The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  As soon as Anne’s monthly blood had ceased to flow, he came back to her bed, out of duty rather than desire, and her womb soon quickened again.

  Anne tried to think only of the child and turn a blind eye to Henry’s amours. Fortunately for her, there were other things to distract her.

  That spring two acts of Parliament were passed: the Acts of Succession and Supremacy. The first acknowledged all children born to Henry and Anne as the only legitimate heirs, and the second declared Henry the Supreme Head of the Church of England and officially denied the Pope any say in England’s affairs. Now all the tithes and taxes the people had paid to the Catholic Church would pour into the royal treasury. And every man must swear to abide by these new laws or else bow his head to the headsman’s axe.

  England was thrown into a state of upheaval as men grappled with their consciences. To acknowledge Anne’s offspring as the lawful heirs would mean bastardizing Princess Mary, the daughter of their beloved Queen Catherine. And by accepting Henry as Head of the Church of England they would be turning their backs on the Pope and putting their souls in peril. Many a man spent hours on his knees praying for the answer, or for God to give him the courage to stand up for his convictions even if it meant torture and death.

  Meanwhile, slowly but surely, Cromwell stepped into Wolsey’s place, and implemented a devious plan for the dissolution of the monasteries, to funnel their wealth directly into the royal coffers. Their treasures were confiscated, their sacred relics dismissed as frauds and cast out onto the dung heaps, and the monks and nuns who had provided succor for the sick, homeless, and dying were turned out to become beggars themselves, while the monasteries and their lands were given to Henry’s favorites or auctioned off to the highest bidders.

  Then the blood began to flow and all England rued the day Anne Boleyn had been born. In May an entire order of monks, still in their homespun habits, were dragged through London on hurdles to Tyburn to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, all because they refused to forsake the Pope and deny the validity of the King’s first marriage.

  When the Acts were proclaimed, Sir Thomas More resigned his post as Chancellor. Citing ill health, he withdrew from public life to live quietly with his family in Chelsea. But everyone knew it was really because “the most honest man in England” would not go against his conscience. Henry knew it too and, his fury blinding him to their years of friendship and the many pleasant hours they had passed together discussing astronomy, geometry, and philosophy, sent Thomas More to the Tower to reconsider.

  A month later the kind-eyed scholar, devout Catholic, and devoted family man mounted the scaffold and proclaimed, “I die the King’s good servant—but God’s first!”

  We were playing cards when the cannons boomed to tell us that Thomas More was no more.

  “God’s blood!” Henry roared, flinging down his cards and rising so abruptly that his chair crashed backwards onto the floor. His eyes shot lightning bolts of fury at Anne. “The most honest man in my kingdom is dead because of you! As God is my witness, if I had it all to do over again, I would not!” He reached out and overturned the table, sending cards, coins, and wine cups clattering to the floor.

  Anne sat very still, calmly meeting his hot, accusing stare, as red wine from her overturned cup pooled in her lap, in the crevice between her thighs, before it seeped through her ash-colored satin skirt. A diamond-heavy hand rested protectively upon her belly, now swollen great with Henry’s child. Then, slowly, bracing her hands against the arms of her chair, she stood up.

  “Rather than condemn me, you should thank me for all that I have done for you. It was I who extricated you from a state of sin and made you the richest prince that ever was in England. Without me, you would never have reformed the Church and dissolved the monasteries to your own great profit and that of every Christian soul in England!”

  Henry’s shoulders heaved with fury and his hand shot out to grasp Anne’s throat. How easily those strong, pink, sausage-fat fingers curled round that slim, swanlike neck, its bones as delicate as a bird’s beneath the thin sallow skin. It would not require much pressure at all to snap it like a twig.

  A gasp arose from Anne’s gentlemen friends and all instinctively took a step closer to her, as if they would have dared defend her against their sovereign lord. Verily, I would have liked to have seen them try it, the foolish, presumptuous knaves! Though I admit, my heart jolted at the sight of George’s hand upon the jeweled hilt of his sword.

  But Anne was not afraid. Without flinching, she held Henry’s gaze, as if she was daring him to do it. As he took a step closer, his own expanding belly brushed against hers, reminding him of the child within. Instantly, he released her throat and stepped back.

  “I will say no more, Madame, for the sake of my unborn son, and neither should you.” His fingers brushed briefly against her belly, as if it were a talisman, before he turned his back and briskly left the room.

  A few days later Anne woke in the dead of night, screaming as if her stomach were being impaled with red-hot knives.

  The midwife and Dr. Butts came, but there was nothing they could do.

  Anne sat up in bed, rocking, keening, gritting her teeth, and hugging her knees, fighting with all her might to keep the eight months’ child within. “It’s too soon!” she screamed, her face a contorted mask of pain. “It’s too soon! God help me!” But He did not. Across the room the gilded cradle glittered mockingly in the candlelight as, with a final scream of agony, Anne lost the fight and fell back against her pillows in defeat as her womb disgorged its bloody contents onto the white sheets.

  The midwife silently swaddled the stillborn prince in a cloth and carried him away. I opened the door for her and, seeing her, King Henry ceased his anxious pacing and approached her.

  The midwife trembled and kept her eyes averted.

  “A boy?” he asked.

  Fear gripped her throat and she could not speak.

  “Was it a boy?” he repeated and, when still she did not answer, he grabbed the bundle and unwrapped it to reveal the bloody and blue-tinged corpse of a perfectly formed male infant.

  Over the midwife’s shoulder, Henry glared at Anne, weeping and rocking inconsolably on her bed. But not a word did he speak to her, either in anger or comfort. Instead he turned his back and walked away.

  Anne gradually recovered her strength, but a deep melancholia enshrouded her. Henry was drifting further and further away from her, and she was powerless to pull him back.

  George was the only one she would bare her heart to.

  “Do you ever look back, George, and find the moment when everything went wrong, even though you know you cannot change it?”

  “Don’t look back, dearest. It will only eat at your heart,” George counseled, coming to stand behind her, to embrace her, as she stood gazing out the window.

  “Calais,” she continued, as if she had not heard. “Once a woman surrenders herself to a man, even though that is what he wants her to do, he instantly loses all respect for her. Some men are just better at hiding the truth than others, and some do not even bother to try.”

  “Nan.” He spoke her name so softly, so tenderly, as his hands massaged her shoulders. “Come now!” he cajoled, turning her around to face him. “Where is that bold, fighting spirit I know and love so well? I know the pain is great, but it will pass. Hold your head up high, put on your best jewels and your finest gown, and let the world see you as you truly are, my brave, fearless Nan, and go out and win him back! You know you can; you’re so clever! And the next child will be a boy—a healthy, thriving boy!”

  Listlessly, Anne shook her head. “It is no good, George; he is no good.”

  A quizzical frown furrowed George’s brow. “Dearest”—he paused uncertainly—“what do you mean?”

  “I mean it takes two to make a child, George, and more often than not when Henry comes to my bed he is unable to play his part.”

  “Nan! Listen to me, dearest. Never, if you value your l
ife, breathe a word of this to anyone! Not another living soul; do you hear me, Anne?” His knuckles paled and shook as his fingers dug urgently into her shoulders. “It would be death to anyone who dared even hint…”

  “I know it, George,” she sighed. “It is always the woman who is at fault and never the man.”

  “It is a curious thing,” I said from the corner where I had sat for so long, silent and forgotten, alone with my embroidery and dreams of vengeance, “that His Majesty encounters no difficulty in Madge Shelton’s bed.”

  “Madge?” Anne’s face blanched and she took a step back and dropped down onto the window seat. “Madge Shelton? My cousin betrays me with the King? No, I do not believe it!”

  George flashed me a warning look, but this time I ignored him. This time I would speak!

  “As you will.” I shrugged and bent over my embroidery once again. “But I believe they tarry in the Lime Walk even now.”

  “Very well then, we shall see!” Anne rushed from the room with George hot on her heels, begging her to calm down and not let her temper get the best of her.

  “Nan, wait!” he cried. “Let your temper cool before you confront him!”

  But Anne Boleyn was beyond seeing reason; she was lost and stumbling blind in a fog of red fury.

  With a satisfied smile, I cast my embroidery aside and followed them. This I had to see!

  “Filthy-minded scandalmonger!” George hissed at me. “I’ll wager you made the whole thing up!”

  “No, husband!” I trilled, shaking my head so vigorously that my French hood was knocked askew. “I saw it all through the keyhole, and heard their lusty sighs and cries of passion! I watched him spread her thighs and heard him groan with rapture as his seed gushed out.”

  “Jane!” George gasped, appalled by my frankness. “Control yourself!”

  “Stop!” Anne threw up her hands. “Don’t tell me any more! I don’t believe it. I cannot. Not Madge!”

  “Well, there have been others,” I offered. “Did you not know that a stable of pretty young girls is maintained at Farnham Castle for the King’s pleasure? Agents scour London and the Continent for more beauties to add to the collection. And have you not heard William Webbe’s complaint? Assuredly you must; it’s common knowledge. He was out riding near Eltham Palace one Saturday, with his sweetheart sitting before him in the saddle, nestled lovingly against his chest, when lo and behold, who should appear but the King! Without a by-your-leave, he nudged his horse alongside and leaned over to sample the wares. He kissed her, right there in front of her betrothed, and then, liking it so well, he scooped her off Master Webbe’s saddle and onto his own, and galloped off to the castle to ravish her at his leisure! It was hours before he sent her back, walking bandy-legged with her privy parts swollen and aching and a bloodstain on her petticoat!”

  Now that I had begun, I could not stop myself. As Anne hurried towards the Lime Walk I kept right in step with her, taunting and needling her all the way.

  “And whenever the mood strikes him he dons a workman’s clothes and incognito to London he rides, to have his way with a tavern wench or a whore from the streets; best pray that he doesn’t take the pox and pass it on to you, Anne, or any babes you bear will be born blind or simpletons!”

  “That is enough!” George grabbed my arm and pulled me back so forcefully that the laces attaching my sleeve to my bodice snapped. “Say one word more, Jane, just one more,” he warned, his hand reaching down to coil round the hilt of his dagger, “and I shall slice your tongue out and ensure silence everlasting!”

  We were entering the Lime Walk now, and there, halfway down its length, shaded by a canopy of lime branches, stood the King and Madge Shelton, locked in a passionate embrace.

  Anne flew at them like a madwoman, wrenching Madge from the King’s arms, slapping, pummeling, and clawing her like a tigress, tearing the French hood from her head and twining her fingers in her cousin’s luxuriant honey-blond hair to rip it out by its roots.

  Henry was so astonished by this sudden vicious attack that he just stood there gaping while Madge Shelton burst into tears and sank to her knees in supplication, lifting her arms in a vain attempt to ward off Anne’s ceaseless rain of blows.

  “Nan! Leave off, Nan, leave off!” George seized her around the waist and pulled her away, Anne kicking at Madge until she was beyond reach.

  “Sheath your claws, you hellcat!” Henry stepped forward and grabbed Anne’s wrists, trying at the same time to keep a safe distance from her nails, which were already caked with Madge’s blood. He grimaced and shouted an oath when she kicked his shin.

  “Cousin, I swear, I intended no harm!” Madge Shelton wailed. “I thought better me than some rival who would work against you. Forgive me, please; I meant no harm!”

  “Nan.” George tightened his hold around her waist and shook her gently to get her attention. “Nan, there is merit in what she says.”

  “Let me go!” Anne tore her wrists away from Henry. “I know all about you now; I know what games you play! Jane has told me all!”

  At the mention of my name, and the furious flash of Henry’s eyes in my direction, I took a step back and stared down guiltily at the ground, wishing it would open up and swallow me.

  “Aye”—Anne nodded vigorously—“I know all about your passel of whores at Farnham Castle, your trips to London in common clothes, and how you go about snatching women right out of the arms of their affianced husbands whenever they take your fancy and afterwards send them back as damaged goods too sore to walk! And now, I discover, you dally with my own cousin! How dare you, you lying whoreson, how do you dare?”

  The breath caught in my throat. Surely she had gone too far now, to call the King of England a “lying whoreson” right to his face!

  “You will shut your eyes and endure as your betters have done before you!” Henry roared. “I have the power to humble you as much as I have raised you! It is your misfortune that I no longer love you, but you must accept it!”

  Anne snorted and her chin shot up, proud and defiant. “My misfortune, you say?” she sneered. “It is my misfortune that you no longer love me? Well, Sire, I never loved you! Though I told you I did so often I was afraid I would come to believe it myself. You’re a coarse brute and I hate and despise you, and I’ll hate and despise you until I die!” She shook off George’s restraining hand. She could not stop herself; now that her tongue had been unloosed she would not bridle it. And on and on she went, as years of pent-up hatred poured out of her mouth. “I might have been happy had it not been for you and your minion Wolsey. I once knew the love of a good man, loyal, honest, and true; so gentle, he could not bear to squash a beetle or swat dead a fly. And never doubt for a moment that I would not rather have been Harry Percy’s countess than Henry Tudor’s queen! But no, you had to have me, and what Henry Tudor wants he shall have, and my father forced me into your arms. He said it was either you or the convent; I could take my pick, so I chose you. If I didn’t have a mind of my own, I would have gone the way of my sister Mary; like a child’s toy, amusing today, cast aside and forgotten tomorrow. But I held my ground; I didn’t bend to your will, you bent to mine. And love me still or not, I am Queen of England and not your cast-off whore!”

  “Dangerous words,” Henry growled and took a step towards her. “You speak dangerous words, Madame….”

  “I speak the truth as I find it!” Anne screamed.

  “Do you think the Crown is set so firmly upon your head it cannot be dislodged? Do you think your arse is so secure upon the throne you cannot be pushed off? Love and hate aside, Madame, we had a bargain! I kept my end; I married you and made you Queen, but you have failed to keep yours! You promised me a son, yet all you’ve given me is another worthless girl!”

  “Oh no.” Anne shook her head fiercely. “Elizabeth is not worthless, as time will show; there’s not a meek or timid bone in her body! And if you want a legitimate son so badly, you would do well to come to my bed instead of cavortin
g with whores and risking the pox, and gushing your precious seed into that trollop’s cunny”—she pointed at Madge—“when everyone knows she’s lain with half the men at court. I suppose you mean to get a child off her just to prove you can. But what good will that do when it is a legitimate heir you need, not another bastard? Like it or not, Henry, you need me!”

  “Aye”—Henry glowered as he walked past her—“and I like it not!”

  I hurriedly stepped aside and curtsied, meekly bowing my head in his massive shadow, quivering as he stared down at me, not daring to look up again until I heard his footsteps receding down the graveled path.

  When I returned to the palace, four guards were waiting to take me to the Tower of London. I protested; I demanded to be taken to the Queen—my sister-in-law, I pointedly reminded them—but they ignored me and laid hold of my arms. I screamed for my husband, but if he heard, he did not heed me. Nor did they accede to my demands that they tarry a moment for me to get my cloak, for I knew the Tower to be a dank, cold place, but even this most reasonable of requests they ignored.

  For seven days and seven nights I sat shivering upon the floor, huddled forward, hugging my knees as the cold invaded my bones, to keep from leaning back against the stone wall lest the icy, oozing chill seep through my gown. Fleas bit my skin, making it itch maddeningly, and lice invaded my hair and crawled sickeningly across my scalp. Twice a day I was given hard bread and tepid water and I grew well accustomed to the sound of my own belly growling out in hunger, begging to be fed; yet all my complaints and reminders that I was sister-in-law to the Queen and a Vicountess, Lady Rochford, availed me naught. In a prison that had at various times housed the highest in the land, I was a woman of no importance. So I sat there, all alone in my cold, dark little cell, listening to the black beetles and inquisitive rats scuttling about, and dreaming of revenge. I plucked pieces of straw from my thin pallet and snapped them between my fingers and wished that I could do the same to Anne’s neck. And George…He left me there, alone, no caring word, warm blanket, or woolen cloak did he send to me; he left me there to suffer in silence. As I snapped the straw between my fingers, my thoughts of him swung like a pendulum between love and hate.