The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  “Well, you shall not tarry here!” I shouted, flinging George’s boot at him. It thudded against the door just as Weston shut it.

  “George…” I turned back to him and shook his shoulder, but he only slapped my hand away and snarled at me to “Leave off!” Undaunted, I slipped off my robe and climbed into bed beside him and wrapped my arms around him.

  With great effort, he pulled himself up, shouting in a voice loud and slurred that he was going to find another bed, but as he took a step forward, he staggered, fell to the floor, and vomited.

  “Oh, George! George!” I railed at him, pounding the bed with my fists. “Why do you let them do this to you? The loathsome creatures!”

  At the sight of my husband lying huddled upon the floor, retching and heaving up the wine and rich food Weston and his friends had urged upon him, my heart surged with tenderness. I felt a great need to comfort and protect him even as I clucked over his misdeeds like a mother hen, nurturing and at the same time chiding her chick. I knelt beside him on the floor, stroking his hair, shoulders, and back, until the spasms ceased; then I struggled to help him up and back onto the bed. He lay there, moaning and groaning in misery, grudgingly tolerating my soothing hands and the kisses I showered upon his brow.

  “Lie still, my love, and let me take care of you!”

  He lay still and let me bathe his face. At my tender coaxing, he sat up so I could ease the doublet from his shoulders and draw the stained and stinking white shirt over his head. Then, with a groan, he fell back against the pillows and was still once again, offering no resistance as I peeled away his breeches and hose, pausing to kiss and glide my hands over his flesh. I could not help myself. I kissed and caressed every part of him, and he did not resist me. His manhood sprang to life between my hands and, with an exclamation of triumph and delight, I lifted my nightshift over my head, casting it aside with carefree abandon as I straddled him.

  “Give me a child, George!” I pleaded. “If you cannot love me, give me a child who will!”

  I so longed to have a baby, a son, a little living, breathing replica of the man I loved, with one crucial difference—my son would actually want and need my love, and not push me away. He would fill the void in my heart and the empty, endless, dragging hours when I yearned for George, but he was elsewhere because his court duties and the more pleasing company of others took him away from me; and, if the truth be set down stark and plain, he did not want to be with me; he did not love, or even like me.

  I took his hands and placed them upon my breasts, forcing him to knead them with his strong fingers, then guiding them down to probe and play with my cunny. Then, I do not know whether it was lust or instinct that took over, but with a sudden lunge he rolled me over onto my back and thrust inside me. I screamed with joy as I wrapped my arms and legs tight around him, determined never to let go, and thrust my hips up to meet his.

  Afterwards he fell asleep, his head upon my breast, and I, glorying in his weight and warmth, and with tears of happiness still wet upon my face, met slumber with the most radiant of smiles, and a prayer that God would see fit to allow George’s seed to take root inside my womb and blossom into a child who would be the savior of my heart and life. I so desperately needed someone to love who would love me in return!

  But the harsh sunlight of full morning brought unwelcome truths. I awoke to find George splashing cold water on his face and cursing his “wretched head.”

  “Come back to bed, my love,” I urged, letting the sheet fall to reveal my nakedness as I patted the bed.

  Wincing, George bent and picked up my robe and threw it at me. “I must ready myself to attend the King. Either cover yourself or leave, Jane; my valet will be here soon.”

  “Send word that you are ill! It would not be an untruth. Stay with me. I want you here!” I pouted and purred, trying hard to tempt him. I left the bed then, heedless of my nakedness, and went to stand behind him and let my hands knead his shoulders. “Sleep again with me and then take me again! Fill me, George, fill me!”

  “Again?” He frowned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and moaning miserably. “Good God, Jane, was that you?”

  I flinched as if he had struck me.

  The pain must have shown upon my face, for he turned to me and tried patiently to explain.

  “Jane, I was drunk and, in truth, I remember but vaguely what I did or who I did it with. It is all a golden blur interspersed with intervals of darkness. There was a bearbaiting. I found it cruel and distasteful, so I began to drink until a nimbus of glowing gold came to surround me. Then I could laugh, place bets, and make merry with the others. Then there was a pleasure house filled with charming women, and after that a tavern, or two or twenty. I only know that hours passed and I drained many cups. There was music, laughter, singing, and foods spicy and rich, a brawl over a dice game, a charge of cheating, tables and chairs smashed, and another warm body, and after that…darkness.”

  I thought again of myself, mothering him, loving him, and then…that beautiful moment when he turned to me. I knew he was drunk, but still I had hoped…And now I knew…I could have been anyone, any whore or lightskirt; any body, male or female, could have roused him.

  Blinded by my tears, I snatched up my robe and ran back to my room. And all the time I was haunted by this thought: he did not even bother to apologize. He was so blunt about his misdeeds; he didn’t try to sugarcoat or disguise the truth at all. And yet I knew in my heart he was not to blame. Were it not for men like Weston and Brereton, who shamelessly neglected their wives and thought only of their own pleasure, George would be a better husband to me. He only aped their antics like a trained monkey because he knew no better. I wished with all my heart then that a plague would come and wipe these men, and the maddening distraction that was Anne, from the face of the earth. Then George would be mine entirely.

  9

  Perhaps there is great power in wishing when it is inspired by hate. That summer of 1528 a plague did come, the dreaded Sweating Sickness that took only the young and healthy and spared the old and weak. It began with a headache and a feeling of weakness in the limbs, then the fever came, bringing with it a feeling of oppressive heat and unquenchable thirst, and the whole body began to shake, jerking and quaking violently, while a foul, stinking sweat poured from the groin and armpits.

  The King was a great coward when it came to sickness, and in the face of “The Sweat” he fled, racing from place to place, a country manor one night, a hunting lodge the next, hoping to outpace it.

  Anne was then at Hever and he sent her a detailed letter of instructions: Eat and drink but sparingly, keep coal braziers burning constantly in every chamber, have the servants wash the walls and floors with vinegar, and above all avoid crowds. But it was already too late, for by the time she received his letter Anne was fighting for her life, and so were her father and George.

  The moment I heard George was ill, I rushed instantly to his side. But he did not want me. Even in his delirium, it was as if he could sense it was me; my every touch he pushed away. He would not let me bathe him, nor would he let me feed him. Every time I tried I ended up being scalded when the hot soup sloshed out of the bowl and over my fingers and onto my lap to seep through my skirts. I wished just once, as he tossed and turned upon the stinking sweat-soaked sheets, that he would say my name and call for me, but the only name that ever passed his lips was “Anne!”

  Every day and every night I prayed fervently upon my knees, “Please let Anne die and make the world right again! Spare George, but take Anne!” But if God heard my prayers He chose not to heed them.

  All the Boleyns soon recovered, but others were not so fortunate.

  Mary’s husband, William Carey, died within three hours of being stricken and left her destitute, with two little children to care for. And soon she came begging to Hever, careworn and threadbare, no longer “Mary of the Sunshine Hair,” as Henry used to call her. With two little children to tend, and a lazy, drunken slattern for a nursemaid
, who was more trouble than she was worth, Mary no longer had time to sit in the sun with her hair soaked in lemon juice, and her tresses had darkened to a dull, dark golden brown. If she thought to find mercy at Hever, she was greatly mistaken. Sir Thomas Boleyn dismissed her without a coin or a care to make her own way in the world, telling her plainly he did not care what became of her, reminding her that she had had not one but two chances to be freed from financial woes for life, and had disdained both. “The whores in the streets of London have more sense!” he thundered. And in the end it was Anne, knowing Henry could deny her nothing, who took up her pen and procured a small pension for her sister.

  Mary and I passed many hours sitting in the shade of her beloved lemon tree, watching her children play.

  “One would think the King would have done more for you considering…” I once ventured, glancing pointedly at little russet-haired Catherine and her brother Henry, a robust, rosy-cheeked cherub with a mop of burnished copper curls.

  Mary merely smiled at me. “Love was all I ever asked of him, and when he could no longer give me that I would not presume to ask for money.”

  “But you have borne him two children!” I protested.

  “Catherine is his, yes, but who is Harry’s sire I do not know. I loved my husband.” As she spoke she twisted the plain gold band round her finger. I noticed then that her beautiful white hands had grown red and rough now that she could no longer afford the services of a laundress. “Even though we did not marry for love, to our everlasting joy, we found it after we made our vows. Will was such a sweet, kind man, always smiling and never cross. I think that is why he failed to prosper at court; he lacked the necessary ruthlessness. His only ambition was to be happy, and he was. Many a time he would say to me, ‘Mary, I would rather live in poverty with you than be the richest in the land!’ I like to think that Harry is his, that something besides my memories is left to me of Will.”

  Tears filled my eyes, and my heart felt like a great lump of lead inside my breast. There was nothing I would not give; no sacrifice—not even my immortal soul—would be too great, if George and I could have a marriage like Mary and her dear Will.

  But my thoughts were not entirely selfish as I sat with Mary. Her gown, I saw, had been hastily and most ineptly dyed black, so that the color was streaked and uneven and I could glimpse traces of the underlying crimson. And, sitting so close to her, I could see that around the low, square-cut bodice the stitches that once held a decorative border had been unpicked, most likely because it had been jeweled and had, like the rest of Mary’s valuables, been laid before the pawnbroker.

  “Do not be sad for me, Jane.” She forced a smile and reached over to pat my hand. “I shall get by. Anne has promised me a place among her ladies when she becomes queen, and she will see that my children are properly educated. Meanwhile, I shall take cheap lodgings in London and hope that good luck will find me.”

  I had to ask her then, “Do you not mind that Anne has supplanted you in the King’s affections?”

  “No! Oh no!” Mary laughed and shook her head. “My dear Jane, I have had my moment of glory; now it is Anne’s turn, and that is how it should be. He is a great man, but none can hope to hold his heart for long; it is like a wild stallion that cannot be broken to bridle or saddle, so it is best to enjoy the ride for the little time it lasts. Anne has lived long in my shadow. I was always the beautiful sister, but her future was always despaired of. Our parents thought no one would ever want her, while for me they prophesied that the future would be golden. It is strange, is it not, how the opposite has come to pass? And yet, in my heart, I am afraid. Anne thinks she has tamed him because she has taught him to eat out of her hand, and the sense of triumph and power she feels has gone to her head like strong wine. It will not last—this I know.”

  And Mary was right. The Boleyn girl everyone dismissed as a fool turned out to be the wisest.

  In October, Cardinal Campeggio, the Papal Legate, arrived in London to hear the case. Travel-worn and suffering the agonies of the damned from gout, he went straight to bed and did not rise again for a fortnight, leaving the King festering with impatience.

  Wolsey tried to soothe the royal temper, reminding Henry that he, Wolsey, was to share equal power with Campeggio when the court convened. Campeggio was old and sickly, so any opposition he presented would surely be feeble at best. It would all be over in a matter of weeks, Wolsey promised, and then Henry would be free.

  “Have patience, Sire. The verdict you desire shall be yours. I am Your Majesty’s most devoted servant!”

  “So you say,” Henry growled darkly. “Now prove it!”

  Wolsey now knew that his life depended on this verdict. But what Wolsey did not know was that before Campeggio departed Rome, Pope Clement had commanded him to decide nothing. This trial was to be nothing more than a grand display of the fine art of shilly-shallying. Delay was the name of the game. The longer the verdict was withheld, the greater the chance that Henry would tire of Anne and forget the whole thing.

  Cardinal Campeggio grasped all the intricacies of the situation, and a full eight months would pass before the trial even began. During that time he talked long and patiently with Henry, complimenting his knowledge of theology and ecclesiastical law, and even offered a balm to ease his troubled conscience—Pope Clement would gladly issue a new dispensation declaring his union with Catherine entirely valid before the eyes of both God and man. This was the last thing Henry wanted, though he must feign gratitude. No, the uncertainty and fear weighed too heavily upon his mind. He could not rest until the court had fully delved into and debated all the evidence; only then, Henry hoped, could his conscience be appeased.

  I was lurking in the corridor when Campeggio hobbled out, leaning heavily upon his cane, and to his secretary I heard him say, “His Majesty has studied his case so diligently that I believe he knows more about it than any theologian or lawyer. He told me he wishes only for a declaration whether his marriage is valid or not, himself always assuming that it is not. And I think that an angel descending from Heaven could not persuade him otherwise.”

  Campeggio fared no better with Queen Catherine. Like others before him, he stressed the dignity and glory of taking the veil and giving oneself to God. But Catherine merely repeated her feelings about those who entered the religious life knowing they lacked a true vocation. And when the delicate question about whether she was still a virgin when she first came to Henry’s bed was raised, she stood, placed one hand upon the Bible and the other upon her heart, and declared, “Were I to be torn limb from limb for declaring myself to be the King’s true wife, still I would say it, because it is the truth!”

  Then Catherine proved that she also knew how to play the delaying game, and revealed that her clever father, King Ferdinand, had foreseen that this might someday become a sticking point and had expressed his concerns to Pope Julius; thus a second dispensation had been issued alongside the first, stating that the marriage could proceed regardless of whether the previous union had been consummated.

  At this revelation a mighty storm broke. Henry raged, doubted the dispensation’s existence, and demanded to see it with his own eyes. It was archived in Spain, the Spanish Ambassador informed him.

  “Have it sent at once upon the fastest ship!” Henry ordered.

  But the Emperor Charles refused to let the original document out of his hands, though he would gladly send a notarized copy. And so the delays continued.

  10

  Christmas came, and this year there were two queens, one in name and one in deed, presiding over two courts. While Catherine, regally enthroned at Henry’s side, presided over the court’s Yuletide celebrations, greeted foreign ambassadors and guests, and warmly dispensed alms to the poor, Anne was grandly ensconced at York Place.

  She lived like a queen in all but name, with ladies-in-waiting to attend her every need—I was one of them—and she even had her own food taster, a cupbearer, a little page boy to carry her train, and e
ven a female fool, a jolly little dwarf woman who capered about in parti-colored petticoats trimmed with tinkling gold bells, a mock scepter adorned with a cluster of tiny bells, and a gilded tin crown on her bald, shaven head. But every night the Great Hall was almost empty, though minstrels played merrily in the gallery and the table was laden with sumptuous fare. Only Anne’s closest friends and staunchest supporters rallied round her.

  Always men to stay on the winning side, Sir Thomas Boleyn and his equally cold and ambitious brother-in-law, the Duke of Norfolk, were careful to dutifully appear at court and bow to Catherine, just in case she came out the winner.

  Anne fumed at this perceived insult, insisting that she belonged at the King’s side, not Catherine. She spoke wildly, saying that she hated the Queen and would rather see her hanged than acknowledge her as her superior.

  On Christmas Day, Henry sent her a weighty purse of gold. Anne threw it at the wall, then thought better of it and laughed at the sight of Weston, Norris, and Brereton crawling on their hands and knees, gathering up the coins, grinning mischievously as they pocketed a few.

  That evening Henry stole away from the official court celebrations to visit her. He found her making merry with her friends and drinking steaming cups of spicy wassail.

  Only I sat apart. George was, as always, at Anne’s side, and I felt my hatred for her growing like a cancer inside me. I had watched earlier as he lovingly fastened a rope of creamy, lustrous pearls around her neck, with a large gleaming gold B pendant from which three goodly sized teardrop pearls dangled, while I, his wife, must make do with a plain bracelet of carnelian that doubtlessly he had gotten at a discount on account of an unsightly flaw in the stone and the ugly unevenness of its color.