Aided by George and their closest friends, Anne set Wyatt’s poem to music and staged a masque for the entertainment of the court.
With her knee-length hair plaited into myriad tiny black braids embellished with beads hewn from precious gems, pearls, and textured gold, and crowned with a rearing regal ruby-eyed golden cobra, Anne dressed herself in pleated cloth-of-gold overlaid with a full-skirted and flowing sleeved diaphanous robe of pleated white gossamer, belted in gold beneath her breasts, with a wide golden collar inlaid with lapis lazuli, turquoise, and carnelian, and bracelets and necklaces and rings of scarabs carved from these same stones, as well as green and white agates and black onyx, and danced the part of Cleopatra.
George’s flamboyant friend Francis Weston, who loved playacting more than any man I ever met, and would have surely been a strolling player if he had not been born a nobleman, set a wreath of gilded laurel leaves upon his rambunctious red curls and donned a gilt-bordered toga of white linen and a royal purple robe and stepped into the golden sandals of the mighty conqueror Julius Caesar.
George, Will Brereton, Henry Norris, and a few of their other friends oiled and bared their chests, draped their loins in leopard skins and vibrant silks, and hid their hair beneath striped linen headdresses or jeweled and feathered satin turbans. They layered their wrists with gold bangles, donned gilt sandals or bared their feet and gilded their toenails, lined their painted eyes with black kohl, hung their necks with heavy gold chains or beaded collars, and had a high good time playing the Serpent of the Nile’s devoted courtiers, fawning at her feet, kissing her hems, and competing shamelessly for her favors as they showed off their fine sweat-slick physiques in a display of vigorous and athletic dancing.
Wyatt, opting for a simple and much more modest, white tunic and sandals, struck a pose with a golden harp and, to music composed by Anne and George, recited what would become his most famous poem.
Who so list to hunt: I know where is a hind.
But as for me, alas, I may no more:
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list to hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain,
And graven in diamonds in letters plain
There is written her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
King Henry applauded wildly. He ripped gold medallions from his purple velvet doublet and flung them at Anne’s feet as he cried, “More! More! More! Let us see that dance again!”
Anne stood straight before him, with only the banquet table between them, and, hands on hips, defiantly tossed back her braids, thrust her chin high, and proudly pronounced one emphatic word: “Beg!”
Like her most faithful and devoted servant, King Henry obeyed, applauding until his palms were sore and smarting pink, tearing more gold from his coat, and roaring, “More! More! Please, let us see it again!” imploring an encore of that wild, sensual performance.
But Anne gave an insolent toss of her head, sending black braids flying like whips with jeweled and gold barbs at the ends. With a wild and wicked laugh, she caught George and Francis Weston each by the hand. As they, standing on each side of her, bowed, she sank into a deep curtsy; then, giggling like a trio of mischievous children, they fled the Great Hall as Norris, Brereton, and the others quickly followed, sweating from their exertions and wiping the kohl and green, blue, and gold paint from their eyes. Only Wyatt diplomatically lingered to regale the court with another recitation of his poem.
More smitten than ever before, King Henry sent for Anne, begging her to return to the Great Hall, but she refused. From the safe haven of her chamber, where she and her friends laughed over their wine cups and lounged like languid cats upon well-padded velvet couches and cushions strewn about the floor, Anne pled a headache.
Back in the Great Hall, King Henry sulkily resigned himself to the fact that he must wait until morning to see his beloved once more. But before first light, Anne was already gone, having waited until our sovereign lord had retired for the night, then she galloped off in gales of laughter, riding back to Hever with George by moonlight. When King Henry awoke the next morning and, even before he had availed himself of the chamber pot, sent an invitation to Anne, requesting her to breakfast with him in his chamber, and some brave servant informed him that she was gone, he threw a mighty tantrum. He boxed the bearer of bad news’s ears, flung his heavily laden tray across the room, scattering food, gilt dishes, and breakfast ale everywhere, then kicked over the table and his chair, and bellowed for his riding clothes and his fastest horse even as Thomas shoved me into the saddle and the two of us raced on ahead—so frantic was he to have all in readiness to receive the King, ignoring me when I tartly, yet truthfully, informed him that His Majesty was so smitten with Anne that he was hardly likely to notice if the servants had been lazy and lax and had neglected to beat the dust from the tapestries or clean the cobwebs from the corners.
“All he will see is Anne,” I said, but Thomas was too busy babbling of gilt bowls and oranges to listen to a wife’s pearls of wisdom.
When Henry arrived at Hever, sweat sodden and caked with road dust, and went like a supplicant, head bowed, his feathered and pearl weeping cap clutched humbly in his hands, to the rose garden, my crimson-clad daughter cocked a finely arched black eyebrow over the beribboned lute she had been strumming as the King of England knelt at her feet and confided that his marriage was barren and cursed in the sight of God and cited a verse from Leviticus as proof.
“If a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.”
To Henry, a king in desperate need of a male heir to inherit his throne when he departed the world, having only one living daughter was tantamount to being childless.
While her quick mind countered with a verse from Deuteronomy enjoining a man to marry his dead brother’s widow—“If brethren dwell together, and one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without unto a stranger: her husband’s brother shall go in unto her, and take her to him to wife, and perform the duty of an husband’s brother unto her”—the gambler in Anne counseled her tongue to keep a golden silence.
It was then that my daughter took the second greatest gamble of her life. She had already dared say no to a king; now she went further. All or nothing! In my mind’s eye, I could see Anne and George standing, black heads close together over the card table, eyes sparkling, chests heaving, as Anne decided to risk all on the turn of a single card.
Anne calmly plucked a vibrant coral rose, one that exquisitely married orange and pink within its fragrant petals, and, with a steady hand, held it out to King Henry, thus symbolically dangling the proverbial carrot before the royal ass’s nose.
“I am young and fertile, and I will give the man who marries me a houseful of strong and lusty sons who will live and thrive to a ripe old age! But all offspring born of my body shall be legitimate and lawfully begotten,” she added, emphasizing the point in case it had eluded the smitten monarch. “I would rather remain barren than give birth to a bastard, even a royal one!” she said heatedly, tossing a black wave of hair back over her shoulder.
Henry, of course, driven mad by lust, instantly agreed. He wanted to cement their bargain then and there with a binding of their bodies, but Anne witheringly refused, reminding him that only upon her wedding night would she part with the precious gift of her virginity. Though chaste, my daughter knew only too well that “say anything to get her into bed” is the creed most men live by; keen observation and her years in France had served her well, leaving her not
only elegant but wise beyond her years.
10
I was surprised the earth didn’t shift beneath all our feet then and there. Nothing would ever be the same again. Did Anne know or even suspect that her words would change the world?
Thomas thought she was just being mule stubborn, contrary, frivolous, and flighty, to quote a few of the words he used when railing and raging against Anne for refusing to succumb and become the King’s mistress, and to get all she could now rather than end up with nothing in the end like her sister.
But I think it was more than mere stubbornness or mule-headed contrariness. And I think I deserve some share of the blame for what happened. I was not a good mother; I always favored one daughter above the other, banishing Anne to live in Mary’s shadow, dreaming great, big wonderful dreams for my golden girl and, on the rare occasions when I even mentioned her future, sighing about the bleak and doleful existence that awaited Anne in the nunnery. I never paid much attention to Anne until she returned from France and suddenly became interesting. But by then it was too late, the damage was done, and she didn’t need a mother to give her advice or to confide in—she had George and didn’t want, or need, me. The gulf between us was just too great; too much damage had been done, and pain inflicted, for us to ever be a true mother and daughter to each other, much less friends. To me, Anne would always be aloof, cordial yet distant, like a wary cat that would never come close enough for me to pet.
In the days and years to come, when the people cursed and reviled Anne, calling her such names as “the she-devil” and “witch,” Remi, who like me, remained loyal in his heart to Queen Catherine, said Anne was more to be pitied than despised.
“I do not see a she-devil when I look at her,” he said. “I see instead a sad, frightened, and angry little girl, one who grew up believing that she was ugly, inferior to the so-called golden girls of our world, and is now determined to prove her worth to everyone who ever doubted or discounted her. And how better to do that than by doing what they dare not, by saying no when they would be so quick to say yes, by disdaining what they deem an honor, and snaring the ultimate prize—the Crown—exchanging inferiority for superiority, so that all who have ever been mean to her or made her feel shunned and unworthy must bow to her.”
I think in those days of hysteria, bias, hatred, and heated discord, Remi was one of the few who remained calm and saw everything clearly from all sides and angles.
So I lay in my lover’s arms and let the world bicker and go mad and fall to pieces all around us. Remi said that politics and religion caused enough discord in the world, and we did not need it to intrude and try to leave its mark upon us and our time together. If I wished to argue, there were people aplenty I could do that with at court, and if he was of such a mind, all he had to do was step out into the street or walk into the nearest tavern. Sometimes all it took to get one’s nose bloodied was to mention the name of Anne Boleyn. So we let it all fall away from us with our clothes and just enjoyed each other in every way a man and a woman could.
I saw the court, and people I had known my whole life—family, lovers, acquaintances, and friends—divide into factions, like the biblical separation of the sheep from the goats. They were either for the Boleyns or against them, giving their support either to the daughter I had given bloody birth to or the kind and devout woman I had faithfully served for so many years.
Everyone was taking sides, and everyone assumed because I was a Boleyn by marriage and Anne was my daughter that I was on her side. I was forced to withdraw from Queen Catherine’s service. My husband said it was not seemly for me to continue to serve my daughter’s rival. Yet I did not transfer my allegiance to my daughter, though Thomas did demand I be on hand whenever she needed me to fill the role of chaperone.
Though I did nothing to outwardly oppose Anne’s grand scheme, I could not embrace and support her either. I kept silent and did not embarrass either of us by trying, at this late date, to play “the good mother” and give my daughter the benefit of a worldly mother’s advice; Anne would have only laughed if I had tried, just as I had once laughed at her girlish dreams. The truth was, by the time my children grew up and became interesting to me, it was too late for me to play any real role in their lives; my attempts at mothering or befriending them were often awkward at best and disappointing, for all of us, at worst. They had grown accustomed to me not being there for them; they had learned not to need or depend on me, and to live without me, and were not inclined to fling the door wide in welcome now when I had been the one who had kept it closed all during their childhoods.
I lived in a sort of twilight world, of the court, yet not of the court, there, but not there. I sat and ate in the Great Hall and dutifully attended hunting parties, picnics, banquets, balls, and masques, knelt and prayed in the royal chapel, partnered all who asked me to dance, and obediently slept beside my husband at night. As I had always done, I played the role that was required of me to the utmost perfection. When Anne had need of me, I was there to act as chaperone; the rest of the time, as far as my husband and youngest daughter were concerned, I could go hang myself for aught that they cared, as long as I did not create a scandal. I’m not complaining, make no mistake about that—that was exactly the way I liked it. And I was used to it—I had never really known any other life; neither the Howards nor the Boleyns, with the exception of Anne and George, were ever a close-knit family. When they had no need of me, my time was my own, and I liked being free to spend it with Remi.
I was, in truth, still reeling at the enormity of what my daughter had done. I was astounded and appalled. I never believed she would succeed, that a day would come when my ugly dark duckling daughter turned black swan would be crowned and anointed England’s Queen. I was certain it was but a tempest that would soon blow past and all would, in time, return to normal, and Queen Catherine would be on her throne beside her husband again, and he would no doubt continue to dally with any pretty girl who caught his fancy. But that was the way of the world. King Henry was a man with a temper, not renowned for his patience, and he would of a surety soon tire of the way Anne treated him, the veiled or openly barbed insults, sharp retorts, bored indifference alternating with temper tantrums, and her refusal to grant him any intimacy greater than the occasional kiss. The court was filled to the rafters with obliging women, all of them eager to give him anything he pleased. They would readily spread their legs wide or open their lips to that monumental member, and devote themselves wholeheartedly to fulfilling the King’s Pleasure. I live only to please you! they would scream in the throes of ecstasy.
Anne was a woman of ice, cold and frigid, in comparison. Some who, like me, saw this obvious truth opined that it was only by witchcraft that she could hold a man like King Henry. Mayhap there was some truth in such speculations? Who can say? I am not a superstitious woman, like my mother-in-law, and yet . . . kings did not risk their kingdoms, throw their wife of some twenty years away, or boot the Pope out of England because he refused to grant a divorce, and assume command of the Church like snatching the wheel of a ship from the hands of a drunken, insane, or mutinous captain, all for the sake of a black-haired Boleyn girl. Things like that just didn’t happen! In heathenish lands like Turkey perhaps, where sultans kept harems filled with beautiful and conniving women who would not hesitate to resort to poison or murder a rival in order to reign supreme in their sovereign’s favor, but not in England. We were a staid and proper people, creatures of habit, who cherished our traditions and turned our backs and turned up our noses at change like a leper or a parvenu arriving at our court with trumped-up pretensions to nobility, like when the medieval King Edward II bestowed upon his catamite lover, the Gascon son of a witch boy-whore Piers Gaveston, the royal title of Duke of Cornwall. The King’s passion for Anne was a momentary madness, an obsession that would run its course and, in its own sweet time, pass, it just had to; it could be nothing else!
What was at first known as “the King’s Secret Matter” did not
remain a secret for long. When it became common knowledge at court, Anne, accompanied by George and their friends, all clad in fiery shades of red, orange, and yellow, walked brazenly into the Great Hall that night in a black gown embroidered with flames and boldly declared a verse of scripture: “Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth!”
Thus it became official—not just speculation and wild rumor—the King meant to put aside Queen Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn.
When that dreaded plague known as “the Sweat” came in the sweltering summer of 1528, many saw it as God’s judgment crashing down upon us like a great fist.
It was a strange affliction that killed the young and vital but spared the aged and infirm as well as those newly born. It began with a trifling headache, the sort of thing one might shrug off or chew a little willow bark to remedy, then think no more of, then all of a sudden the sweat began, pouring hot and prickly, accompanied by a fast burning fever, shivering fits, and pain in all the limbs. A doctor was useless. As the saying went, “Merry at dinner, dead by supper.” Survival was accounted a matter of luck, for there was no certain remedy; all potions and pills were apparently in vain. You lived or you died; it was God’s will or the luck of the draw.
When first Anne, followed by George, then my husband and son-in-law, all in short order succumbed to “the Sweat,” those still enjoying the bloom of health nodded knowingly and were quick to declare that this affliction was certain proof that God’s wrath had descended upon the Boleyns.
Cardinal Wolsey himself went on bended knees like a penitent before the King in the tower where he had secluded himself at Hunsdon House, a dozen miles from London, with his physician and but a single servant, the loyal Henry Norris, surrounded by vinegar-slicked walls and roaring fires in the belief that heat would keep the disease at bay, and begged him to renounce Anne and abandon all thought of divorcing Queen Catherine. That this plague had fallen upon the land and stricken Anne and her kinsmen down, he said, was certain proof of God’s displeasure, and he feared the King would be the next to fall.
The Boleyn Bride Page 18