Anne wasn’t like me; she couldn’t go through life pretending. She could never be that exaggeratedly docile paragon of wifely virtue and perfection that men encouraged their sisters, daughters, and wives to mold themselves after, the eternally amiable, smiling, subservient Patient Griselda, always agreeing, always obedient, ready to live or lay down her life if her husband’s will decreed it, whether he decided to slay her children one day or turn her out of his kingdom naked but for her shift the next. No, that was not Anne; it never could be. Anne argued with, challenged, contradicted, denied, and defied him as her mood and convictions dictated, never thinking that it might place her very life in peril. She simply was not the “nod and smile,” good and obedient Christian wife like I had been reared up to be by governesses and etiquette books.
I rarely talked to my husband. I didn’t want to. Nothing he had to say was of the slightest interest to me; court gossip I could get from my maid. As for arguing with him, it really wasn’t worth it; I could live the life I wanted without resorting to open defiance. All I had to do was be discreet. But then I was not the Queen of England like my daughter. I wasn’t fighting to prove myself, or to hold on, to keep my grip from slipping from a scepter or a man’s cock. I had already established myself. I was secure. I, the proud pedigreed bride, was the best bargain the Bullen merchants ever made, and Thomas knew it. So why dither about the details? The garment looked good on the outside—every eye that beheld it admired and praised it—so what mattered if inside the seams and stitches were flawed and imperfect? None but a privileged few, who knew how to be discreet, would ever see the inner truth.
On the seventh morning of September 1533, I was shaken from a sound sleep by my anxious husband, shoved hastily into my clothes as I had been on that hole-in-a-corner wedding morn, and sent to Anne’s lying-in chamber, where she gave birth, after a long and grueling labor, to a little red-headed girl who came bawling, with fists balled, into the world.
How heavily the silence hung after the midwife had announced the child’s sex. Anne knew better than any that she had failed. She had promised Henry a son, the first of many sons to ensure the continuation of the Tudor dynasty, and with this daughter, she was off to a sorry start. He was certain to be angry and disappointed and moved to question everything he had ever done for Anne Boleyn. Henry had had enough of failure. He hadn’t gone to hell and back, and changed the world, to wed and bed Anne Boleyn for a girl-child to be the result. Henry wanted, and needed, a son. And with that fluid and susceptible conscience of his that seemed to change the way the wind blows, he just might see this as God’s judgment being visited upon him; a neat and tidy excuse to set Anne aside, just as his conscience had decreed that he discard Queen Catherine. The time was ripe for another brave woman, if she dared, to enter the field.
Anne tried to brazen it out. She dried her tears and bade the maids change the linens and hangings on the bed to the most regal ones of royal purple velvet, fringed and tasseled with Venice gold and embroidered with golden crowns above the lovers’ knot entwined initials H & A. Her ladies obediently combed the sweaty tangles from her hair, crowned it with a circlet of gleaming bright gold and ruby-set roses, perfumed her person with her favorite musky rose scent, clothed her in a clean, fresh white linen shift edged with blackwork embroidery, and hung her pearls with her favorite golden B pendant weeping a trio of teardrop pearls about her throat. Only then, reclining regally against a mound of plump pillows, with the newborn princess swathed in purple velvet and ermine in her arms, did she allow them to open the doors and let her royal husband enter, followed by a throng of curious courtiers, avid to see if Anne could overcome her disgrace.
Imperious as ever, Anne did not even defer to him in the matter of the child’s name, but boldly announced that she had borne him a daughter and named her Elizabeth, to honor his mother as well as her own—luckily we both had the same name—and that she would give her little girl a brother, hopefully as loyal and loving as her own—she smiled up at George hovering protectively at her bedside—the next year.
She didn’t let a crack show in her confidence, and not a drop of vulnerability or fear seeped out. Rather than wait for the royal bull to attack her, she plunged ahead boldly and grasped him by the horns. I thought the scene very well played, and even Thomas, glowering and frowning beside me, had to concede that Anne deserved some minor congratulations on how she had so neatly averted a potentially ugly situation.
“Mayhap motherhood will be good for her,” Thomas pronounced dourly, “and subdue her inner harpy.”
I nodded and smiled, but inwardly I doubted it. Anne might be a good mother, but I doubted anything would ever change her. And, at times, I rather liked and admired and even envied that “inner harpy,” as my husband dubbed our daughter’s tempestuous and rebellious nature.
King Henry glowered but chose to restrain his temper and not make a scene that would be reported, with great relish, by the gloating naysayers, to the foreign ambassadors. How the whole world would laugh! All this supposedly for a son and now . . . what was left? Dead lust and another useless daughter! Henry knew it was in his best interests to plaster a smile upon his face and brazen it out just like Anne was doing. Still in his hunting clothes and reeking of sweat, he bent and planted a chaste kiss, a grudgingly given peck, upon Anne’s cheek, then took his leave, calling for roast meat, wine, a warm bath, and a change of clothes.
All the celebrations planned in honor of the expected prince were canceled. For the newborn Princess Elizabeth there would be no bonfires or tournaments, grand balls, banquets, free-flowing wine in the city conduits, or dancing in the street for the common people. An extra s was hastily appended, by secretaries supervised by my husband, to the birth announcements that had been written in advance, announcing the joyous news that a prince had been born to the King and Queen of England. And while Anne and her baby slept, her royal husband sat glum and moody over his wine in the Great Hall that night and not even the court beauties parading before him with beckoning eyes and enticing smiles could arouse him. He was too worried about the future.
After my daughter and newborn granddaughter were asleep, cocooned, however uneasily, in regal splendor, I threw a dark hooded cloak over me and went to Remi.
He had rubbed a chicken with garlic and herbs and roasted it, and we shared it with red wine, a small round of cheese, and a loaf of fresh bread by candlelight in the little kitchen at the back of his shop.
How out of place my court finery—my gold and silver vine- and flower-embroidered pomegranate Flemish velvet; silver-threaded blue-gray damask; deep, wide, silver fox-fur cuffs; gold and silver chains; brooches, rings, and ropes of pearls; and jeweled gable hood—always seemed there, at least on a grown woman, not a doll fashioned to fit a child’s arms, and yet . . . I felt right at home there, more than I had ever felt in any manor or palace. I was a diamond who had forsaken her precious setting and mayhap, I sometimes thought, in doing so I had found something better.
But could I have made that change permanently, given up being a noblewoman for love? I very much doubt it. As much as I loved Remi, I doubt it. The love of the finer things, the feelings of superiority and entitlement, and pride in my pedigree, were too deeply ingrained in me. I could never forsake velvet for homespun.
We sat and talked long into the night, pondering Anne’s, and her little princess’s, fates, and Remi, with a piece of charcoal and light scrap of wood, drew the newborn Elizabeth as I described her. “Ah, here is the proud grandmother, after all!” He smiled as a hint of pride crept into my voice. Though I knew it was only the fortunate coincidence of names that had led Anne to name her daughter as she did, I was nonetheless proud to be the grandmother of a princess and have her named after me.
Later, from that sketch, he would make a little red-haired doll of her that would ever remind me of a fierce little lion cub, gowned in gold-braided spice orange velvet and tawny damask with pearls and beads the color of honey golden topazes. It never failed to a
maze me how perfectly he captured her zesty little spirit and fine features, even the hue of her hair, without ever having laid eyes upon her.
And then we went to bed, and it was love, love, love until dawn’s first light.
I hardly ever slept when I was with him in London. That was the one sad note that crept into our beautiful love song; I could rarely curl up and enjoy the sweet pleasure of slumbering in my beloved’s embrace, feeling the warmth of his breath upon my bare skin, and his soft and ample flesh warming, cushioning, and comforting mine all night long.
When I knew I must return to court, that my husband, and others, would be expecting me, I didn’t dare sleep lest I—lulled into such sweet contentment by the feel of Remi’s arms holding me and his sleeping body pressed close against mine—overslept and returned late to court to face suspicious and inquiring glances and outright questions about my whereabouts and what had happened to delay me.
With the morning light, feeling that same accustomed sadness, the tiredness mingling with the regret that I must soon depart, I wrapped his threadbare white linen sheet about my nakedness—he was too proud to accept a set of fine silk from me—and sat and watched the first trickle of sunlight trace over his plump bearded cheeks and thick-lashed, dark-browed eyes beneath which his warm brown eyes, veiled by delicately veined lids, danced in a dream.
He looked so young lying there, a chubby dark-haired cherub, angelic and smiling in his sleep, curled upon his side, facing the window so he might feel the sun upon his face gently coaxing him awake, hugging tight against his chest the old, faded quilt of many colors, of fabrics flowered, striped, spotted, and solid, that his grandmother and mother had made together when his mother was first learning to sew, the coils of dark hair that lightly covered his breast and one rosy-haloed nipple just peeking out over the quilt as he embraced it. I had to clasp my hands tight, to keep from reaching out and caressing him, as the frail buttery rays did. I wanted to kiss him, to lean over and playfully nip that pink nipple, but I didn’t want to wake him. A part of me wanted to let my hand delve mischievously beneath the faded quilt and find his manhood, slumbering pink in a nest of short black hair beneath the soft, doughy shelter of his stomach, to rouse him again for more play, but I was too tired, and my accursed vanity was always afraid to let him see me looking anything but my best even when my weariness came from a wonderful night of love. With all the others, I never cared what they thought, or if each tryst would be our last, but with Remi I did care; I didn’t want it to end. I wanted him to stay with me forever.
Soon he too must also rise, to open his shop, and begin the business of the day. There were dolls to make and dolls to sell.
What jealousy, and, I admit, fear, what blind, fluttery-belly dread, that kind of unshakable panic that wants to take flight but can’t, I felt whenever I thought of the noble ladies who would come into his shop, to browse idly and buy trinkets and trifles for their little girls and boys. Did they flirt with him? I was certain they did. Were some bold enough to dare as I did and drag him to the floor or take him to his bed? Did they arrange for Remi to deliver certain goods to their boudoirs at appointed hours? He was so sweet, so polite, so shy, yet bold sometimes, in his own special way, it was hard to believe he could resist such temptations.
I saw men at court succumb every day to the wiles of bored and jaded, capricious and amorous ladies whose eyes lighted interestedly and admiringly upon them. From kitchen spit boys, grooms, liveried servants, and stable boys, to handsome minstrels and tradesmen visiting the palace to display or deliver their wares, I saw them one and all lie down and surrender when a pair of tempting eyes flashed and beckoned, Come hither! Hadn’t I, after all, deployed such charms often enough myself? And still did whenever the mood struck me and a handsome prospect stood before me. I knew how the game was played.
Remi assured me that these things never happened, that men as ample as himself seldom held much attraction for ladies. Time and again, he told me that there was no one like me, and no one else in his life, never calling me out as a hypocrite and flinging in my face my own varied and many fleeting amours. Sometimes I worried that I was standing in his way. What right did I have to keep him from marrying and having a family when I had these things and could not give them to him myself? But when I tried to talk to him about it, to fully comprehend the situation, to discover what kind of ground I stood upon, Remi would only smile and, in his soft, quiet way, assure me that “all is well” or “fine.” It was maddening as well as sweet because I never truly knew what he thought and felt. I would always wonder if he was just being kind and polite. Maybe he truly was content, and I, in my selfish way, really did fill a need? Even after all these years, I still do not know. I wanted to believe him, that everything was fine, and sometimes I think I did, and yet . . . I could never entirely banish the fears; they were relentless pursuers I could never shake off but for an occasional pleasant hour or two.
It is one of life’s truths that a vain woman accustomed to adoration, especially an aging beauty, is often, in her heart of hearts, an insecure one; some just hide it better than others. Some are better at slamming the door shut upon their fears and keeping them from peeping through the keyhole or the shutters and intruding upon, and spoiling, their pleasure. Alas, that was an art I never fully perfected. The perfect, pedigreed wife with all her beauty and elegant, refined airs wasn’t perfect at everything, especially the things that really mattered, the things that weren’t all show and grandiose pretension.
With a reluctant sigh, I left the bed and gathered my rumpled clothes from where they lay upon the floor and went to stand before the mirror hanging over my lover’s humble washstand. This looking glass was the one luxury I had insisted upon providing—I must be able to put my hair and garments right lest I return to court looking like a milkmaid who had just been tumbled by her swain in a haystack.
The morning light is not as kind as the gentle golden glow of candles. My eyes, the ones men often described as black and bewitching, looked like they were resting in beds of crinkled gray silk, like sheets a pair of passionate lovers had kicked to the floor and left for the night.
I tried to tell myself that it was only fatigue, and when I was well rested . . . but I knew better. I was then eight years past forty, and Father Time is seldom kind to vain coquettes like me. Ethereal beauty, the beatific kind that suffering and sorrow only enhances, is a rare and precious gift given only by God to a certain privileged few such as saints. It is a gift that money cannot buy, nor a pretense of piety either. I could walk barefoot to the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham until my feet were raw, and it would not turn back time and restore the youthful smoothness and pearly luster of my face.
I bent closer to the mirror and scrutinized the lines upon my brow and around my eyes, nose, and mouth. My rouge and red lip paint had been worn away by the passion of Remi’s kisses the night before. I was glad my lover was still asleep and could not see me without my paint. I never appeared in public without it; I deemed my cosmetics as vital as air to me.
I bared my teeth to the mirror’s unyieldingly honest gaze and flinched back as though I had been slapped. They were the color of old, yellowed ivory. Vainly, I had endeavored to whiten them with vigorous daily scrubbings with a concoction of white wine, vinegar, and honey. I had even resorted to my mad mother-in-law’s so-called “sovereign cure to turn ugly, yellowing teeth snow white,” and brushed them with a paste made of grated pumice stone, stag horn, and cuttlebone, the acidic aqua fortis, burned iris root, and the urine of a white mare, but all to no avail. I had nearly died retching over the evil taste it left in my mouth and spent nigh two days afterward rinsing my mouth and gargling with lavender, terrified whenever anyone came near me that they would recoil at the stench emanating from my mouth.
Another aging beauty of the court swore by the urine of a Portuguese man liberally mixed with the juice of ripe lemons—full yellow without a spot of green on them—chased by a gargle of warmed white wine and honey.
In desperation, I donned a cloak and found myself a swarthy Portuguese sailor and went with him to a dockside inn. Though he laughed at me when I insisted on “hard pissing” before the carnal act—I was obviously past my childbearing years so there was no need to attempt contraception with what many considered a tried and true method—but he indulged me just the same.
After he left me, I carefully poured the contents of the chamber pot he had used into a bottle and took it with me back to court, so I could send my maid to procure the other ingredients and attempt the restorative in the more comfortable confines of my bedchamber. But it was all to no avail.
After I lost a tooth last year, one that just barely showed an empty space when I flashed my brightest smile, I had begun practicing before my mirror until I had perfected a closed-lipped smile. And none too soon; I was terribly concerned about a wobbly incisor. Every time I bit down hard or felt it sway in its socket, I feared its loss was imminent.
I had seen a quack in London about it, and he had attempted to steady it with a metal binding. But it cut my tongue so badly when I talked, and, to my great embarrassment and dismay, one of my lovers when his tongue delved inside my mouth, so I had to return to that mountebank and have it carefully cut out. The whole time that charlatan’s hands were at work within my mouth, I was terrified that my tooth would come away with the metal that had failed to anchor it firm.
Thomas was furious that the man would not return his money and even dared demand payment for undoing his shoddy, incompetent work, but I left it to my husband to sort the matter out; I was far more concerned with my tooth.
Nor had I fared any better when another medical man, claiming worms had been fast at work boring holes into my teeth, had attempted to fill the aching cavities with a mixture of pulverized ox bone and white clay. His handiwork had me adding poppy juice to my wine more often than I cared to and drinking cup after cup of sage tea to try and soothe my sore and bleeding gums.
The Boleyn Bride Page 22