by Jean Plaidy
Anne Saville patted Anne’s beautiful hair lovingly.
“It has been a great and glorious year for your ladyship.”
“Has it?” said Anne, her face so serious that the other Anne looked at her in sudden alarm.
“Assuredly,” said the girl. “Many honors have come your ladyship’s way, and the King grows more in love with you with the passing of each day.”
Anne took her namesake’s hand and pressed it for awhile, for she was very fond of this girl.
“And you grow more beautiful with each day,” said Anne Saville earnestly. “There is no lady in the court who would not give ten years of her life to change places with you.”
In the mirror the coif glittered like a golden crown. Anne trembled a little; in the great hall she would be gayer than any, but up here away from the throng she often trembled, contemplating the night before her, and afraid to think further than that.
Anne was ready; she would go down. She would take one last look at herself—The Lady Anne Rochford now, for recently her father had been made Earl of Wiltshire, George became Lord Rochford, and she herself was no longer plain Anne Boleyn. The Boleyns had come far, she thought, and was reminded of George, laughing-eyed and only sad when one caught him in repose.
When she thought of George she would feel recklessness stealing over her, and the determination to live dangerously rather than live without adventure.
Thoughts of George were pleasant. She realized with a pang that of all her friends who now, with the King at their head, swore they would die for her, there was only one she could really trust. There was her father, her Uncle Norfolk, the man who would be her husband…but on those occasions when Fear came and stood menacingly before her, it was of her brother she must think. “There is really none but George!”
“Thank God for George!” she said to herself, and dismissed gloomy thoughts.
In the great hall the King was waiting to greet her. He was magnificent in his favorite russet, padded and sparkling, larger than any man there, ruddy from the day’s hunting, flushed already and flushing more as his eyes rested on Anne.
He said: “It seems long since I kissed you!”
“’Tis several hours, I’ll swear!” she answered.
“There is none like you, Anne.”
He would show his great love for her tonight, for of late she had complained bitterly of the lack of courtesy shown her by the Queen and Princess.
He had said: “By God! I’ll put an end to their obstinacy. They shall bow the knee to you, sweetheart, or learn our displeasure!” The Princess should be separated from her mother, and they should both be banished from court; he had said last night that he was weary of them both; weary of the pious obstinacy of the Queen, who stuck to her lies and refused to make matters easy by going into a nunnery; weary of the rebellious daughter who refused to behave herself and think herself fortunate—she, who was no more than a bastard, though a royal one—in receiving her father’s affection. “I tell thee, Anne,” he had said, his lips on her hair, “I am weary of these women.”
She had answered: “Need I say I am too?” And she had thought, they would see me burn in hell; nor do I blame them for that, for what good have I done them! But what I cannot endure is their attitude of righteousness. They burn with desire for revenge, and they pray that justice shall be dealt me; they pray to God to put me in torment. Hearty sinful vengeance I can forgive; but when it is hidden under a cloak of piety and called justice…never! Never! And so will I fight against these two, and will not do a thing to make their lot easier. I am a sinner; and so are they; nor do sins become whiter when cloaked in piety.
But this she did not tell her lover, for was he not inclined to use that very cloak of piety to cover his sins? When he confessed what he had done this night, last night, would he not say: “It is for England; I must have a son!” Little eyes, greedy with lust; hot straying hands; the urgent desire to possess her again and again. And this, not that she might give the King pleasure, but that she should give England a son!
Was it surprising that sometimes in the early hours of the morning, when he lay beside her breathing heavily in sleep, his hand laid lightly on her body smiling as he slept the smile of remembrance, murmuring her name in his sleep—was it surprising that then she would think of her brother’s handsome face, and murmur to herself: “Oh, George, take me home! Take me to Blickling, not to Hever, for at Hever I should see the rose garden and think of him. But take me to Blickling where we were together when we were very young…and where I never dreamed of being Queen of England.”
But she could not go back now. She must go, on and on. I want to go on! I want to go on! What is love? It is ethereal, so that you cannot hold it; it is transient, so that you cannot keep it. But a queen is always a queen. Her sons are kings. I want to be a queen; of course I want to be a queen! It is only in moments of deepest depression that I am afraid.
Nor was she afraid this night as he, regardless of all these watching ladies and gentlemen, pressed his great body close to hers and showed that he was impatient for the night.
Tonight he wished to show her how greatly he loved her; that he wished all these people to pay homage to his beautiful girl who had pleased him, who continued to please him, and whom, because of an evil Fate in the shape of a weak Pope, an obstinate Queen, and a pair of scheming Cardinals, he could not yet make his Queen.
He would have her take precedence over the two most noble ladies present, the Duchess of Norfolk and his own sister of Suffolk.
These ladies resented this, Anne knew, and suddenly a mood of recklessness came over her. What did she care! What mattered it, indeed. She had the King’s love and none of her enemies dared oppose her openly.
The King’s sister? She was aging now; different indeed from the giddy girl who had led poor Louis such a dance, who had alternated between her desire to bear a king of France and marry Brandon; there was nothing left to her but ambition; and ambition for what? Her daughter Frances Brandon? Mary of Suffolk wanted her daughter on the throne. And now here was Anne Boleyn, young and full of life, only waiting for the divorce to bear the King many sons and so set a greater distance between Frances Brandon and the throne of England.
And the Duchess of Norfolk? She was jealous, as was her husband, on account of the King’s having chosen Anne instead of their daughter the Lady Mary Howard. She was angry because of Anne’s friendship with the old Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.
What do I care? What have I to fear!
Nothing! For the King was looking at her with deep longing; nor could he bear that she should not be with him. She only had to threaten to leave him, and she could have both of these arrogant ladies banished from court.
So she was bold and defiant, and flaunted her supremacy in the faces of all those who resented her. Lady Anne Rochford, beloved of the King, leader of the revels, now taking precedence over the highest in the land as though she were already Queen.
She had seen the Countess Chateau-briant and the Duchess D’Estampes treated as princesses by poor little Claude at the court of Francis. So should she be treated by these haughty Duchesses of Norfolk and Suffolk; yes, and by Katharine of Aragon and her daughter Mary!
But of course there was a great difference between the French ladies and the Lady Anne Rochford. They were merely the mistresses of the King of France; the Lady Anne Rochford was to be Queen of England!
In her chair the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk dozed; her foot tapped automatically, but she was not watching the pair at the virginals. She was thinking of the court and the King’s passion for that gorgeous lady, her dear granddaughter. Ah! And scheming Thomas now has his Earldom and all that goes with it; and well pleased he is, I’ll swear, for money means more to Thomas than aught else. And she is the Lady Anne Rochford, if you please, and George on very pleasant terms with the King…though not with his own sly little wife! Poor George! A pity there can’t be a divorce. Why not a princess wife for your brother, eh, Queen Anne? Eh? Of course you a
re Queen! But she’ll look after George…those two would stick together no matter what befell. Ah, how I wish she would send for me! I trow she would if she knew how eager I am to be gone…What if I sent a messenger…Ah! The court, the masques…though indeed I am a little old for such pleasures. Charming, if she came to visit me at Lambeth…We would sit in the gardens, and I would make her talk to me of the King…My granddaughter, the Queen of England! My granddaughter…Queen Anne…
She was asleep, and Henry Manox, sensing this, threw a sly glance over his shoulder at her.
“There!” said Catherine. “Was that better?”
He said, moving nearer to Catherine: “That was perfect!”
She flushed with pleasure, and he noticed the delicate skin and the long, fair lashes, and the charming strand of auburn hair that fell across her brow. Her youth was very appealing; he had never made love to one so young before; and yet, in spite of her youth, already she showed signs of an early ripening.
“Never,” he whispered, “have I enjoyed teaching anyone as I have enjoyed our lessons!”
The Duchess snored softly.
Catherine laughed, and he joined in the laugh; he leaned forward suddenly and kissed the tip of her nose. Catherine felt a pleasurable thrill; it was exciting because it had to be done while the Duchess slept; and he was handsome, she thought, with his dark, bold eyes; and it was flattering to be admired by one so much older than herself; it was gratifying to be treated as though one were charming, after the reproaches her grandmother had showered upon her.
“I am glad I am a good pupil.”
“You are a very good pupil!” he said. “Right glad I am that it is my happy lot to teach you.”
“Her Grace, my grandmother, thinks me very stupid.”
“Then it is Her Grace, your grandmother, who is stupid!”
Catherine hunched her shoulders, laughing.
“I take it, sir, that you do not then think me stupid.”
“Indeed not; but young, very young, and there is much you have to learn yet.”
The Duchess awoke with a start, and Catherine began to play.
“That was better,” said the Duchess, “was it not, Manox?”
“Indeed, Your Grace, it was!”
“And you think your pupil is improving?”
“Vastly, Madam!”
“So thought I. Now you may go, Catherine. Manox, you may stay awhile and talk with me.”
Catherine went, and he stayed and talked awhile; they talked of music, for they had nothing in common but music. But the Duchess did not mind of what her young men talked as long as they talked and entertained her. It was their youth she liked it was their flattery. And as Manox talked to her, she drifted back to the days of her own youth, and then forward again to the court as it was today, ruled by her loveliest of granddaughters.
“Methinks I shall go to Lambeth,” she announced, and dismissed Manox.
Catherine went to the apartment, where she found Isabel.
“How went the lesson?” asked Isabel.
“Very well.”
“How you love your music!” said Isabel. “You look as if you had just left a lover, not a lesson.”
Their talk was continually of lovers; Catherine did not notice this, as it seemed natural enough to her. To have lovers was not only natural but the most exciting possibility; it was all part of the glorious business of growing up, and now Catherine longed to be grownup.
She still thought of Thomas Culpepper, but she could only with difficulty remember what he looked like. She still dreamed that he rode out to Horsham and told her they were to elope together, but his face, which for so long had been blurred in her mind, now began to take on the shape of Henry Manox. She looked forward to her lessons; the most exciting moment of her days was when she went down to the Duchess’s room and found him there; she was always terrified that he would not be there, that her grandmother had decided to find her a new teacher; she looked forward with gleeful anticipation to those spasmodic snores of the Duchess which set both her and Manox giggling, and made his eyes become more bold.
As he sat very close to her, his long musician’s fingers would come to rest on her knee, tapping tightly that she might keep in time. The Duchess nodded; her head shook; then she would awake startled and look round her defiantly, as though to deny the obvious fact that she had dozed.
There was one day, some weeks after the first lesson, which was a perfect day, with spring in the sunshine filtering through the window, in the songs of the birds in the trees outside it, in Catherine’s heart and in Manox’s eyes.
He whispered: “Catherine! I think of you constantly.”
“Have I improved so much then?”
“Not of your music, but of you, Catherine…of you.”
“I wonder why you should think constantly of me.”
“Because you are very sweet.”
“Am I?” said Catherine.
“And not such a child as you would seem!”
“No,” said Catherine. “Sometimes I think I am very grown-up.”
He laid his delicate hands on the faint outline of her breasts.
“Yes, Catherine, I think so too. It is very sweet to be grown-up, Catherine. When you are a woman you will wonder how you could ever have borne your childhood.”
“Yes,” said Catherine, “I believe that. I have had some unhappy times in my childhood; my mother died, and then I went to Hollingbourne, and just when I was beginning to love my life there, that was over.”
“Do not look so sad, sweet Catherine! Tell me, you are not sad, are you?”
“Not now,” she said.
He kissed her cheek.
He said: “I would like to kiss your lips.”
He did this, and she was astonished by the kiss, which was different from those Thomas had given her. Catherine was stirred; she kissed him.
“I have never been so happy!” he said.
They were both too absorbed in each other to listen for the Duchess’s snores and heavy breathing; she awoke suddenly, and hearing no music, looked towards them.
“Chatter, chatter, chatter!” she said. “I declare! Is this a music lesson!”
Catherine began to play, stumbling badly.
The Duchess yawned; her foot began to tap; in five minutes she was asleep again.
“Do you think she saw us kiss?” whispered Catherine.
“Indeed I do not!” said Manox, and he meant that, for he well knew that if she had he would have been immediately turned out, possibly dismissed from the house; and Mistress Catherine would have received a sound beating.
Catherine shivered ecstatically.
“I am terrified that she might, and will stop the lessons.”
“You would care greatly about that?”
Catherine turned candid eyes upon him. “I should care very much!” she said. She was vulnerable because her mind was that of a child, though her body was becoming that of a woman; and the one being so advanced, the other somewhat backward, it was her body which was in command of Catherine. She liked the proximity of this man; she liked his kisses. She told him so in many ways; and he, being without scruples, found the situation too novel and too exciting not to be exploited.
He was rash in his excitement, taking her in his arms before the sleeping Duchess and kissing her lips. Catherine lifted her face eagerly, as a flower will turn towards the sun.
The Duchess was sleeping, when there was a faint tap on the door and Isabel entered. The lesson had extended beyond its appointed time, and she, eager to see the teacher and pupil together, had an excuse ready for intruding. Isabel stood on the threshold, taking in the scene—the sleeping Duchess, the young man, his face very pale, his eyes very bright; Catherine, hair in some disorder, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and with a red mark on her chin. Where he has kissed her, the knave! thought Isabel.
The Duchess awoke with a start.
“Come in! Come in!” she called, seeing Isabel at the door.
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nbsp; Isabel approached and spoke to the Duchess. Catherine rose, and so did Manox.
“You may go, Catherine,” said the Duchess. “Manox! Stay awhile. I would speak to you.”
Catherine went, eager to be alone, to remember everything he had said, how he had looked; to wonder how she was going to live through the hours until the next lesson on the morrow.
When Isabel was dismissed, she waited for Manox to come out.
He bowed low, smiling when he saw her, thinking that he had made an impression on her, for his surface charm and his reputation had made him irresistible to quite a number of ladies. He smiled at Isabel’s pale face and compared it with Catherine’s round childish one. He was more excited by Catherine than he had been since his first affair; for this adventuring with the little girl was a new experience, and though it was bound to be slow, and needed tact and patience, he found it more intriguing than any normal affair could be.
Isabel said: “I have never seen you at our entertainments.”
He smiled and said that he had heard of the young ladies’ revels, and it was a matter of great regret that he had never attended one.
She said: “You must come…I will tell you when. You know it is a secret!”
“Never fear that I should drop a hint to Her Grace.”
“It is innocent entertainment,” said Isabel anxiously.
“I could not doubt it!”
“We frolic a little; we feast; there is nothing wrong. It is just amusing.”
“That I have heard.”
“I will let you know then.”
“You are the kindest of ladies.”
He bowed courteously, and went on his way, thinking of Catherine.
Through the gardens at Hampton Court Anne walked with Henry. He was excited, his head teeming with plans, for the Cardinal’s palace was now his. He had demanded of a humiliated Wolsey wherefore a subject should have such a palace; and with a return of that wit which had been the very planks on which he had built his mighty career, the Cardinal, knowing himself lost and hoping by gifts to reinstate himself a little in the heart of the King, replied that a subject might build such a palace only to show what a noble gift a subject might make to his King.