Mary’s governess and Anne’s own relation, seek a truce between Anne and Mary. She instructed her, via letter, to suspend all pressure on Mary to conform and said that she herself had considered the Word of God’s injunction to do good to one’s enemy and hoped that Mary would submit to her father quickly whilst it would still do her good.

  Mary, surrounded by the mounting strength
of conservative courtiers longing for the old days and a return to the True Faith, and hoping for the passing of favor from Anne, refused the offer of friendship as well as the advice.

  On January seventh, shortly after having received extreme unction, Katherine of Aragon died, nearly alone, at cold Kimbolton Castle. Henry could not have behaved with less decorum. He dressed in his finest yellow clothes and kissed Anne often and with great passion in front of all. He sent for the princess Elizabeth and showed her off to the court, loudly proclaiming that she would soon be joined by a brother, the prince. He robbed Katherine of what little remained of her earthly goods, setting one of Cromwell’s minions to finesse the legalities so that Mary, and Katherine’s charities, received naught. She had asked to be buried in a Carthusian monastery, but ’twas not to be; Cromwell had already begun to dismantle as many Church of Rome properties as possible. She was buried at Peterborough Castle, and although he, shockingly, allowed “Queen of England” to be inscribed on her tomb, Henry, for his part, ordered a celebratory joust to be held on the day of her funeral.

  “I love Queen Anne with all my heart, but ’tis a shame, Katherine dying alone an all tha’,” Edithe said as she prepared me for bed that night.

  “’Tis,” I said, wondering if I, too, were destined to die alone.

  “My cousin’s a maid for Lady Shelton, Mary’s gov’ness. She said that Katherine had asked her confessor if she’d done wrong, afore she died. Asked if by her stubbornness in not giving His Grace a divorce, or hieing her to an abbey, she’d brought heresy to England.”

  I’d not thought of that. “I do suppose that her refusal forced the king to move against the queen,” I said, “and toward reform. For that, we may be glad.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am, for certes. Also…. is it wrong, mistress, to pay attention to those who say deaths happen in threes? ’Tis all the maids can talk of these days.”

  “’Tis superstitious nonsense, Edithe, and you should know better!” I snapped.

  She nodded. “You’re right, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll be taking your mending and leaving now.”