‘Mistress Anne. The King has asked that I should find you and requests that you join him in his privy chamber.’ With that, Sir William stepped aside and indicated that I should make my way towards the King’s apartments. All evening I had been vexed by the thought of how to respond to the King’s invitation. In the previous three months, since I had found myself in Anne’s world, I had never been invited to the King’s apartments alone at such a late hour.
There was nothing more that I wanted at that stage than to sink into his arms once more, and in some ways, this is what terrified me the most. I did not know whether in the quiet and private intimacy of the King’s secret rooms, in the warmth of his embrace and in the passion of our kisses, whether I could truly do what I knew I must above all else—preserve Anne’s virginity. Henry had many opportunities to force himself upon me in the past; yet, he had not done so.
Whilst he no doubt yearned to know me—to know Anne—entirely, I knew that perversely he was enjoying the chase, as men of considerable power are often wont to do. I had to also admit that my curiosity had been piqued. It was not the first time that evening that I wondered what surprise Henry intended to share with me.
Sir William and I made our way along many corridors towards the King’s apartments, which were situated on the river front, on the opposite side of the palace complex to the Banqueting House. We spoke little to each other; Sir William merely indicating from time to time the route that we should travel. Once in the King’s suite of rooms, I was surprised to find that with the exception of a couple of yeomen of the guards, they were entirely deserted. Although I had never been in the King’ s Privy Chambers so late at night, I imagined—as was the case in the Queen’s rooms—that a number of the Lord Chamberlain’s staff would be busy relaying the fires, sweeping floors and collecting the remnants of beeswax candles, in order to prepare for the day ahead. Yet we encountered no one. I remembered wryly that Sir William was renowned at court as the man who enabled many of the King’s secret assignations; preserving the King’s privacy and dignity through his many adulterous encounters. I suspected that Sir William had the rooms cleared on the orders of the King and in preparation for my visit.
Whilst this made me slightly uneasy, with no one around, I was able to appreciate the beauty of the Tudor interior without distraction. Most of the rooms contained largely movable items that could be transported with the King whenever he moved from palace to palace. The most expensive and prized of these items were huge tapestries made of silk, often spun with silver and gold thread. Carpets were also highly valuable and many, much to my amusement in those early days, were hung on walls or laid out on tables to be admired; often placed only on the floor only in those most exalted areas of state, such as underneath the King’s throne in the Presence Chamber. Having walked through a short gallery leading from that very same room, I stepped into Henry’s Privy Chamber. This room was his main, private living area. It was one that I had been in on many occasions before in the evening; often dining or playing cards with the King and other members of his most intimate circle. That night, however, the room was empty. I turned around to speak to Sir William and to enquire of the King’s whereabouts, just in time to see him close the door behind me, leaving me all alone.
I began to wander slowly around the room, running my fingertips across the surface of the large, oak sideboard which was adorned with a huge pair of silver gilt candlesticks. I noticed that drawn across the windows were curtains made of purple, white and black satin, each lined with linen; gaudy by modern day standards but entirely de rigueur in the 16th century. As I surveyed the room, my eyes were drawn upwards to take in the breathtaking beauty of the ceiling which was laid out in a geometrical pattern. This was enriched with moulded grotesque strips and highlighted with gold paint, whilst at the centre of each pattern was a carved and painted Tudor Rose. Beneath the ceiling, running around the upper third of the walls, was a frieze of highly decorative oil paintings, all depicting religious scenes. Below this, the lower two thirds were covered in linen-fold oak panelling. On one side of the room was a hugely ornate fireplace, which I had admired on several previous occasions. On that night, it was lit by flames casting gentle, willowy shadows about the chamber. I walked over, positioning myself in front of it, soon becoming mesmerised by the flames that licked at the expensive sea coal, a luxury that was reserved only for the use of the King and Queen
After a few moments, I sensed that I was being watched. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the King leaning nonchalantly against the doorway leading to the room beyond, a room which I knew to be the King’s State Bedchamber. Oh, I can see him so clearly in my mind’s eye, as if I could reach out and touch him again. Henry was dressed only in his linen shirt, which was open loosely around his neck, his breeches, hose and boots. One leg was crossed over other at the ankle and in his right hand he drank from a silver gilt goblet. With the King’s appearance, I turned around and dipped into a deep curtsey, as I said,
‘Your Grace. You wished to see me.’ Rising up, I looked again at Henry. I was a woman in love and perhaps wearing rose tinted spectacles, but I couldn’t help thinking how incredibly sexy he looked; a little tousled, relaxed and inviting - perhaps too inviting. Henry did not speak, but holding my stare he made his way towards me, putting the goblet on a table as he passed by. Suddenly, he was standing directly in front of me. For a moment we were entirely motionless, transfixed only by the other’s gaze, hardly daring to breathe. Then with an almighty explosion of passion, we fell into each other’s arms. Our kisses were hungry and voracious as we devoured each other entirely. After several minutes, we had torn ourselves apart—I clutching onto Henry’s chest, and he, holding me strongly in his arms. I looked deeply into the eyes of the King of England and saw passion, desire, longing and also sweet, gentle love. I think now that our intensity amused even us. We began to smile at each other and then laugh; we were happy to have some precious time alone together, just Henry and Anne.
‘Now, sweetheart, I have a surprise for you. Come here.’ He took me by the hand, and as he sat down on a nearby chair, he guided me to sit up on his lap. His arms around me, he stroked my cheek and continued to plant soft, tender kisses on my lips as he spoke. ‘I have decided that you shall no more wait upon Katherine. Henceforth, I will provide for you three of your own ladies-in-waiting whilst you are at court. How does that suit you, sweetheart?’ Henry’s words brought forth a huge surge of excitement. Breaking into the broadest grin, I threw my arms around his neck and covered Henry in kisses before I replied, ‘Oh your Majesty . . . Henry. What can I say? Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ In sheer joy, a tear had spilled down my cheek, which Henry wiped away with his thumb. I had learnt that he was a man, a King, who delighted in the reactions of those upon whom he bestowed gifts. I can see his face now, lit up as it was, radiant at my appreciation of his gesture.
If Henry had called me to his chamber that evening to make love to me, I wondered whether I would have been able to fend him off. Yet somehow, despite our mutual desire, that evening we seemed simply content with more innocent pleasures of a courting couple, as we stayed up into the very small hours of the morning, talking about our hopes and plans; sharing wine, laughter and kisses.
Chapter Twelve
Hever Castle
November 17, 1527
A little over a week later, I found myself being carried in our family’s litter along the driveway that led to Hever Castle. Wrapped up in numerous furs, I was well protected against the biting cold, which had been relentless since the beginning of November. As we approached, I strained my neck to get a glimpse of our pretty family home as it came into view, and as I did, I reflected upon the events of the past seven days.
Following that wonderful evening spent alone in Henry’s arms, the court, including myself, had awoken the next morning still enthralled by the splendour of the previous evening’s festivities. Many a person was heard to comment that it seemed as if it had been a fantastical dream.
However, slightly more disconcerting to both Henry and me, were the rampant rumours now circulating the court that the King’s lust for Mistress Anne was the only reason that his Majesty was seeking an annulment. Henry was furious; demanding to know which courtiers had been spreading such malicious gossip. How had they dared to question the King’s integrity? My father was present when the King used the foulest language, even at one point accusing the unknown perpetrators of treason. Of course, the whole court was talking, and Henry well knew it; no one person could be singled out for blame. Henry realised that this could be politically damaging if such gossip were to reach the courts of Europe, even Rome; his case for an annulment, already running onto sticky ground, could well be shipwrecked and fatally lost. When father relayed these events to me later that day in our own apartments, I knew straightaway what must be done. That very afternoon, I sought an audience with the King.
We were alone, with only a small number of the King’s personal guard attending us, as we walked together, arm in arm, through the gardens at Greenwich. Henry was still angry as I attempted to soothe his anxieties, before putting my proposition before him. I suggested that I remove myself from court and return with my mother to Hever. Initially, Henry was very much against my idea, as he wished me to remain with him for Christmas. Yet, as I spoke rationally and calmly, I pointed out that it would be exactly my absence from court during the festive season that would allow time for the gossip about our relationship to die down, for if the King seriously intended to make me his wife, I would surely be present at the greatest celebration of the year, the Twelve Days of Christmas!
I argued that the winter would soon be over, and the new round of diplomatic negotiations would begin. Henry could move forward with a clean conscience that he had treated his Queen with all due deference, even though his mind was sorely troubled regarding the validity of their marriage. Furthermore, there would be no ammunition for the Imperial ambassador, Mendoza, to use against the King, with his master, The Holy Roman Emperor, and Katherine’s nephew, Charles V. As we walked along, Henry brooded silently, considering my argument for some time, before he nodded his head and agreed that this was indeed the way to proceed. The next five days were a blur. My mother organised our travel arrangements and made ready with the packing of our clothes and belongings.
My father and brother were to remain at court, celebrating Christmas with the King, as was expected of all his nobles. It was to be a quiet Christmas indeed at Hever. Yet in many ways, I was already looking forward to the peace, solitude and the chance to gather my thoughts on what had been a most extraordinary three months. There was only one task for me to complete before I left Greenwich. I spoke individually to Nan, Mary and Joan and asked them if they would care to leave the Queen’s service and become the first three members of Anne Boleyn’s household. In truth, I was a little unsure as to how they might react. However, each one lit up in radiant expectation and delight that we would become the centre of a young and energetic influence at court and of course, each was overjoyed at the prospect of escaping the stifling boredom of Katherine’s Privy Chambers. Yet, I knew that the adventure would have to wait, as I explained that, upon pain of death, they must say nothing of their appointments until I returned to court in the spring. Accompanied with much groaning and rolling of the eyes, I also explained that until that time, they must remain in Katherine’s service as if nothing had changed.
On the day of our departure, I was summoned by the King to his private chambers to say goodbye. We embraced tenderly, clutching onto each other as if we could not bear to be parted, even for a moment, let alone several months. Henry stroked my face and kissed my forehead; he told me over and over that he loved and desired me above all others and that I should remain of stout heart and good cheer until we could be reunited once more. He begged me to write often, so that he should continue to know that I was well, and to be assured of the constancy of my heart and mind. With solemn agreement to do so, we kissed passionately one more time before I curtsied, turned and walked out of the room. I could not bear to look back for the sorrow of parting had already taken shape like a heavy stone in my heart.
I thought on all these things as I looked across the litter at my mother, who was travelling with me. Despite the fact that she too was well wrapped in opulent furs, she looked tired and drawn. It had been a bitterly cold and uncomfortable journey. My mother was sitting back, her eyes closed and her brow furrowed, which made me concerned that she was suffering and perhaps in pain. I reached across and gently laid my gloved hand on her knee.
‘Mother, you look unwell. Are you all right? I had never seen Elizabeth Boleyn in anything but the most robust of health. Anne’s mother opened her eyes, smiled and said,
‘I am fine, my child. Do not worry. My advancing years make these journeys a little more arduous than they once were, but it is nothing that a warm fire and a cup of posset will not cure.’ At that moment, our little litter drew up adjacent to the drawbridge of the castle. The small courtyard within made it impossible for us to enter without alighting and making the last few yards of our journey on foot.
My mother stepped out of the litter first. As I descended, a snowflake fell upon my face. By the time I had crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, it began to snow more heavily. I looked up towards the sky; enchanted by the myriad of snowflakes as they swirled and danced their way to the ground. The first snow of the winter had finally arrived. I clutched my fur-lined cloak about me, before hurrying inside to melt my frozen hands and feet in front of the warm fire.
My mother and I soon settled back into the everyday routine of daily life; of running the castle as any competent gentlewoman was expected to do. The snowfall which began on the day of our arrival continued intermittently over the next week or so, leaving the Kentish countryside almost two feet deep in pristine, virgin snow. The icy temperatures meant that none of it melted, and the surface of the little moat around our castle was soon frozen solid.
Our servants kept the fires well lit and for the most part, my mother and I stayed at home; amusing ourselves with taking exercise in the Long Gallery, reading, playing cards, doing embroidery and speculating a great deal about the goings-on at court. Because of the inclement weather, we received no letters either from our father, or from the King. Nor was I able to send any letters to Henry, although I mused that it would do him no harm to miss me.
Much to my amusement, I noticed that I had lost my 21st century addiction to busyness, and the need to be always on the go; I had become content with the unhurried pace of 16th century living. Anne and I shared a love of nature and fresh air, and it was only on the very harshest of wintry days, when blizzards whipped the snow in great swirls around the castle, that I kept entirely indoors. On most days though, I would wrap myself up and go walking, drinking in the crisp, clean air and the exquisite beauty and silence that comes only when the countryside is enfolded in a deep blanket of snow.
As before, I was also drawn back to the castle’s library. My love of books and my thirst for knowledge caused me to pass many hours in its pleasant company. At court, I had heard many of Anne’s contemporaries refer to, or read from, the novel, ‘Roman de la Rose’; a medieval poem of French origin, whose purpose was both to entertain and teach about the art of love. I wanted to learn more about the thinking that shaped the 16th century mind on matters of love; so after some searching, I found a beautifully illustrated manuscript tucked away in the cupboards of the library. Anne’s fluency in French meant that I had no trouble in devouring it; delighting in the romance of the story and in unpicking its many hidden allegorical meanings.
However, on that particular day, I set aside this manuscript and turned to my Book of Hours, which had become my constant companion. I was turning it over and over in my hands, deep in thought and reflecting on recent events. Since returning from court, I had spent more time in my mother’s company than I had done since before we had left for Beaulieu in early August. The two of us often pa
ssed the evening together, sitting by the light of the fire. I would read passages out loud from religious texts, whilst my mother worked her embroidery.
On one such evening, I had the opportunity to delve more deeply into Anne’s interest in Lutheranism, as it was then called by her contemporaries. Sitting down with my mother after supper as usual, Elizabeth Boleyn reached over and handed me a book that I had not seen before. As I opened it, I immediately recognised that it was different from the usual books that I had so far been privy to; instead of being a hand-written, illuminated manuscript in French or Latin, this book was printed in English. Before I could speak, my mother spoke for me.
‘It is Master Tyndale’s version of the New Testament. Our contact, Master Locke in Antwerp, sent it through for your father whilst we were away at court.’ Elizabeth Boleyn sat back in her chair and nonchalantly picked up her embroidery, as if it were of no significance that she had just handed me a book which I knew was banned in England. I flicked through its pages, awed that I was holding in my very hands an original copy of the first English translation of the New Testament. Part of me felt anxious that I had in my possession a text which could have me declared a heretic and burned at the stake. However, along with fear, I was also excited by the freedom that this book represented; a powerful break from the stifling domination of the clergy and the perceived malpractices of the Holy Roman Church.
I sensed that Anne was becoming more comfortable with this new learning and, for the first time, I felt her growing passion for the reformed faith well up within me.
I ran my hands over the smooth leather cover of the book, wondering who Master Locke was. I knew both from my understanding of history, and listening to court gossip, that Antwerp was a free city surrounded by the Holy Roman Empire, and as such it was a centre for English exiles, who were also evangelical reformers, such as William Tyndale. I rightly assumed that Master Locke must be an intermediary, smuggling such texts into England from the continent. I also mused on how the family could have developed such networks and contacts, when my mother answered my silent question yet again.
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