Moth To The Flame

by Angela Warwick

  However Anne was not listening to George’s soothing words as he propelled her swiftly to her chamber. She was already mentally plotting her revenge on the Cardinal, whom she believed had cruelly shattered all her dreams.

  Chapter 13 - Exile

  It was a much subdued Anne who again set eyes on the Kentish castle over which she had so joyously exclaimed only twelve months earlier.

  Before she had left the court, her father had sent for her and admonished her for daring to bring down the King’s displeasure on the family name. Thomas Boleyn had been further angered by the fact that Anne had made no attempt to defend herself or justify her actions. Indeed, she had seemed almost bereft of life as she listened to him rant, staring dully at the floor before her.

  As she stumbled into Hever supported by her mother and sister, she seemed as though in a trance. Even the warm spiced wine her mother called for did little to revive her. It brought some colour to her white face but could not restore the spirit behind her eyes.

  When eventually she spoke, it was only to request solitude. So, after helping her to her room, they left her. Only then, lying on the bed that she had used since early childhood, did the hot tears force their way from beneath her closed eyelids, running through her tangled hair on to the coverlet.

  As the days passed it seemed that nothing could rouse her from her melancholy. The only company should would tolerate was that of her wolfhound Urian, who had come home with her from France. Long past his playful puppy stage, he would sit gravely beside her with his head in her lap, closing his eyes in ecstasy when she, grateful for his sympathetic and undemanding presence, would absentmindedly fondle his ears.

  Only several weeks later when spring’s freshness forced its way through her chamber window, did she at last venture outside the castle, walking slowly through the gardens accompanied by the faithful Urian.

  Also with the coming of spring, her melancholy developed into bitter resentment, If Percy had loved her so desperately, why had he not flouted his father’s wishes and come for her? But the bitterest pill of all was that she now knew for sure that there was to be no child of their brief union.

  With that knowledge, her last slender thread of hope was gone. When the news that Harry had married Mary Talbot finally filtered through to Kent, she received it silently, shocking herself with the realisation that all hope had so long since left her, she no longer really cared.

  Now there was no reason to mourn further for her lost love. Gradually, hesitantly, she began to emerge from her silent world. She turned first to her music, then to her family and friends. She began to take an interest in herself, a pride in her appearance. Her mother Elizabeth permitted herself a huge sigh of relief for she had feared that the child would die of a broken heart or at the very least send herself mad. The family had tried everything they could think of to rouse her, but all had failed. Nature was a wonderful thing, Elizabeth thought, for it had succeeded where silent company, sympathy and support could not.

  Anne was almost herself again when one evening, whilst gathering rose petals with her sister in order to make sweet scents and lotions, Anne observed a distinct roundness to Mary’s body and an added bloom to her cheeks. Even at her tender age Anne was well aware of the portent of such changes.

  Sufficient petals having been collected, Anne drew Mary to a favourite seat beside the sun dial, surrounded by fragrant rose bushes. As they sat, enjoying the warm evening, Anne turned to face her sister and said softly “You are with child Mary. I wonder I did not notice before”.

  Sighing deeply, Mary admitted that it was true. When Anne asked when the child would be born and how her husband had reacted to the happy news, Mary fell silent for a time.

  Eventually she said “The child will come in August, but it is the King’s child, not Will’s”.

  Anne was not surprised. “But how can you be sure?” she asked. “Surely there is just as much chance that it could be William’s?”

  Mary shook her head. “There is no doubt that it is the King’s” she replied “For when the King shares my bed, my husband shuns me. We have not truly been man and wife these past twelve months”.

  Her face pensive, Anne got to her feet and began gathering a few of the early blooms for her bedchamber. “You make yourself too available Mary” she scolded. “He must have picked you up and cast you down countless times these past four years. Is he really worth it?” Anne looked down at her sister as she finished speaking and was struck by her contented, dreamy expression.

  “It will be worth everything once I have the child” Mary replied, “and as for the King, he is like no other man. What woman would ever want to tell him no?”

  Anne’s expression said it all, although she chose not to voice her opinion.

  “I have always wanted to give Henry a son” Mary continued, her hand resting on her swollen body, “and very soon, I will”.

  Anne laughed with delight. “You bear the King a son sister and you will be the most celebrated woman since Bessie Blount. And more than likely the Queen will never speak to you again!” Then she suddenly became serious. “You are not afraid?”

  “Afraid of what? Childbirth? No, the pain is but fleeting and soon forgotten once the child is delivered”.

  “But what if it all becomes too much?” Anne continued urgently. “Is it not possible that you may resent the child when it is born for causing you so much suffering?”

  Mary laughed and rose clumsily to her feet “The pain will but double my joy in the infant” she replied. “Believe me Nan, when you too have the experience of nurturing a child within you for so many long months, you will understand why I shall welcome the pains which herald the birth”.

  Together, arm in arm, they walked slowly back to the castle through the fading sunshine. “It will be a great joy to have my body to myself again Nan” Mary confided. Then she added “If only to be rid of this infernal backache!”

  Laughing together they made for the still-room, where they would press their petals before the delicate perfume should begin to fade.

  As Mary had predicted, her pains began one sunny August afternoon. In the first stage of her labours, when the pain was only slight, Mary asked that Anne might sit with her. Observing her young sister’s anxious face, the mother-to-be could not help but laugh, even though the movement sent her labouring body into yet another spasm. “Really Anne, can you not cheer up a little? I am but in the process of producing a new life, not preparing to depart my own!”

  “Does it hurt?” Anne enquired with concern, as she watched Mary wince and alter her position slightly.

  “Only a little, but becoming more intense by the moment. If you would please call our mother, I think the time has come to take to my bed”.

  With Anne’s assistance, Mary rose awkwardly and made her way towards the bed, prepared in readiness.

  Within hours, Anne was embroiled within a strange new world she had not known existed, as she assisted her mother and the midwife at Mary’s confinement. She sat at the head of the bed, mopping her sister’s face with a cool damp cloth and tenderly brushing back the thick tendrils of hair which stuck to Mary’s perspiring face as she thrashed her head from side to side at the height of her agony.

  When at last the child, crying lustily, was propelled into the world by Mary’s exhausted, sweat-drenched body, Anne experienced a relief so great that it was almost as if it were she who had given birth.

  Elizabeth approached the bed and knelt beside the inert body of her eldest daughter. “You have done well Mary; you have birthed a fine red-haired boy”.

  Before exhaustion overwhelmed her, Mary asked for the child to be brought to her. He was placed in her arms, still yelling his disapproval and wriggling strongly. Mary gazed at him adoringly and planted a kiss on his nose, at the same time saying to her mother “You will notify the King?”

  “The messenger is already on his way” her mother told her, stooping to lift the baby. “Now rest, Mary”.

  Mary
was only too glad to obey her mother and when hours later she opened her eyes, she smiled to see Anne still seated beside her bed, rocking the infant in a family cradle which had last sheltered Anne herself. Seeing her sister awake, Anne leaned towards her “How do you feel?”

  “Marvellous” replied the new mother. “The child?”

  “Very beautiful, but oh so noisy! You were so brave Mary; I wouldn’t have missed it for all the world, although I’m not sure that I look forward to experiencing it all for myself!”

  Feeling herself drifting back to her slumber, Mary put out her hand and squeezed Anne’s. “I am glad you were with me and when one day your time comes, I shall be with you also”.

  Mary quickly recovered from her ordeal and soon she and Anne were again seated in the gardens, this time with the baby beside them. Mary had proudly named him Henry after his sire and indeed he was the living image of his Tudor father.

  The King had been at Westminster when news reached him of the boy’s birth and he had immediately announced his intention to travel to Hever to visit mother and child as soon as matters of state would allow.

  Thus it happened that on a blustery afternoon in late September Henry Tudor, resplendent in new hunting garb of green and gold, led his small entourage over the ancient stone bridge which spanned the River Eden close to Hever Castle. The occupants of the castle, who had not been informed in advance of his visit, were taken entirely by surprise, just as Henry had intended.

  Elizabeth Boleyn, clothed most suitably in the russet velvet which she had hastily donned as soon as the King’s party had been sighted riding along the banks of the river, stood in the small cobbled courtyard whilst her husband greeted the King, mentally calculating the state of her kitchens. As the King had brought only a few gentlemen, she estimated that there would be just enough food to go round. Even before the russet velvet had left the clothes press, her message to set about preparing a modest banquet had reached the kitchens. No need to ask the King if he were hungry, Elizabeth remembered enough of him to know that he was always ready to do a meal justice.

  The King had turned from her husband and was approaching her. Although it had been a good while since she was court, Elizabeth could still execute an elegant curtsey with the best of them. Spreading her skirts about her she sank gracefully down to the cobblestones, head bent in reverence. “Why Elizabeth!” the great voice boomed, “rise my dear; let me look at you”.

  Obedient to the royal command, Elizabeth rose and looked into the face of her sovereign. With a sinking heart she studied his face, the puffy pink flesh almost obscuring the vision of his hard, small eyes; the aristocratic roman nose and small pursed mouth. All in all, she could see little trace of the Henry she had once loved.

  Henry, looking closely at the woman few knew had been his mistress, albeit briefly, thought to himself how lovely she still was, how comely her figure even after five children. He suppressed a chuckle as he remembered that the Howards always did breed fine looking women.

  Taking the King’s proffered arm, Elizabeth escorted him into the castle, thinking to herself as they walked that not for anything would she want to be in Mary’s place.

  Once the King and his gentlemen were safely settled in what passed at Hever for a great hall, with refreshments to hand, Elizabeth excused herself and made for the herb garden to the rear of the castle where she expected to find her daughters and grandson. Turning a corner briskly, she suddenly came upon them by the fountain. Anne was holding the baby, whilst Mary dabbled her fingertips in the water spray, making the child start with delight as the tiny droplets sparkled in the sunlight. As Elizabeth’s shadow fell across them, Mary looked up expectantly, having heard some of the commotion of the royal party’s arrival. “The King is here” her mother confirmed. “No doubt he wishes to make the acquaintance of his son at the earliest possible opportunity”.

  Mary nodded, dried her hands on her apron and held out her arms for the child. “Come my little one” she cooed to the infant. “Come and meet your royal father”.

  Her mother fell into step beside her as Mary began to walk along the path towards the castle, the pair only stopping when they realised that Anne was not with them. Mary turned, calling “Do you not wish to see the King Anne?”

  “No I do not” replied her sister moodily, pointedly turning her back on them. “Neither will he wish to see me since he has banished me from his court. I will remain out of sight for the duration of his visit”.

  Elizabeth and Mary exchanged bemused glances, then resumed their walk to the castle.

  Left alone, Anne pictured in her mind the fat King’s delight when presented with his tiny, chubby replica. Sighing discontentedly she began to walk towards one of her favourite spots by the river, the ever present Urian at her heels. As she walked she allowed herself to lapse into one of her frequent daydreams about her life in France, the memories heightened by the sounds of music and laughter drifting from the castle.

  Within a few minutes, she reached where she wanted to be; a shady little nook hidden from the castle by a clump of trees. The river widened and deepened considerably at that point, both banks dotted with small trees and bushes.

  For some while she stood looking down at her reflection in the clear water, lost in thought. Looking about her for a stone, she found one and dropped it into the river, watching with fascination as the angry ripples distorted her reflection before the waters became still once more. She dropped in another, a bigger one. This time the water was slow to clear, but when it did, there was another reflection beside her own staring back at her.

  She recognised the other face immediately but said nothing, merely straightening her back, setting her jaw and tilting her chin in the air, a fraction higher than normal as she waited.

  The apparition spoke “No obeisance for your sovereign? Treason Mistress Anne, treason!”

  Sighing loudly, purposefully so he would hear, she turned and dropped a curtsey as scanty in respect as it was in elegance. Not meeting his eyes she complained “I came here to be alone; Mary and the child have gone inside, you must have missed them”.

  He laughed, remembering his son. “I have seen them” he stated proudly. “He is a most beautiful child and your sister the epitome of motherhood”.

  “Then I suggest you return and spend some time with them” she retorted sarcastically. “For he will be a man soon enough”.

  Not in the least abashed, he came closer to her, his expression conciliatory and his arms outstretched. Her means of escape cut off by the river, Anne could do nothing but allow him to loop his arms around her shoulders. “I also came here to be alone” he told her. “Alone with you”.

  She sniffed disinterestedly and looked out across the river. “I have missed you Anne” he continued. “How would you like to return to court?”

  She raised her eyes to his then stiffened as he drew closer. Her expression disdainful, she told him “No, on both counts!”

  Angered by her attitude he barked “And your meaning?”

  “No, I do not wish to return to court and no I will not surrender my body to you!” Shaking off his arms she slipped nimbly past him.

  “You are not still in love with that fool Percy?”

  “No”.

  Exasperated he cried “Can you say nothing other than no?”

  Coolly she looked him up and down. He was the King of England yet standing as he was before her with the blood rushing to his face and his fists clenched in anger, he looked for all the world like a large, thwarted child.

  She resisted the impulse to laugh and instead smiled mysteriously, advancing towards him until her face was only inches from his. “I have many words in my vocabulary” she whispered seductively, “but the word you wish to hear is one I intend to keep close until I am in the arms of my husband!”

  He drew back, blinking rapidly. He was not used to being spoken to in such a way.

  “Remember that my Lord King” she continued, “and when you have realised th
at I will never mould to your will, then, and only then, shall I be glad to come to court!”

  He stood speechless as she gathered up her skirts and sprinted away from him, across the grass and into the woods. Shaking his head in disbelief he would have followed her, but found his way barred by her immense dog, teeth bared menacingly whilst a warning growl rumbled from his throat.

  Annoyed that she had thoroughly outwitted him, Henry made up his mind to linger at Hever for as long as possible that day. Something may yet be salvaged for surely she would later wish to seek him out and apologise. He smirked to himself as he imagined their reunion; her repentant and he all magnanimous forgiveness.

  Again, he was quite wrong in his assessment of her. When at last he and his gentlemen were forced by the advancing twilight to leave Hever for the long ride back to London, Anne still had not made an appearance.

  Thus it was a much disgruntled Henry Tudor who rode homewards; his pleasure in the elder sister’s child much diminished by the younger sister’s refusal to have anything to do with him.

  Chapter 14 – Old Friends