The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  “As much as you despise that Spanish cow, there are lessons she can teach you, if you have the wit to learn from your enemies. Catherine mothered him, she coddled and cosseted him as if he were a little boy, but you—you lash at him with your tongue as if it were a whip, and shriek and scream at him like some shrill, black-haired banshee! You no longer smile at him, you sneer! How many nights of late has he forsaken your company? Henry Tudor is not a man renowned for his patience, and you have kept him waiting longer than he has ever waited for anyone, but he will not wait forever. Acquire some sweetness before it is too late; put some honey in your voice and smile, or you are doomed! Mother him a little if you can, though I daresay a barn cat is a better mother than you’ll ever be.”

  “You are wrong!” Anne cried, tossing her head proudly.

  “Only when I see it shall I believe it,” Thomas Boleyn answered. “In my mind, the pen is poised to write you off as another lost cause, just like your sister Mary!” Upon these words he slammed the door.

  Like a caged and restless animal, Anne began to pace. Her ladies kept their distance, watching warily, none daring to approach or address her. In that quiet chamber the rustling of her skirts seemed loud as thunder. She bit her trembling knuckles, and her hair swung out as she reached one end of the room and turned round to stalk back across the floor. An hour passed, and then another. And then she stopped.

  “Summon my dressmaker! And bring me paper, ink, and quills! Now!”

  By the time the dressmaker arrived, Anne had designed the most alluring of nightgowns, breathtaking black satin with yards of trailing skirts. The bodice would be stiffened with buckram and cunningly fastened with a row of black velvet bows down the front. It was far too uncomfortable and ornate to sleep in, but that was never Anne’s intention. She had also written out an order for a complete set of black satin bedclothes—sheets, coverlet, pillow-slips, curtains, and canopy—everything to garb her bed entirely in black. And all of it must be ready in time for her to take to Calais.

  And so to Calais we went, with Anne striving to subdue her temper. It seemed no respectable French ladies could be found to receive her. Both the Queen and the King’s sister made their excuses. To temper the slight, and save face, Henry announced he would rather they met as brother-kings, en famille, without the encumbrance of large retinues and lavish ceremony. Thus, apart from the necessary maids, her sister Mary, Meg Lee, Madge Shelton, and I would be the only ladies included in the English party, since Anne must be properly chaperoned.

  It was a dreary place, Calais, England’s last tenacious foothold across the Channel. The weather was abysmal. We were lodged in a bleak, windswept fortress that might have been made of blocks of ice for all the warmth it afforded us. But Anne was determined to make a good show. The sole purpose of this visit was to win King Francis’s support. It was crucial. Should the Emperor invade to avenge his aunt Catherine, England would need a strong ally.

  What a sight they were to behold! The two greatest kings in Christendom, both tall, broad shouldered, and bearded, sporting rings on every finger and heavy gold chains about their necks, their lavish doublets sparkling with a myriad of costly gems. There they sat, Francis, dark-haired, sensuous, and jaded, and Henry, red-gold and ruddy, all smiles and bluff manner, both of them laughing and clapping each other upon the back as they dined off golden plates, pretending to be the best of friends instead of the shrewd, calculating diplomats they really were, each trying to gauge how they could use each other to best advantage.

  When their repast was finished and they sat back in their chairs, smiling and patting their stomachs, Anne gave the signal. And in we came, led by Anne, all of us masked and gorgeously appareled in gowns of cloth of gold and crimson velvet, with our hair hidden inside golden nets crowned by pearl-and ruby-trimmed crimson velvet French hoods, with gold-edged red velvet chokers about our throats. One by one, we boldly approached the gentlemen and chose our dancing partners, with Anne going straight for King Francis.

  The French King was enraptured; he refused to dance with anyone else that night. With a broad, wolfish smile, he slapped Henry upon the back and urged him to tarry not an hour longer waiting for the Pope’s consent, and marry this beguiling creature while he still had the chance. As he spoke, Francis reached out to stroke Anne’s throat. It was the appraising, practiced touch of a born sensualist, a connoisseur’s caress, and Anne closed her eyes, arched her neck, and shivered appreciatively.

  Henry said nothing; he just stared. It only lasted a moment—one tense, black, strained moment—then he smiled, but, to my eyes, that smile seemed forced.

  And Anne, looking at him, saw for the first time that her father was correct; her hold on him really was slipping. How had this come to pass? All had seemed well and then, without warning, boredom had set in. Panic flashed inside her eyes, then was hastily shoved aside by the calculating look of a seasoned gambler, weighing how much she dared wager.

  An hour later, back in her bedchamber, Anne tossed her long black hair rebelliously and declared: “The game is not over until I say it is over!”

  From the bathtub positioned beside a roaring fire, with steam rising and curling round her wet, towel-swathed head, Anne watched as the maids stripped the bed and replaced the white linen with black satin, teetering precariously on stools as they arranged the new canopy and curtains. Crafty Nan was much too clever to let King Henry take her on white sheets that would afterwards show the conspicuous lack of a virgin’s bloodstain.

  When she stepped from the tub, flushed and pink, she rubbed oil of roses into her skin.

  I marveled at her willpower; even with my furs, velvet gown, woolen stockings, and layers of petticoats, I was freezing, yet there she was, stark naked, seemingly impervious to the cold.

  When she was satisfied that all of her was rose-scented and soft, she went to stand before the full-length mirror and for a very long time she stood there, silently, staring intently at her naked body. Then, without taking her eyes from her reflection, she said in a voice calm and steady, “Bring me the black nightgown, Jane.”

  She dismissed her other ladies. I do not know why she wanted me to attend her. Perhaps because she knew I was, unlike the others, never prone to idle chatter. I lifted the exquisite garment over her head, and while she stood silent and still before me, lost in her own thoughts, I did up the fastenings, then combed out her hair, all the time fighting the urge to wrap it round her swan-slender neck and strangle her with it. How much happier and simpler all our lives would be, and in England all would be restored to peace, if Anne Boleyn were dead.

  She went to her dainty mother-of-pearl and ebony inlaid writing table and took parchment and a quill.

  “Send for spiced wine and sweet wafers, Jane,” she said, without even bothering to look up from what she was writing.

  When I returned she handed me a note and bade me take it at once to His Majesty, and then dismissed me for the night.

  I did not dare break the seal, yet I had no need to—I knew exactly what she aimed to do. Tonight, she would play her final card and surrender herself to the King. What I would not have given to be a fly on the bedchamber wall! Tonight it would be winner take all. Would she be able to give a convincing pretense of passion? I knew she did not love him. Would Henry divine the truth when he took her? I yearned to bear witness to the scene to come, but I knew that I could not; it would not be practicable here in Calais to crouch outside in the corridor with my eye pressed to the keyhole, and there was no way I could conceal myself in Anne’s chamber without her knowing it. So I did the only thing I could—I delivered her note to the King and then retired to my own solitary and lonely bed.

  I could not sleep. Curiosity, mad and insatiable, kept me awake, tossing like a ship on troubled waters. I think that night I would have given my right eye for a place to hide in Anne’s bedchamber.

  Hours passed. I heard a noise, a knock on George’s door. I bolted up and, quiet as a cat, I crept from my bed, crossed the litt
le sitting room that separated our bedchambers, and pressed my ear against his door. Daringly, I turned the handle, opening the door just a crack, just enough for me to peek through. If I were caught, so be it; this was a risk worth taking.

  George groggily fumbled for his robe. “Come!” he called as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swung his feet over the side of the bed and sought his slippers, wincing as his bare toes touched the icy floor.

  Then there she was in her black nightgown, candle in hand, tears glistening on her cheeks like liquid diamonds.

  “It is done,” she announced, her hand rising to lightly touch the bruises, the scorchmarks of passion that the King’s kisses had left upon her throat and neck.

  “Nan! Oh, Nan!” He hugged her close to him.

  “He will never say it, George. To admit it would hurt his pride, but I saw it in his eyes tonight, the question: Is that all there is? For this I have risked so much and waited all these years? Afterwards, he said not a word to me—not one word, George!—he only reached for the wine. Oh, George! All these years he has been consumed with desire for me, dreamed of possessing me, but no mortal woman could ever hope to measure up to such dreams, such fantasies! Pray that my womb quickens soon”—she pressed a hand against the firm flatness of her stomach—“or it shall all have been for nothing, and he will dance out of his promise, and I will go the way of our sister. The only difference is, I shall go as a marquess of independent means with £1,000 per annum.”

  She was cleverer than I thought. I thought she was blind to the truth, arrogant in her confidence, vanity, and pride, but she knew what I knew—it was the beginning of the end. Henry had started to fall out of love with her. Now that he had had what he wanted, he no longer wanted it. The hunter had triumphed; yet another doe had been felled. Only the fear of humiliation and his desperation for a legitimate male heir would keep them together, now that the fire of lust had burned itself out. Now only a pregnancy could save her. Henry would never risk England’s heir being born a bastard.

  15

  Back in England, Anne and Henry continued the charade; both too proud to admit the truth, they pretended that nothing was wrong. They were constantly together, kissing and holding hands, and making public avowals of their affection, as if by convincing us they could also convince themselves. And every night they came together in Anne’s bed. Then things began to change. Their nights together dwindled to a mere twice or thrice a week. King Henry seemed restless and bored, and he began to eat and drink more.

  Anne’s supporters, led by her father and uncle Norfolk, began to slowly slip away, distancing themselves, not quite daring to withdraw entirely, but adopting a wait-and-watch policy. Only a few remained true. George, Weston, Brereton, Norris, Wyatt—I could count them all on one hand. And I saw the change this wrought in Anne. During moments of quiet, when she thought no one was watching, her proud shoulders would sag, only to jerk back up arrogantly an instant later as her eyes whipped round, hoping that no one had seen. A certain shrill hysteria crept into her laughter and speech. She would lash out at those around her, saying things that she would regret a moment later. She was no longer the unobtainable object of desire. Sex had robbed her of her mystique; now she was just another woman, like all the rest. Anne Boleyn was no longer special. I watched it all, and gloated like a Roman matron watching Christians being thrown to the lions.

  Nothing more was said about the divorce. An impasse had been reached and all stood still, locked and frozen, until New Year’s Day 1533 when a laughing, giddy Anne danced into the Great Hall, spinning gaily, cherry red and silver skirts swirling.

  “Tom!” she called breathlessly to Wyatt. “Have you an apple? I have the most extraordinary desire to eat apples! His Majesty says it is a sign that I am with child, but I tell him no, no, it cannot be!” She shook her head and laughed mischievously. And with the sly, coy look of a woman hugging a secret close to her heart, she danced out again, leaving us all whispering and wondering.

  I touched my own belly, still flat and barren after all these years of marriage, and wondered, why her and not me?

  I had gone cloaked and masked to discreetly consult a learned physician and, blushing hotly with humiliation, bared my body to his scrutiny. He told me that the fault was mine, that my womb was too moist to retain my husband’s seed, and that like as not I must resign myself to my barren state. Afterwards, I had lain on my bed and wept for hours. Yet every time George came to me as a husband, though those occasions grew ever fewer and far between, I could not help but hope and pray that God would show His mercy to me. Now when George left my bed I didn’t run after him and plead; instead I drew my knees up tight, hugging them close, and clenched tight, as I tried to hold in every drop of his precious seed and prayed it would find its way to the heart of my womb.

  Why? I wondered. Why did everything always come so easily to Anne? Why did Anne always triumph in the end? Even when all seemed lost and poised to crumble into ashes, like a phoenix she always rose again.

  On the 25th of January I was awakened just before dawn by a stirring in my husband’s chamber. A furtive rustling and a muffled oath; noises a man trying to dress swiftly and silently might make. When I heard his door open I did not tarry. I flung a cloak over my nightshift and, ignoring the biting chill of the stone floor against my bare feet, I followed him through the slumbering corridors, taking great care to keep to the shadows and maintain a discreet distance behind him. He was going to Anne.

  Before he could even knock upon her door, she stepped out, cloaked and veiled, and together they continued onward until they reached the foot of a steep and winding staircase leading up into a turret. He took her hand to guide her up the stairs, and as she gathered up her skirts to keep from stumbling over the hems, I saw that underneath her heavy gray velvet cloak and diaphanous white veil she wore a gown of garish blood red satin.

  I dared not follow, so I waited, shivering in the shadows and wishing I had not left behind my slippers.

  Half an hour passed before I again heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Hand in hand they descended.

  “Adieu, my sweet sister,” George said tenderly as they embraced.

  My blood boiled at the sight of their shadows upon the wall, larger than life, merging as they kissed. George had never kissed me so tenderly or lingeringly. Had I seen their shadows on the wall and not known who they belonged to, I would have sworn that they were lovers parting after a secret rendezvous.

  “Farewell, my sweet brother, and Godspeed!” Anne said, her hand tightly, lingeringly grasping his before they parted.

  I did not wait. I broke into a run, racing back to my room by another route.

  Panting, I burst into George’s chamber. I had only just dropped into the hearthside chair when he walked in.

  “Jane.” He nodded curtly, going straight to the leather satchel sitting on his bed. “Whatever it is you want, be quick. I sail for France within the hour.”

  “Why?” I asked tauntingly. “Are there not harlots and rogues enough in England to sate you?”

  “Upon the King’s business,” he answered, ignoring my jibe.

  “And what does that mean?” I demanded.

  “It means that it is the King’s business and none of yours,” he answered.

  “I daresay you will manage to combine a little personal pleasure with the King’s business; I cannot imagine you resisting the siren’s call of the French whores or the rattle of the dice for long!”

  “Do not forget the heady bouquet of the French wines, Jane. They go straight to a man’s head and drunkenness comes very quickly!”

  “So where have you been?” I demanded, abruptly changing the subject. “I daresay you were with someone whose company you find more pleasing than my own!”

  George stood up straight and shouldered his satchel. “Few indeed are those whose company I do not find more pleasing than yours, Jane.”

  “Ah, you must mean Francis Weston! Or Meg Lee perhaps? I’ve h
eard that she was your childhood sweetheart, your first love. Or should I say your second love, since I doubt anyone has ever come before Anne. They say you kissed Meg and carved both your names upon the trunk of a tree and swore your undying love before you were sent away to school; then you forgot all about her the moment you reached Oxford. Or were you with Anne tonight? But of course you were! You are always with Anne! Nothing and no one is as important to you as Anne. I daresay to your nose her pisswater is perfume.”

  “Say one word more about Anne and I shall strike you,” George warned.

  And I realized then that part of me actually wanted him to strike me. At least then he would be touching me, and I could feel the sting of the blow, and afterwards watch the mark it left behind change colors as it slowly faded away, like a blossom pressed between the pages of a heavy book, to dry and treasure until the petals eventually turned brown and crumbled into dust. I just wanted to feel his hands on me, even if it was in anger. I just wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to love me!

  “As for Meg,” he continued, “that was long ago, Jane. It seems almost a lifetime away, and she is far better off married to Anthony Lee than to a jaded rake like me.”

  “Certainly it would never occur to you to stay home and seek contentment with me!” I cried.

  “Contentment with you, Jane?” He arched his brows in a marked show of disbelief. “You would only speed me to my coffin with your nagging. I would have to put you in a scold’s bridle to preserve my sanity!”

  “Stay!” I pleaded. “Do not go to France, George. Stay here with me instead, and let us try to make a child…”

  “Not now, Jane!” He sighed peevishly, rolling his eyes. “I cannot, I do not have the time….”

  “Or the inclination!” I challenged.

  “I am not averse to our having a child, Jane. Every man needs an heir, and if it would get you to leave me in peace…”