Moth To The Flame

by Angela Warwick

  She said nothing as she rose from the floor; only the slightest inclination of her head acknowledged his greeting. The King cleared his throat again and shifted awkwardly in his chair.

  Signalling to the minstrels’ gallery, she stood in the middle of the floor, hands on hips, slowly rotating her lower body in time to the rhythm they struck up. Then she began her strange dance. She had not practised any steps in advance, preferring to trust to her imagination and as the strange melody swirled around the hall she swayed and twisted her body, her light skirts fluttering so high that a good deal of smooth bare skin was revealed to the ogling crowd. As the music progressed and the rhythm quickened she was reminded of a troupe of Moorish dancers who used to regularly entertain the French court and swiftly incorporated many of their sensuous arm and body movements.

  At the climax of the dance the music became wilder and more abandoned; she spun round and round on the spot, arms outstretched, head bent back and the black hair flying. As the music ended she fell to the floor on her knees, her head bent to her thighs and her hands reaching out towards the King.

  There was a stunned silence before applause swept the hall, the King himself clapping louder than any. He rose from his chair and started forward to raise her from the floor but before he could reach her she sprang up. Advancing towards him she planted her palms on his chest and pushed him none too gently back into his chair, her black eyes glittering through her golden mask.

  She knelt at his feet and then twisted so that her back rested against his legs, and lifting her hair high, let it drop so that it spread across his jewelled codpiece. Once settled, and amused at the tenseness she could feel in the King’s body, she began to sing. The words were equally as strange as the music; even the King, master of many languages could not identify the tongue in which she sang. Nor could anyone, for it was something else she had plucked from her imagination. The song ended and as the applause died, she seized the King’s hand and mimed to him that she wished them to dance.

  He was only too glad to agree, desperate to get closer to her and discover her identity, although he felt it perfectly feasible that she was indeed from a foreign land.

  The dance was totally unlike anything he had ever executed before; she took the lead and he followed her steps as best he could, impressing her with his adeptness. Instead of her upper body remaining stiff and erect as in usual formal dances, he found himself with his hands spanning her waist whilst she swayed to and from him and from side to side, like a branch in the wind. As the last notes of the melody melted away, the musicians struck up a galliard and the rest of the court took to the floor.

  Hands still locked around her waist, Henry steered her to a curtained alcove away from curious eyes. They regarded each other in silence for several moments then, her voice heavily disguised; she asked “You do not know me Sire?”

  “I must confess you have me both intrigued and baffled” he admitted, after pause for thought. “Will you show me your face?”

  “You are sure you truly desire to know my identity?” she countered. “Should Your Grace so wish, I could remain masked and entertain the court on another occasion”.

  Henry grimaced, running a finger between his bull neck and his shirt collar. “Your entertainment was delightful Madam” he told her, “but by the saints, another evening of your sensuous dancing in such scanty costume would be more than us hot-blooded Englishmen could bear!”

  Seductively she entwined her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to bring her masked face close to his. “So the mighty King of this island has passion coursing through his veins?” she whispered, glad that he could not see just how hard she was struggling to keep a straight face at his discomfited expression.

  With his florid complexion several shades paler than normal, he replied “I admit that I was… moved …. by your performance”.

  She moved even closer, then rubbing her head against his shoulder like a playful kitten murmured “Then Your Majesty is not the god I had thought him to be but a mere mortal?” She was enjoying herself immensely; for a man who so enjoyed the hunt he seemed terrified by the predatory female she portrayed. The power was exquisite.

  “Even gods must multiply Madam” he told her, firmly disentangling her arms from his neck. Then unable to resist touching her, he extended his hand to tilt the masked face upwards, moving it from side to side whilst muttering “You have me completely fooled for I have no inkling of who you might be. Release me from this torment, I beg you!”

  She knew her game was played out so she bowed her head graciously and murmured “As Your Grace pleases” before turning her back and lifting her arms to untie the strings which secured the mask.

  Henry Tudor shuffled his feet and licked his lips impatiently. At last she held the mask in her outstretched right hand, her back still towards him. As he watched, fascinated, with her left hand she drew some of her hair across her left shoulder before turning slowly to face him. All he could see of her face was a high smooth forehead and a pair of sparkling dark eyes, for she had drawn her hair across the lower part of her face.

  Slowly, strand by strand, she allowed the heavy hair to fall until her face was fully revealed to his incredulous gaze. Then a great smile illuminated his heavy features “Anne Boleyn!” he exclaimed, and before she could protest he had seized her and kissed her heartily.

  “You Grace is pleased to see me?” she asked demurely.

  “You have no need to ask me that!” he replied enthusiastically. “You have made me a happy man tonight!” Then his voice dropped to an urgent whisper as pulling her close he murmured “and you could make me even happier”.

  Exasperated, she closed her eyes, dropped her head and banged her two small fists against his massive shoulders. “Why must you spoil everything?” she sighed. “I have told you no so many times and I cannot, will not, change my mind!”

  “But why, sweetheart” he cajoled. “You have shown yourself tonight as a sensuous woman, full of desire. Why deny the joys we could share?”

  She did not answer immediately and for a blissful moment Henry Tudor thought that she was at last on the point of surrendering.

  She pulled away from him and too exhausted from her journey and the excitement of the evening to infuse any real anger into her voice, told him “As I said at Hever, I intend to keep myself for my husband. What you have seen tonight may well be an expression of my inner being, but that is not for you. I cannot be your wife because you have one already and anyway, I am not worthy. But I am too good to be your mistress and I will not so lower myself!”

  Dropping her mask to the floor, she pushed the curtain aside and was immediately lost in the throng, not for the first time leaving Henry Tudor gaping after her like a fish stranded on a river bank.

  Chapter 16 - Elevation

  Now that she was back at last, Henry could hardly bear for her to be out of his sight. At first he tried to keep his adoration a secret from the Queen, but eventually he could not restrain himself from selecting her for his dancing partner on every occasion, playing dice and card games with her and above all, making music with her, whether the Queen was present or not. In their private moments together, he bade Anne to drop all protocol and call him Henry.

  He was touching in his little attempts to please her. Once he overheard her talking to Margaret Wyatt, bewailing the fact that most of the court looked down on her for she was merely Mistress Boleyn and not even of sufficient rank to call herself “Lady”.

  Almost immediately the King gave instructions that the necessary documents be drawn up to render her complaint void. Within hours her father was created Viscount Rochford; her brother heir to the title thus a Lord, whilst she and her sister Mary both bore the title of Lady Rochford.

  Anne was astounded when she heard the news and impulsively ran to find the King. As soon as they were alone she approached him and allowed him to put his arms around her. “I have just heard of my family’s elevation” she told him. “My most grateful tha
nks; you are so kind to me!”

  “I would be kinder….” he began

  “….if I were to give myself to you” she finished for him. “Don’t say it Henry; don’t spoil this moment”. She paused and drew a ring from her middle finger. “Take this a token of my regard for you”. Henry gleefully pushed the ring on to his little finger as far as it would go and kissed her soundly in gratitude.

  Separating his greedy lips from hers with some effort, she reminded him of the bowls match he had promised to play. “There will be four players divided into two teams” she told him. “Your Grace with Henry Norris on one side, my brother and Tom Wyatt on the other. Come Sire, make yourself ready for soon I must be in attendance on the Queen and I would not wish to miss any of your casts”.

  Always one to take the opportunity to show off to his lady love, Henry Tudor allowed her to call in a groom of the bedchamber who at once helped his master into more sporting garb whilst the Lady Anne Rochford waited in the audience chamber.

  When the King was ready, arm in arm they made their way down to the green. The Queen not being present, Anne was directed to sit in the place of honour. It was not a game she was particularly fond of, but Henry had explained the rules to her so at least she had an understanding of the procedure. However she was also aware, without any tutoring, of the difference between a good shot and a bad one. Whenever he made a cast Henry looked towards her for her reaction. If it was good she clapped her hands and smiled at him; if it was not good she made a little grimace and shrugged her shoulders, making him determined that his next cast would win her smile of approval.

  Midway through the game Henry noticed that she clapped particularly enthusiastically whenever Wyatt made a cast, whether it was good or indifferent. After she had done this several times Henry threw down his bowl in a fit of temper and strode over to where she sat.

  “Why is it Madam” he thundered, “that whenever the captain of the opposing team makes his cast you applaud it wholeheartedly?”

  Her mind working swiftly she leaned towards him in what she hoped he would take to be a conspiratorial manner. Keeping her voice low she replied “It is merely a strategy I have adopted, Your Grace”.

  Intrigued, he squatted on his heels before her, listening intently. “By applauding the oppositions’ every shot I hope to lull them into a sense of false security” she told him. “From their positions at the top of the green and by my enthusiastic applause, they believe that their every shot is true. With your casting my love…” she paused and extended a dainty forefinger which she moved in a caressing fashion around his face, “by appearing not to approve of some of your shots I am merely conveying to you that the next cast must be even better”.

  For a moment he seemed mollified, then he stood up abruptly pulling away from her hand, his face betraying his sudden suspicion “You would have us cheat Madam?” he asked.

  No, no Your Grace” she replied hurriedly, her brain racing round in circles to find a plausible explanation. With her hand she motioned him closer yet again. “By my poor efforts I attempt to assist Your Grace in making your already incredible skills even greater”.

  With bated breath she scanned his face anxiously, waiting for his reaction. To her relief he straightened and smiled at her, then taking her hand, kissed it in leaving, whispering “I should have guessed that my Nan had only my best interests at heart. Forgive my rough manners sweetheart”. She smiled graciously and he strode back to the game, not seeing Anne’s breath puff out her cheeks or her relieved expression as she relaxed back into her chair, rapidly fanning her face with her hand.

  Meg Wyatt leaned closer “You extricated yourself from a tricky situation remarkably well there Anne” she commented. “But is it wise to show your affection for my brother so openly?”

  Anne turned to Meg and patted her hand “I try not to, Meg” she admitted “but apart from my love for him, he is a much better bowls player than the King!” She met Margaret’s eyes as she finished speaking and both had to smother their giggles, looking anxiously towards the players on the green. Thankfully they were far too absorbed with their game to notice.

  The climax of the game approached. Due to considerable skills on both sides the lead changed hands after almost every shot; there only remained the two captains’ casts to be made and the game could be won by either.

  Wyatt was the first to step up. Holding the bowl under his chin with both hands, his face a study of concentration, he calculated the distance, stooped and released his final shot. Sweetly it sped over the springy turf slowing as it approached the jack eventually coming to rest only a few inches away. “Good shot Tom!” Anne called. Henry too congratulated Wyatt, but the look he threw Anne clearly said, now watch me better him.

  Anne rose from her seat and walked to join the other three competitors at the jack end of the green. Silently they watched the King go through his pre-cast ritual of balancing the bowl on his palm and sighting the jack. Then he rocked backwards and forwards from right to left foot three times before finally stooping with left hand on left knee to send the bowl on its way.

  As it rolled swiftly towards them Anne’s mind was busy calculating how best to react whether he lost or won. Fascinated she watched the bowl slow as if caught by an invisible hand, finally coming to rest in front of the jack. There was a shout of delight from the other end; Henry evidently thought it was a winner. Sneaking a glance at the others, Anne could tell by their silence and blank expressions that they considered Wyatt’s cast the nearer.

  By now Henry was puffing his way down the green towards them, surprised that the applause and cheering he had anticipated was not forthcoming. On reaching them he scanned each face in turn then dropped on one knee beside the offending items. Eventually he straightened and faced them “Surely there is no doubt that my cast is the nearer?” he demanded. No-one was prepared to meet his eyes and through the increasing mists of rage he saw Anne and Wyatt exchange glances.

  Reaching out he clamped a heavy hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and jerked him roughly closer. Then pointing with his little finger, the finger upon which Anne’s ring was jammed, he said in a dangerously quiet voice “Wyatt, I tell you it is mine!”

  Suddenly the object of the fracas had turned from a bowls game to the love of Anne Boleyn. She sensed it, the other players sensed it and the watching courtiers certainly sensed it.

  Wyatt gazed expressionlessly at the ring, then his eyes flickered to Anne’s white face before returning to the King’s now purple countenance. “I will measure it Your Grace” he decided. “By your leave”. The King’s nod was barely discernible as all watched closely whilst Wyatt unclasped a chain from his neck, upon which was a small tablet bearing the initials AB. Holding it in front of the King’s face so the sunlight glinted on its precious stones and highlighted the identity of its former owner, Wyatt said “I will measure it with this Your Grace, for I have hopes that the prize may still be mine”.

  The watching assembly waited, holding its collective breath, as Wyatt carefully measured the two casts. At last he stood up. “Mine is the nearer by several links, Your Grace” he told his King.

  Henry was by now in a state of extreme anger, glaring at Wyatt from beneath thunderous brows, his chin almost resting on his doublet and his jaw dangerously jutting. He realised all were waiting for him to speak. Angrily he kicked the offending jack as far as possible into the ogling crowd muttering “If it is as you say, then I am deceived!” Throwing a venomous glance at Anne, he strode from the scene, his mind unable to distinguish which was Wyatt’s greater transgression; that he knew Anne so well he could recognise her smallest possession or the fact that he too wore her token.

  Anne, whose hands had flown to her face the second Wyatt had produced the tablet, felt her legs begin to buckle beneath her. Dreadfully distressed and fearful for both herself and Wyatt, she was helped from the green and conveyed to her apartments at the palace where she lay on her bed for several hours, her mind too dazed to even begin to fo
rmulate the explanation she knew the King would shortly demand.

  Margaret Wyatt came to her bedside. “Anne, should you not go to the King and tell him the whole episode was but a misunderstanding?”

  Anne, by now a little recovered, raised herself on one elbow and regarded her friend with consideration. “I do not think that it should be I who go to him” she said at last. “He would soon tire of a weak creature who ran to apologise for every little thing. No, I will bide my time and let him stew in his own juice”.

  Her reaction concerned Margaret. “But what of Tom? If the King believes you care more for my brother than you do for him there is no saying what he might do in a fit of jealousy”.

  “Be calm Meg and trust me. I shall be able to win the King round and keep Tom safe. I still do not believe that the King really loves me, but if he does then he will come here”.

  Meanwhile, the King in his chamber was thinking along the same lines. If she truly loved him then she would come to offer her explanation. However by the time supper was called, neither had made a move towards the other.

  Still deeply put out, Henry took supper privately with the Queen, something he avoided whenever possible although as yet there was no open breach between them. Catherine, who after seventeen years of marriage could tell the state of his temper at a glance, diplomatically kept silent.