I could ignore Lady Honor's pouts and the disapproving looks of the other maids as Hal and I twittered together shamelessly. But gossip spread quickly. When word of what we had done reached the ears of Cardinal Wolsey, the cardinal erupted in fury. I had to listen to a description of all that happened from Lady Honor herself. Her brother, John Finch, was a member of the chancellor's household and had witnessed Wolsey's rage. Honor made no effort to conceal her satisfaction as she told me what she'd heard.
Wolsey, a close friend of Hal's father, the earl of Northumberland, knew of the Percys' prior contract with the Talbots. Wolsey immediately wrote to the earl, describing Hal's folly. Wolsey also informed King Henry, who, according to John Finch, ordered his chancellor to separate Lord Percy from Thomas Boleyn's daughter. Wolsey summoned Hal and lectured him on his responsibilities as heir to the earldom, reminding Hal that he had no business speaking of marriage to any lady without the permission of his father and his king. And—most outrageously—Wolsey told Hal that, had he let his wishes be known, the king would have found him a suitable, nobly born lady to marry.
"And then," Honor said, gleefully repeating her brother's words, "the chancellor told Lord Percy that he must submit to his father's will or be disinherited."
I was shocked by this turn of events, but I drew myself up proudly to conceal my pain. "I am certain that Lord Percy spoke well in my defense," I said, although I had no idea if Hal had such courage.
"Well, yes, he did," Honor admitted reluctantly. "He defended you and your family. And then Lord Percy wept—he actually wept!—saying that the two of you had made an agreement to marry, and he could not break this binding pledge. He even asked Cardinal Wolsey to intercede with the king on his behalf!"
"He did?" I stammered.
"Yes, but to no avail. Wolsey told him that he must obey the king's wishes, and that is the end of it." Lady Honor, obviously relishing her duty, next informed me that Wolsey had summoned the earl of Northumberland to speak to Hal.
"Lord Percy's father was furious at his son for bringing down the wrath of the king upon the Percy family," Honor reported. "He flung many harsh words at Lord Percy, calling him proud, presumptuous, and disdainful, and insisting that the pledges he made to you be nullified. To win his father's forgiveness, and the king's, Lord Percy yielded at last and promised never to see you again."
Oh, how I hated the triumph in her voice as Honor delivered that piece of news! Haughtily I lifted my chin and swept away without a word, determined not to let her see my distress.
All my hopes had been dashed. I wept many bitter tears, witnessed only by Nell. The two pudding cousins—Honor and Constance—treated me with honeyed kindness, but I was certain they gloated over my misery. That was indeed the end of my betrothal to Hal Percy. I never again had a moment alone or a private word with Hal, and within months I learned that he was married to Mary Talbot.
If only that had ended the matter for me! Alas, it did not. Soon my father learned of my misdeed. He was furious, roaring at me of his displeasure, punctuating his odious words with slaps and kicks.
"Brazen ... impudent ... hussy!" he shouted, striking me a stinging blow across my face with each word. "Have you no notion of what you have done? The king has ordered you banished from court! What chance have you now of contracting a good marriage? Your reputation is ruined, and there you stand, willful and proud as a queen!"
Banished from court! Of all the blows my father struck, that one caused the most pain. Why had the king ordered such harsh measures against me? I cried out then, but my cries bought me no mercy.
"Wolsey is correct—you are lacking in wit and common sense, as well as in virtue," my father stormed, seizing me by the shoulders and shaking me so fiercely that my sleeve tore. "There is no help for you!" With a final blow that sent me reeling, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the chamber.
I leaned against the wall, tenderly feeling for bruises, of which there were plenty. So I was banished from court. What would that mean? Back to Hever, I supposed. And then what? Had I truly ruined my life? I refused to believe that. But whatever happened to me, it was the fault of that accursed Cardinal Wolsey! The king might never have known of the affair, never have ordered my banishment, had it not been for Wolsey.
I dragged myself to my feet. My ankle had begun to swell. Painfully I limped to the maids' chambers, intending to find a basin of water and some soft linen strips to bind up the worst of my injuries.
And there sat Lady Honor, her eyes round with wonder at my state of disarray. She opened her mouth to speak.
"Not one word, not to me or anyone else!" I hissed before she could utter a sound. She scuttled away in a fright, and I laid my head upon my arms and wept for all that was lost.
When I was drained of tears, my heart filled with bitterness. Someday I shall have my revenge, I vowed. Someday Cardinal Wolsey will pay a grievous price for my humiliation.
CHAPTER 5
The Poet 1523–1525
Within days I was back at Hever, by orders of Cardinal Wolsey, who could not—or would not—say how long my banishment was to last. This put me in the worst possible temper. Here I was with nothing to do but curse my fate. Never had I been in such a wretched state. Day after day, I wept. My heart ached for Hal Percy, sentenced to a loveless union with Mary Talbot. I was grieved that King Henry, whose respect and approval I so fervently sought, now held me in great disfavor. And I nurtured a growing and implacable hatred against the cause of my plight, that fat prelate in the crimson robes, Cardinal Wolsey.
I was to be under my father's supervision at Hever, but he was accompanying the king and queen on summer progress, and thus I did not have to endure his recriminations. My sister and her husband were also on the royal progress—the final straw! I had not even Nell to distract me, for she had been kept at Greenwich to help with the summer cleansing of the palace. My mother elected (or was ordered by my father) to stay with me. Her unshakable complacency put me into an even darker mood, which she chose to ignore, going on about her life as though nothing were amiss.
I fretted as the summer crept by. Then my father returned from progress in a lighter mood. He had received word from the king that he was to be knighted and then granted the noble tide of baron, giving him even greater responsibility in the king's household. I was not invited to the ceremony. My parents were also rewarded with quarters in the palace. I sulked as they packed up their beds, tables, stools and benches, a fine cupboard, and other household goods to move to Greenwich.
Perhaps because my banishment was an embarrassment to my parents, Wolsey permitted me to return to court with them at the start of the Yuletide season. But first I had to bear more of my father's harangues.
"Do not bring further disgrace upon this family, daughter!" he growled. "God knows if we shall ever be able to find you a husband as a result of your shameful behavior."
I lowered my eyes and said nothing, although I did wonder again what had become of his negotiations for my betrothal to Jamie Butler. Was I now free of that threat? Had the scandal of Hal Percy scotched the deal? I was left to reach my own conclusions and clung to the belief that for some reason the bargaining had come to nothing. If that were true, it would be a great relief.
At first I was pleased to be back at court, but I quickly learned that life among the maids of honor was no better than before. In my exile I had almost forgotten the long dull hours of attending the queen, waiting to be sent off on some meaningless errand; meals taken in the crowded Great Hall of the palace with barking dogs and filthy beggars and brazen prostitutes; the noise and confusion of the endless boasting and bickering of the maids in our drafty chambers.
What's more, it was my ill luck to be forced again to share a hard, narrow bed with Lady Honor Finch, who was no more content with the arrangement than was I.
"And will you take another lover, Lady Anne?" Honor asked spitefully.
"I shall do whatever pleases me," I retorted.
I knew that
she was jealous of me; probably they all were—those dull maids of honor with their pale yellow hair and pale white skin and pale blue eyes. How I despised them! To my face, the other maids cooed and simpered, expressing their pleasure at my presence among them. How they lied! How false were those smiles! Behind my back, they still tattled about me and Hal Percy and waited for me to fall from favor once more. I knew this was true because Nell was again in my service and Ml of gossip. But I swore that I would not fall, not ever again.
COURT WAS AS HECTIC as ever. A man of boundless vigor, King Henry ordered banquets, organized jousts, challenged his gentlemen to tennis and usually defeated them, conquered nearly every opponent in wrestling, dazzled onlookers with his skill at archery, gambled boldly at cards and dice, called for an audience when he played his own compositions upon the virginals and sang in a fine tenor voice. The king did not like to be alone. His great vitality required that his courtiers be in his company from early morning until late at night. It seemed that he rarely slept.
Flirtations among the ladies and gentlemen of the court were commonplace. Everyone knew about my love affair with Lord Percy and its unhappy end. Despite the scandal, or perhaps because of it, I attracted many admirers: handsome (and some not-so-handsome) young (and not-so-young) courtiers who coaxed me to walk out with them and entreated me to listen to lines of poetry they had scribbled or little jokes they wished to tell.
I enjoyed the attentions of these gentlemen, most of them wellborn, some of wealthy families, a few intelligent and even amusing. They proved a distraction, and slowly my heart began to mend. Sometimes I accepted their kisses, lingering with them in shadowy corners. The flirtations were a game, and I was a clever player. And as I reveled in my prowess, my life improved in a way I had not foreseen. When one of the maids left court to marry a Welsh nobleman, Lady Honor moved to occupy her empty bed. For a time, at least, I had a bed—and a coverlet—to myself and had no need to reply to Honor's disagreeable questions.
And so the months passed. My seventeenth birthday came and went. But while I had many admirers at court, there had been no marriage prospects since the loathsome Cardinal Wolsey had ended my betrothal to Lord Percy. The betrothal to that doltish Irishman, Jamie Butler, had come to naught, and although he still lurked about the court, I managed to avoid him. I took care to keep my heart well guarded, and on the whole I was not displeased with my life. King Henry and Queen Catherine seemed to have forgotten my earlier transgressions, but my father reminded me that he had still not forgiven me for the scandal I'd created.
"It is your own fault that you are of marriageable age and still without a suitor," he growled.
I HAD BEEN BACK at court for a full year—long enough to hear gossip of the unhappiness of Hal Percy's marriage to Mary Talbot—when I made the acquaintance of a man of extraordinary charm and good looks: broad brow, finely shaped nose, strong jaw enhanced by a close-trimmed beard, blue eyes brimming with wit and good humor. Noted as a poet of unusual talent at the age of twenty-one, he often joined the king in the tiltyard for jousting and at the banquet that followed. When we found occasions to meet, he sometimes recited little verses that he'd jotted down. I found myself much attracted to this man, as much—this was soon clear—as he was attracted to me. His name was Tom Wyatt.
On the Great Vigil of Easter, the entire court attended Mass, celebrated by Cardinal Wolsey, for whom my hatred had not diminished one whit. Poor old Queen Catherine wore a new gown for the occasion; even so, she was a pitiable dowd. Also present was little Princess Mary. The king trotted the puny princess around the Great Hall, showing her off.
"The perfect pearl of the world!" he bellowed. "The jewel of all England!" What was not spoken of was Princess Mary's own betrothal. Her intended, Emperor Charles V, had broken it off and pledged himself instead to marry a Portuguese princess.
I was about to steal out of the banqueting hall to meet Tom Wyatt at an agreed-upon place when I became aware of King Henry's eyes lingering upon me. I had been at court for three years (save for the months of my banishment) and in the king's presence many times over. Although I'd spent hours gazing at his splendid person, this was the first I had felt his gaze come to rest upon me and no other. As I rose from my place at the lower table where the maids supped, I glanced at the king, seated on the dais beneath the cloth of estate. For a moment our eyes met, and the king smiled. I caught my breath, feeling the blood rush to my face, and I dropped into a low curtsy. When I looked up again, the king's attention had shifted away. I collected myself and hurried off to find Tom Wyatt.
"Lady Anne!" the poet called softly, stepping out from behind a tapestry. "I have a new verse for you," he said, and fell to one knee to recite it:
She from myself now hath me in her grace:
She hath in hand my wit, my will, and all.
"It is imperfect," he apologized, rising and taking my hand. "Unlike you, my lady." And then he kissed me. This was followed by another kiss, and another. But it was not of Tom Wyatt that I was thinking as our lips met; it was of King Henry.
Secrets were hard to keep. Someone was always watching, leaping to conclusions (some false, others not), and then passing the news to someone else. Thus word began to circulate that I was Tom Wyatt's mistress. Although I did entertain the notion—the hope?—that my future might lie with Tom, I soon learned from Honor Finch of a serious impediment.
"I see that you have made the acquaintance df the poet, Tom Wyatt," observed Lady Honor, her thin lips pursed.
"Only slight," I responded, and then I hurried on, "I am told that the king thinks highly of Wyatt's verses."
"More highly, I am told, than Wyatt thinks of his wife," Honor sniffed. "You know of Elizabeth Wyatt, surely? That they have a child, a boy not yet four years old?"
"Of course, I know all that!" I snapped impatiently, but in truth I knew nothing of it. "He loves her not," I added, a guess that turned out to be accurate. I felt betrayed, even if that hadn't been his intention.
I wasted no time yearning for what I could not have—that much I'd learned from my unhappy experience with Hal Percy. Instead, I decided, I would turn the poet's love for me into something useful; the attentions of a charming man would surely enhance my own value among other gentlemen. With this in mind, I continued to encourage Tom in his desire to please me with his pretty verses and little tokens.
I also paid closer attention than ever before to court gossip about King Henry. The king's interest darted restlessly of late, his fancy lighting on first this lady of his wife's retinue, then that one. It was rumored that my sister had remained the king's mistress even after she'd married Will Carey. Now Mary had a child, and I assumed that her affair with the king had ended. Perhaps he was in the mood for a new mistress. Or perhaps he merely wished to engage in the pastime of courtly love.
And so I decided to attempt to engage King Henry in a flirtation. As I learned at the French court, men often desired most what they could not too easily get. The trick was to tempt him into pursuit but not allow him to capture me. I wanted the king's attention. Beyond that, I had no goal but to best the king at the one game I believed I could play as well as he: the game of love. Winning the king's heart would surely prove to my father that I was no longer the ill-favored daughter.
Tom was plainly in love with me. Now I would make certain that King Henry noticed the extravagant attention his favorite was paying me. I would use the poet to lure the king.
Honor Finch could scarcely bear it. "You are without modesty or shame!" Honor seethed. "You wear your hair loose and uncovered, as though your black hair were something to be proud of! You do not resemble the rest of us. You do not even look like an English lady! Sometimes," she continued heatedly, "I think you must be a changeling abandoned by a gypsy!"
"I assure you, Lady Honor," I replied calmly to her viperish tongue, "I am the trueborn daughter of my father and my mother, as you are of yours. Unless, of course...?" I let the question hang.
My duties requi
red that I accompany the queen about her courtly routine, to Mass several times each day (Catherine was even more pious than Queen Claude, who, I learned, had died the previous year) and to the Great Hall for banquets. As I did so, I was now often aware of the king's eyes upon me. This thrilled me, but also made me wary. Many others surely observed this as well. Gossip flew unchecked, and I had to be mindful not to excite the jealousy of the queen.
Still, the attentions of Tom Wyatt remained unwavering. I was certain that the king took note of that, too. Now I had only to wait and see what would happen next.
THE MOOD IN the queen's chambers was dark. Queen Catherine had received a message from the king, by way of Cardinal Wolsey, that we were to prepare for another ceremony. In July, Henry Fitzroy, the king's bastard son by Bessie Blount, was to be honored at Bridewell Palace at a ceremony awarding him a string of tides: Duke of Richmond, Duke of Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Warden of the Marches.
Henry Fitzroy was six years old, and hardly anyone had ever seen the boy. He was kept in the shadows, far from court, although it was said that he had the best of tutors and was treated with all the deference due the king's son. Now he would have more important titles than any given by the king to Princess Mary.
One of Queen Catherine's virtues was her abiding patience, almost unimaginable in its endurance. King Henry could fume and rant all he wished, and his wife would continue to smile at him with great forbearance. King Henry could make love to as many women as he wished, and Catherine always forgave him. But this time the queen was furious: Giving his illegitimate son all those tides was a blow to her daughter's future and an insult to her, the queen.
"This is too much to bear!" Queen Catherine cried in her heavy Spanish accent, loud enough for us all to hear. "I will not have my daughter passed over for the crown by the king's bastard!" But we all knew that there was nothing the queen could do. Her wishes, like her anger, counted for nothing.
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